The Sunday Salon: Righting My Relationship to Reading

It’s been one of those months, dear friends, a month of rather disappointing reading. Three books in a row failed to grab my deepest attention. I set one aside, but finished the other two, albeit without great enthusiasm. 

And then, as happens in books and in life, things began to look up. In my post the other day was a brand new hardcover, sent out of the blue from Simon & Schuster. (I’m still on their list from the days of having a dedicated book-review blog, and every so often get  a happy surprise in my mailbox.) This one was Eight Hundred Grapes, a new novel by Laura Dave. I admit - I’d never heard of the novel or the author, but it was billed as a book about family relationships and wine: two topics I’m always interested in. I poured myself a glass of Alexander Valley Cabernet, and settled in.

I’m so glad I did. This one pulled me right in, this story of a young woman on the verge of marriage who learns a very unsettling secret about her fiancé. In her despair and confusion, she rushes from her life in Los Angeles straight home to her family’s beloved vineyard in Sonoma County for some comfort. But things at home are uncomfortably unsettled too: her parents are selling the vineyard, her mother has a new love interest, her twin brothers are feuding. As in the best family sagas, things work out in the end, perhaps not as you would imagine, but satisfactorily (or so it seems). Laura Dave’s writing is breezy and bright, with just the right edge of humor and introspection.

Eight Hundred Grapes helped me get my reading mojo back in gear, so I’m relieved. I don’t know about you, but when my relationship with my reading isn’t going well, I feel unsettled and unhappy, almost like I do when I’m at odds with my husband about something. 

Since finishing Eight Hundred Grapes, I started reading Celeste Ng’s, Everything I Never Told You, (released in paperback this week). This is a masterful novel, and although the two novels share a similar theme (the effect of lack of communication and secrets within a family), Ng’s writing style is more refined and thoughtful. Every single sentence is carefully crafted to reveal great amounts of pertinent information and thought; yet the book reads easily and and smoothly. I find myself re-reading paragraphs, the first time to get the story line, and the second time to look for hidden meaning. Besides, I want to make this slender novel last as long as possible because I’m enjoying it so much. 

How about you? How’s your relationship with reading this month?

Committing to the Way

If my parents had stayed married, today would have been their 67th wedding anniversary.

Back in 1990, when my father decided to call it quits on his marriage of 42 years, he also put a hard stop to any further celebration of anniversaries. For a number of years after he left, I would bring my mother a single red rose on May 22, just to let her know that I remembered, that I cared, that I grieved with her for the milestones they would not celebrate together.

On May 22, 1998, on what would have been their 50th anniversary, she accepted the rose, gave me a hug, and said, “Let’s stop remembering this day."

Obviously, that’s easier said than done, because here I am, still remembering it. 

Today, she and I went out shopping as we do a couple of times every week. She likes to go out to one of the “big box” stores like Target or Meijers, stores where she can walk around in a safe environment and pick up some items she needs or wants. It is de rigueur that she have a shopping cart to use for balance and support while walking, so our shopping expeditions are limited to stores that have these carts. I know -  she needs to use a walker, but she is adamantly against them.

“Why don’t they have something like a shopping basket for old people to use when they walk?” she asked me not long ago.

“But MOM,” I said, trying not sound like an exasperated 13-year old, “they do! It’s called a WALKER.” 

“Oh, those things,” she replied dismissively. “I’m not going to use one of THOSE!"

So. Target and Meijer’s it is. And Kohl’s! Thank you Kohl’s for having shopping carts.

Anyway, today neither one of us mentioned The Anniversary. We haven’t mentioned it in years, and although I’m quite sure she’s as aware of the date as I am, she never brings it up. We’ve simply decided “not to remember it” any longer. And so we don’t.

On my mantel I have three wedding pictures: One of my husband and myself, another of my son and daughter-in-law, and the third a sepia toned photo of my parents on their wedding day. My mother has dark, wavy hair that lies gracefully across her shoulder. She wears a brightly printed dress (no big wedding for these two - my dad had only $90 to his name on their wedding day, so they were married in the minister’s living room.) My dad is dark and exotic looking, with his olive skin tone, deep set eyes, and black hair. My mother looks directly into the camera lens in that photo, and she looks deeply sure of herself, relaxed, and happy.

But my dad is looking slightly off to the right, as if he’s not quite committed to the whole thing. I look at that photo a lot, and I wonder - was he a little bit unsure, even then, this handsome, dark eyed 20 year old, fresh off the boat from the Pacific Theater in WWII. Was he even then thinking about what might otherwise have been?

The poet Wendell Berry says this about Marriage: “Because the condition of marriage is worldly and its meaning communal, no party to it can be solely in charge. What you alone think it ought to be, it is not going to be. Where you alone think you want it to go, it is not going to go. It is going where the two of you  - and marriage, time, life, history, and the world - will take it. You do not know the road; you have only committed your life to a Way."

My parents committed themselves to a Way, back on May 22, 1948. The “Way” in that time was so much different from the “Way” it is now. People got married and it was expected they would STAY married. There was no trial period, no “shacking up” ahead of time to see how things went. Couples often married young (my parents were 20 and 21) because marriage was the only acceptable way for a young man and woman to co-habitate in those days. 

For my parents, the Way seemed clear cut and straightforward. They were, for the most part, happy couple. They each had their prescribed roles, they fulfilled them to the best of their abilities. They were the quintessential “Baby Boomers”: my Dad owned a small successful small business, my Mother kept a nice home, they had a smart, well-behaved, pretty daughter, a nice home in suburbs, and a new car every couple of years. 

The proverbial ALL - at least as far as the requirements of the 1960’s and 1970’s went.

Still, something was missing - the “something” that pushed my 60 year old Father into the arms of another woman almost 20 years his junior. I can speculate: He married too young in the first place; he didn’t get to sow enough wild oats; my mother was too “tame” for him; he wanted a more glamorous lifestyle. His life must have been a disappointment to him - and of course I have included myself in the list of things that must have fallen short on his list of accomplishments. I have often felt myself to be lacking in some important something that would impel my father to keep the family intact. 

Then I come back to those words of Wendell Berry’s: What you alone think it ought to be, it is not going to be. Where you alone think you want it to go, it is not going to go. It is going where the two of you  - and marriage, time, life, history, and the world - will take it. You do not know the road; you have only committed your life to a Way."

I’m not an athlete, but these words make me think of marriage as something like a Marathon race. Once you’ve committed yourself, once you’ve signed up for it, laced up your shoes, slapped your number on your chest, and bellied up to the starting line, you’re committed  to The Way: to the course, the track, the lane - whatever stretches out in front of you. You put one foot in front of the other, you huff and puff, get red in the face, you spurt and sputter. You keep pounding the pavement.

And when you break the ribbon at the finish line, whether you are first or one hundred and first, you rejoice because you made it. You may be exhausted and breathless, but you’re there all the same. 

When I was growing up, my parents seemed to have the perfect marriage. My Dad was always warm, loving, kind, and thoughtful toward my mother and me. Nevertheless, something inside him was deeply enough hurt that he was able to forsake his commitment to the way of marriage and family. 

Even after all this time, I still wish he could have stayed the course and finished the race he started 67 years ago today.

Write On Wednesday: Who Needs It Most

“There are people out there - unique human beings with uncommon desires - each of whom deserves ten minutes of beautiful music. That’s why we’re musicians. You never know who is listening. It might be someone who really needs the music you play. Maybe the person who needs it most is you.” Robin Meloy Goldsby, Piano Girl

Last night I was in a grumpy mood. I was fed up with bureaucracy and modern day annoyances. I got a nail in my tire and had to buy a new one. I got a notice in the mail about a new fee arbitrarily imposed that I would have to pay.

It was an “I think I’ll move to Australia" kind of day.

Then last night I went to a concert. It was my friend’s high school end-of-the year Pops concert, a night when the choirs appear on stage in matching t-shirts and jeans, when (some incredibly talented) soloists took the mike in the style of The Voice and belted out songs of their own choosing. There was a live band. There were strobe lights. There was purple haze.

And all of a sudden I wasn’t grumpy anymore. Who could be, in the face of so much music  being so thoroughly enjoyed?

Goodness knows, we all need a little bit of beauty in our daily lives. Music is one of the ways I’ve always gotten my daily dose: sitting down at the piano and playing whatever takes my fancy for 10 minutes or 2 hours, depending on what the day will allow. Sometimes it’s the same way with writing. I might be in bad mood, I might think there isn’t an ounce of creativity in my head, I might be as certain sure as anything that I have absolutely nothing to say. 

And then I pick up a pen. 

The words come from somewhere, every single time. Words I need to write, words that need to be said. Sometimes I share them here, sometimes I let them stay buried in the pages of my journal, but I always feel differently when I’m done. 

Perhaps we should think of art as a public service. Even in small doses, it is a powerful thing - to hear beautiful music, read words that resonate in your soul, stare into the depths of a masterful painting. It can turn your day around, perhaps even turn your life around. Art heals by "activating the medicines of creative imagination.” Current studies confirm that "art has the power to evoke strong transformative responses in the observers’ psyche by changing their emotions, attitudes, and behaviors."

The medicines of creative imagination  - we can all use those, probably more than some of the expensive prescription drugs we turn to in times of anxiety and stress. You never know who most needs to hear your music, read your words, or envision your art. It might be your partner, your child, your friend. It might be a total stranger.

It might be you.

Home Cooking

My son, daughter-in-law and grandson are all are in Thailand this month, visiting my daughter-in-law’s family. This is her first visit home in seven years, and her family’s first time meeting Connor, so I’m sure it has been a fun-filled and exciting time for all of them. We’re keeping tabs on the visit via Facebook and smiling because most of the pictures involve eating. As my daughter-in-law reported this morning, “Eating is the national pastime in Thailand!"

She posted photos yesterday of some of her mother’s home-cooked specialities. “My favorite foods my mom makes!” she captioned the photos. “I've missed them so much!” 

It’s true, we miss those favorite home made foods, especially the ones we most associate with our childhoods. Growing up with two southern cooks in my house (my grandmother and my mother), as well as two more across the street (my great-aunt and my great-grandmother), there was certainly no shortage of home-cooked southern style goodness on our table. 

I grew up in an atmosphere where food equaled love. Great care was taken with every meal, every loaf of bread baked, every pie crust rolled and crimped at the edge, every cookie slipped hot and buttery off the sheet. My mother and grandmother’s day was devoted to domestic duties, so nothing was ever rushed or hurried. From fried chicken to grilled steaks, everything was prepared and served with love, a way of nurturing the body, but also the soul. 

It was also a time when we didn’t worry about what we ate. There weren’t daily news bulletins warning us away from all our favorite foods, no internet posts about the evils effects of fat or sugar or carbs or gluten. We ate what tasted good, we enjoyed it, and maybe most importantly, we didn’t feel guilty about it. When I was a child, I ate hot buttered toast (often made from thick slices of my grandma’s homemade bread), crispy fried bacon, and a steaming cup of milky coffee every morning of my life. Dinners were often more fried goodness: platters of chicken, golden brown and crispy on the outside, meaty and juicy on the inside; tiny, melt-in-your mouth lake perch, heaped on a platter, drizzled with lemon wedges, and gobbled up one after the other. Side dishes were potato salad, classic macaroni salad, baked or pinto beans, black eyed peas, wilted spinach with garlic, eggplant or okra (fried!).

My mouth waters at the memory. 

So, yes I miss all those home cooked favorites. They’re nothing like the dishes my daughter-in-law craves, and I’m quite sure her favorite foods are healthier than the ones I grew up on. But home cooking, as we all know, is about more than the sum of its parts. Because while I miss the aroma and taste of those meals, I miss even more the sight and sound of my grandmother bustling around in the basement kitchen of our house, wiping her hands on her ever-present apron. I miss seeing my mother working alongside her, preparing salad or vegetables, setting steaks out to marinade and eventually put on the grill. I miss us all sitting around the white formica table, my grandfather at the head of the table, my grandmother sitting nearest the stove, jumping up and down like a jack-in-the box to refill someone’s plate, add another batch of fish to the fry pan, or remove a fresh pan of biscuits from the oven. I miss being the center of attention while I told stories of my day at school, especially enjoying the reactions when the stories involved those classmates whose behavior was less stellar than mine. 

I know I’ll never taste anything like those foods again. My cooking skills (such as they are) were learned on my own. You’d think with two fine “home-cookers” in the house, someone would have taught me something. But there seemed to be a silent consensus between my mother and grandmother that I wouldn’t need to cook, that I was destined for “more” than a life in the kitchen. If I was hanging around aimlessly in the kitchen, instead of encouraging me to help with the meal, my grandmother might say, “Go up and play the piano for us while we’re cooking.” My mother might shoo me out of her way. “Go read your book, honey,” she’d say, giving me a gentle shove. “We’ll call you when it’s supper time."

Consequently, while I don’t mind cooking, it’s not an activity I’m passionate about. Most of the time, I do prefer eating at home to eating out. Most of the time I’m happier with the small portions of things I make for myself. I enjoy experimenting with new recipes, but since I’m feeding a staunch meat-and-potatoes Irishman, there’s not much room for exotic variations to the menu.  I imagine most of my son’s home cooking memories relate to things his grandmother (my mother) made for him: Shepherd’s pie, spaghetti and meatballs, turkey and stuffing, pot roast. Chocolate cake with caramel frosting, pumpkin pie with whipped cream. 

Comfort food of the highest order.

My grandmother would probably chuckle at the current obsession with cooking - all the food-related TV shows, and even a whole network dedicated to Food. To her, cooking was part of her job as a farmers wife, one of the vital chores she did every day. The fact that she was extraordinarily good at it was a point of pride, but not something she saw as an unusual accomplishment. Like everything else she did, it was done out of love for her family, out of necessity for their wellbeing, to make them FULL - of love, comfort, and tenderness, all sensed with a generous amount of butter, fat, and salt. 

In her book, Home Cooking, writer Laurie Colwin says that “when life is hard and the day has been long, the ideal dinner is not four perfect courses, each in a lovely pool of sauce whose lovely ambrosial flavors are like nothing ever before tasted, but rather something comforting and savory, easy on the digestion - something that makes one feel, even if only for a minute, that one is safe."

That sense of safety and comfort is the one I most yearn for when i think back to mealtimes growing up. I think that’s the key to successful Home Cooking, no matter where your home lies on the globe. 

Write On Wednesday: Sensing Synchronicity

It’s an age old question: Is life nothing more than a series of random events? Or is there a delicate underlying order that connects us with events, people, and ideas? Are the things we often consider mere coincidence really earmarks of this subterranean framework, pointing us in the direction we need to go?

Psychologist Carl Jung believed that life was a reflection of a deeper order, something he called synchronicity. At one point or another, we’ve all experienced it, and probably more often than we realize. You find yourself thinking about changing careers, and you sit next to someone on an airplane who has done just that and offers you all sorts of advice. You’re feeling badly about an argument with your partner and you open a magazine to an article about ways to repair relationships. You’ve been cooped up in the house with whiny toddlers and are longing for an escape when a friend calls you unexpectedly and offers to babysit so you can go out.

Synchronicity.

I’m most often aware of synchronicity in hindsight, looking back on things that have happened in my life and realizing they were “meant to be.” Back in 1992, finding myself relieved of some family obligations that had been holding me down for years, I had been wishing for more opportunities to work in music. One afternoon I’m preparing to fry chicken in my electric skillet, so I spread some newspaper on the kitchen counter to absorb the spatters (a trick I learned from my grandmother who fried a lot of chicken when I was growing up). The section of the paper I “happened” to open was the classifieds, and my gaze “happened" to land on an ad for a piano accompanist. 

That job changed my life - because of it, I met people who would impact me and my life in more ways that I can count. Literally, nearly everything I do now, every friend I have, even my dogs, have come as a result of that job and those people. 

A lucky coincidence? 

I really don’t think so. 

Since then, I’ve tried to become more aware of those meaningful coincidences in life. They can be easy to miss, even though in retrospect it seems as if they’ve struck you like a thunderbolt. A few years after I started my accompanying job, I was still estranged from my father, still consumed by anger, but beginning to feel the first stirrings toward forgiveness. A chance conversation with a co-worker whose mother had died suddenly was the spark that moved me to contact my father after several years of non-communication.

The principle of synchronicity applies to creative work as well, particularly writing. In her new book (A Writer’s Guide to Persistence) Jordan Rosenfeld writes: “Synchronicity is the way the muse speaks to you - it’s one part your subconscious mind making connections that your conscious mind misses, thus urging you toward opportunities, and another part the language of patterns, the quantum physics of creativity. Synchronicity requires you to be open and present. You must look for it. You must not write things off as accidental."

The ability to take notice of those kinds of synchronous events requires the ability to sense when something is more than just a happenstance occurrence. It requires focus and attention to the details of life, to looking up and around and not just down at the screen in front of you. It requires really listening to the voices of friends and mentors in whose words and advice you may find the inspiration you don’t always even realize you’re seeking. It requires time and patience to take hold in your heart and spirit.

This is difficult for me. I’ve spent my life among practical, logical people, who dwell in the land of making and doing rather than the land of sensing and being. Taking up residence in that sensory realm means I have to separation from my normal world and spend quality time with just myself - and not the me who is busy ticking off her “to-do” list, but the me who writes in her journal, loses herself in a good book, or plays the piano. The me who sits quietly watching the birds at the feeder.  The me who really hears the music playing on the stereo. The me who really hears voices in conversation around me. 

So as spring finally begins to take hold here in Michigan, I find myself pondering ways to do this, to  invigorate my senses and awareness and bring the fruits of that to my writing.  

“We live in a world of beautiful patterns and unexplainable beauty,” Rosenfeld writes.  "Our lives are like novels - we have such a short time to explore, discover, overcome obstacles, fight antagonists, make allies, and transform or discover our stories. What you do in your life can be empty and robotic, or it can be transformative, pushing you to new heights.” 

Jung himself believed that synchronistic events were more likely to occur when a person was in a heightened state of mental and creative awareness. Learning to engage in life on a deeper level, learning to sense the synchronicity that makes itself available to me, is one way to transform experience, to achieve new levels of insight and meaning.

It’s also a way to add depth and direction to writing. I’ve spent the winter floundering with new projects, wondering where to direct my writing energies. Recently I’ve connected with some new readers of Life In General who reinforce comments made by so many of you already -  how the stories I share in the book have helped them feel more understood, less alone in the world, and comforted by our connection through words. Comments like these seem to come at exactly the right moment - when I’m feeling as if I have nothing left to say. Clearly I do have a mandate for my writing, and it fits perfectly with my personality. I am, as an elementary teacher once described me, the “perfect little quiet helper.” When I focus my energy there, that’s where I perform the best.

So here then is my call to the universe: How can my next writing project help others? What can I share about my life or my experience that will create new and valuable connections? May I be open and observant to those synchronistic moments which lead me in the right direction.