The blog phenomenon is still new to me. All sorts of interesting perspectives now enrich my quiet life in Vermont. In many ways I have deeper and more purposeful interactions than I had living in New York City, some of them with the same people I knew in the city. As technologically sophisticated as I consider myself, I still find it kind of spooky to have friends I have never met. I am still trying to wrap my brain around connections that transcend the physical ones and zeros zipping along copper and glass cables. It’s as tough a problem as understanding how electrical impulses in the brain get translated into word and concept.
One of my very favorite blogs is by a dead guy. Over at http://blogthoreau.blogspot.com/ Greg posts a daily excerpt from the Journals of Henry David Thoreau. I try to read it every day, because there is usually something worth thinking about, maybe writing about. There are lots and lots of blogs, many of them very good, that focus on nature and daily life. I don’t dare aspire to the quality of Thoreau’s writing, but it is an inspiration to me.
So many lines here that could be titles or themes for essays entire. Are we not always living the life that we imagine we are? Maybe that line will reinvigorate my languishing NaNoNovel. It is pretty much the theme of Story Wars, that we make use of the stories we tell ourselves to shape our own lives.
I can define myself as a person who could not take New York, who retreated to the countryside. Or I can tell what I consider the true story, that I had enough of the rough and tumble of big corporations, that while I still respect that world, I have been lucky enough to be able to find the quiet refuge that my spirit required. The tricky part is that stories have a way of turning on you if they are not completely grounded in reality, but after two years in Vermont, the life I imagined has become an even better reality. The other tricky part is that it is hard to know other people’s stories, and every person has a right to their own.
Thoreau's Journal: 15-Nov-1853
After having some business dealings with men, I am occasionally chagrined, and feel as if I had done some wrong, and it is hard to forget the ugly circumstance. I see that such intercourse long continued would make one thoroughly prosaic, hard, and coarse. But the longest intercourse with Nature, though in her rudest moods, does not thus harden and make coarse. A hard, sensible man whom we liken to a rock is indeed much harder than a rock. From hard, coarse, insensible men with whom I have no sympathy, I go to commune with the rocks, whose hearts are comparatively soft.
Thoreau's Journal: 14-Nov-1852
Still yarrow, tall buttercup, and tansy.
Thoreau's Journal: 13-Nov-1851
A cold and dark afternoon, the sun being behind clouds in the west. The landscape is barren of objects, the trees being leafless, and so little light in the sky for variety. Such a day as will almost oblige a man to eat his own heart. A day in which you must hold on to life by your teeth. You can hardly ruck up any skin on Nature’s bones. The sap is down; she won’t peel. Now is the time to cut timber for yokes and ox-bows, leaving the tough bark on,—yokes for your own neck. Finding yourself yoked to Matter and to Time. Not a mosquito left. Not an insect to hum. Crickets gone into winter quarters. Friends long since gone there, and you left to walk on frozen ground, with your hands in your pockets. Ah, but is not this a time for deep inward fires?
Thoreau's Journal: 12-Nov-1859
I do not know how to distinguish between our waking life and a dream. Are we not always living the life that we imagine we are?
Thoreau's Journal: 11-Nov-1851
“Says I to myself” should be the motto of my journal.
Wednesday, November 17, 2004
Tuesday, November 16, 2004
I give up...for now
I admit it. My novel is stalled. I am only a third through the required 50,000 words, and I have nothing more to say about my main character, nothing more for her to do. I’ve taken a day off, then another, then scanned my old emails and journals for inspiration. It’s looking grim on the NaNoWriMo front.
I confess. Work is getting to me. I know it will pass, but right now it is annoying. There’s not enough light in my day. And I am in thrall to the twelve dogs (omigod, twelve dogs!) that live under my roof. There is laundry to do, floors to wash, food to cook, and lots and lots of ruffled feelings to soothe. German Shepherds do not accept puppies gracefully.
I hate to accept the truth, but I must. The puppies are cute. All nine squirming bundles. Miss Nell is mighty tired of them hanging off her, and she can’t eat nearly enough to keep up with their greedy mouths. Each weighed in at about a pound when they were born last Tuesday. Today they have each increased their weight by a solid 50%. Wow, what conversion. Nine cups of dogfood a day becomes 4.5 pounds of puppy, for a conversion ratio of 14 to one. For those of you who remember….how many pounds of feed does it take to make a pound of chicken? 1.5 How many pounds of feed does it take to make a pound of pork? Four. A pound of beef? Ten. Clearly, puppies would be a real delicacy if they were, as Peter originally suggested, raised for meat.
Perhaps here is a good point to remind everyone that all the animal words in the English language that related to food (beef, pork, mutton, etc.) have French roots.
The truth is that Miss Nell is not eating nine cups a day of puppy food, because as she has eloquently communicated, she does not care for puppy food. Yes, I am cooking for her. So far it has been pretty easy, since I have taken it as an opportunity to clear out of the freezer all those single cooked chicken breasts or meatballs left over from last Christmas. But today at the market, I bought chicken thighs for her, and extra eggs. I figure I will get the broth for the freezer, and she can have the cooked chicken.
Finally, I have found a good web-based Indian grocery so I am expecting reinforcements for my supplies of “funny food.” Garbanzo flour and pappadam, all sorts of interesting beans, tamarind pulp and cumin seed in quantity—it was the best forty dollars I have spent in a long time. This business of limited budgets does not so much limit one’s pleasures as concentrate them. I have derived more joy from recent purchases of frilly underwear than from buying furniture in days more flush. As someone said to me today in another context, “Life is so exciting. So interesting.”
And I did need reminding.
I confess. Work is getting to me. I know it will pass, but right now it is annoying. There’s not enough light in my day. And I am in thrall to the twelve dogs (omigod, twelve dogs!) that live under my roof. There is laundry to do, floors to wash, food to cook, and lots and lots of ruffled feelings to soothe. German Shepherds do not accept puppies gracefully.
I hate to accept the truth, but I must. The puppies are cute. All nine squirming bundles. Miss Nell is mighty tired of them hanging off her, and she can’t eat nearly enough to keep up with their greedy mouths. Each weighed in at about a pound when they were born last Tuesday. Today they have each increased their weight by a solid 50%. Wow, what conversion. Nine cups of dogfood a day becomes 4.5 pounds of puppy, for a conversion ratio of 14 to one. For those of you who remember….how many pounds of feed does it take to make a pound of chicken? 1.5 How many pounds of feed does it take to make a pound of pork? Four. A pound of beef? Ten. Clearly, puppies would be a real delicacy if they were, as Peter originally suggested, raised for meat.
Perhaps here is a good point to remind everyone that all the animal words in the English language that related to food (beef, pork, mutton, etc.) have French roots.
The truth is that Miss Nell is not eating nine cups a day of puppy food, because as she has eloquently communicated, she does not care for puppy food. Yes, I am cooking for her. So far it has been pretty easy, since I have taken it as an opportunity to clear out of the freezer all those single cooked chicken breasts or meatballs left over from last Christmas. But today at the market, I bought chicken thighs for her, and extra eggs. I figure I will get the broth for the freezer, and she can have the cooked chicken.
Finally, I have found a good web-based Indian grocery so I am expecting reinforcements for my supplies of “funny food.” Garbanzo flour and pappadam, all sorts of interesting beans, tamarind pulp and cumin seed in quantity—it was the best forty dollars I have spent in a long time. This business of limited budgets does not so much limit one’s pleasures as concentrate them. I have derived more joy from recent purchases of frilly underwear than from buying furniture in days more flush. As someone said to me today in another context, “Life is so exciting. So interesting.”
And I did need reminding.
Wednesday, November 10, 2004
Writing is Hard Work
Today, I spent time restructuring my NaNoWriMo novel. Up till a couple of days ago, I just wrote straight through my plot, beginning almost to the end, or at least the end I expect. But I have used up most of my outline, and I had written only 20% of the required words. Ouch.
Truth is, that my style can be spare, particularly when I am trying to get a story line laid out, so I’m not really worried. It is a comfort to have spent most of today restructuring what is already written, cataloging what other segments I want to write and even identifying points where my exposition may have gone beyond spare to overly bare. I am still behind the pace, but it was a good day’s work. And I have several chapters laid out that will be pretty easy to hammer out. I think. I hope.
The puppies seem to have grown visibly since yesterday. I weighed them all on the office’s postage scale today, and they are about a pound each. Miss Nell is finally eating well, and she is pleased and proud of her small but numerous family.
12,514 25%
“The eccentricity doesn’t always end in divorce or in jail; often it is highly creative thinking outside any imaginable box. This is story telling at its finest, and when Al runs into these stories, she is thrilled to think that these wonderful people are related to her.”
Truth is, that my style can be spare, particularly when I am trying to get a story line laid out, so I’m not really worried. It is a comfort to have spent most of today restructuring what is already written, cataloging what other segments I want to write and even identifying points where my exposition may have gone beyond spare to overly bare. I am still behind the pace, but it was a good day’s work. And I have several chapters laid out that will be pretty easy to hammer out. I think. I hope.
The puppies seem to have grown visibly since yesterday. I weighed them all on the office’s postage scale today, and they are about a pound each. Miss Nell is finally eating well, and she is pleased and proud of her small but numerous family.
12,514 25%
“The eccentricity doesn’t always end in divorce or in jail; often it is highly creative thinking outside any imaginable box. This is story telling at its finest, and when Al runs into these stories, she is thrilled to think that these wonderful people are related to her.”
Tuesday, November 09, 2004
Puppies!
Miss Nell, the dog I am fostering for North Country Animal League, had her puppies today. Thoughtful girl, she did not have them in the wee hours of the morning. I came home at lunchtime to check on her, and she had five nice clean puppies. She went on to have four more. Five boys and four girls, five fawn or brindle, four mostly black like Mama. She did a very, very nice job with them, and everybody is squirming and eating and snoozing in the borrowed wading pool.
They say—those experts in everything—that you shouldn’t name puppies you don’t intend to keep. But they also say that you should identify the puppies some way so that you can track their progress. Many people use rick-rack in loose collars, so the following are names based on rick-rack color:
Cherry, fawn female
Baby Blue, brindle male
Mr Greenjeans, black male with white blaze on chest
Violet, brindle female
Daisy, brindle female with white spot on tope of her head
Snowflake, brindle male
Ringo, black with white ring around his neck
Blackie, black male with white paws only
Sweet Pea, black female
And every single one of them looks like Winston Churchill. Actually, several of them look very, very much like Sharpeis. Do all puppies look like that?
It’s true, I ran out of rick rack colors. But now that we can tell the babies apart, they don’t need the collars, and that’s just as well. We can avoid one danger in their tiny lives.
I expect to be doing laundry roughly forever. And I am a little shocked to realize that I have a dozen dogs in my house, if only for another eight weeks.
Sunday, November 07, 2004
Back Under My Rock
Several years ago, I belonged to a book club. Several friends and their friends gathered together to have dinner—each cooked by the rotating host—and to discuss a book. Selection of the books would also rotate. It appeared to be a congenial group, including a few of my dearest friends at the time. It was a disaster of Titanic proportions.
Maybe it was me. Maybe my Southern upbringing had not prepared me for the bluntness of one New York yuppie who regarded Jane Austen as “girlie fiction suitable only for 14-year-olds.” Maybe it was a mistake to open up to the group’s cruelty books that had been central to my intellectual and spiritual development. Maybe it was naïve of me to think that a group that was as brutal on other novels would tolerate my disdain of Thomas Wolfe’s turgid and excessive prose. Barbs were thrown willy-nilly, and friendships were lost. I no longer discuss books with people unless I know them well and trust them.
Discussions of the election are giving me flashbacks to that book club. Call me whatever names you like, but I have never cared much for politics. I remember looking at my tenth grade social studies teacher and admitting that while I understood intellectually why I ought to care, I just didn’t. For most of my adult life, I have been registered as an Independent—not an Independent party, no party. The only exception was when I lived in Philadelphia and registered as a Democrat because I desperately wanted to vote against Frank Rizzo’s return to power. For most presidential elections, I have been deeply unimpressed by both major party candidates, and more often than not, I would go to the polls and leave the presidential vote blank as a statement of my views.
I have come to view that solution as inadequate, so this year I did vote, and two days before the election I made the decision to vote for Kerry although I had deep reservations about whether he would make a good president. It is obvious to me that Bush does not make a good president. But make no mistake, I am just as capable of voting for a Republican next time.
Still I was not at all surprised to see Bush win. As little as I follow politics, I am an avid follower of human nature. The Bush followers understood that the Kerry people were out there—how can the Democrats not have known that people liked Bush? The message of the Bush Republican Party—aside from the actual platform which receded into the background—is that we want to draw the circle tight, get rid of people who are different from us or think different from us, define ourselves as morally superior and those outside the circle as evil. Politics aside, people do this again and again and again. We do it on playgrounds, in book clubs, in workplaces.
Personally, I don’t find much moral superiority in any stance that others’ points of view are indefensible. Others’ points of view are, quite simply, their points of view, shaped by their experiences, their families and friends, their hopes and fears. Some, like racism, are clearly wrong; other stances are still in the process of being negotiated. As much as I believe in a woman’s right to choose what happens to her body, to name one example, or a company’s right to outsource work in certain circumstances, I know that many people disagree with my views. People I admire and trust. With them, I can have a conversation that explores the real complexity of the issues.
I’m going back to dealing with issues one by one and people one by one. That’s where I can have an impact. The heady world of politics wrote big is not for me.
Meanwhile I am behind on the novel-writing pace at 9,245 words and 18%
But Roland wasn’t pushing his luck. He wanted to think about this new hire overnight, to get her into a normal orientation, which he was obliged to admit he was required to do all too often. It really was impossible to get good help. “Tomorrow will be fine. Be here at 5:30.”
Maybe it was me. Maybe my Southern upbringing had not prepared me for the bluntness of one New York yuppie who regarded Jane Austen as “girlie fiction suitable only for 14-year-olds.” Maybe it was a mistake to open up to the group’s cruelty books that had been central to my intellectual and spiritual development. Maybe it was naïve of me to think that a group that was as brutal on other novels would tolerate my disdain of Thomas Wolfe’s turgid and excessive prose. Barbs were thrown willy-nilly, and friendships were lost. I no longer discuss books with people unless I know them well and trust them.
Discussions of the election are giving me flashbacks to that book club. Call me whatever names you like, but I have never cared much for politics. I remember looking at my tenth grade social studies teacher and admitting that while I understood intellectually why I ought to care, I just didn’t. For most of my adult life, I have been registered as an Independent—not an Independent party, no party. The only exception was when I lived in Philadelphia and registered as a Democrat because I desperately wanted to vote against Frank Rizzo’s return to power. For most presidential elections, I have been deeply unimpressed by both major party candidates, and more often than not, I would go to the polls and leave the presidential vote blank as a statement of my views.
I have come to view that solution as inadequate, so this year I did vote, and two days before the election I made the decision to vote for Kerry although I had deep reservations about whether he would make a good president. It is obvious to me that Bush does not make a good president. But make no mistake, I am just as capable of voting for a Republican next time.
Still I was not at all surprised to see Bush win. As little as I follow politics, I am an avid follower of human nature. The Bush followers understood that the Kerry people were out there—how can the Democrats not have known that people liked Bush? The message of the Bush Republican Party—aside from the actual platform which receded into the background—is that we want to draw the circle tight, get rid of people who are different from us or think different from us, define ourselves as morally superior and those outside the circle as evil. Politics aside, people do this again and again and again. We do it on playgrounds, in book clubs, in workplaces.
Personally, I don’t find much moral superiority in any stance that others’ points of view are indefensible. Others’ points of view are, quite simply, their points of view, shaped by their experiences, their families and friends, their hopes and fears. Some, like racism, are clearly wrong; other stances are still in the process of being negotiated. As much as I believe in a woman’s right to choose what happens to her body, to name one example, or a company’s right to outsource work in certain circumstances, I know that many people disagree with my views. People I admire and trust. With them, I can have a conversation that explores the real complexity of the issues.
I’m going back to dealing with issues one by one and people one by one. That’s where I can have an impact. The heady world of politics wrote big is not for me.
Meanwhile I am behind on the novel-writing pace at 9,245 words and 18%
But Roland wasn’t pushing his luck. He wanted to think about this new hire overnight, to get her into a normal orientation, which he was obliged to admit he was required to do all too often. It really was impossible to get good help. “Tomorrow will be fine. Be here at 5:30.”
Wednesday, November 03, 2004
Not My Best Writing Day
6,243 words, 12%
"Rusty’s favorite was the Quiet Path. Al’s was sitting by the brook, with laughter at goofy dogs soothing her overtaxed spirit. I could live here, she thought. Then again, shifting the emphasis: I could live here. "
"Rusty’s favorite was the Quiet Path. Al’s was sitting by the brook, with laughter at goofy dogs soothing her overtaxed spirit. I could live here, she thought. Then again, shifting the emphasis: I could live here. "
A Social/Political Challenge
Cathy (Sparky’s mom and translator) and her cousin want to understand America. Remember Sparky? (http://sparkovich.home.att.net). If you are not tired of voting, you can check out Sparky’s polling booth. Cathy writes:
Uh. I don’t think I can do this alone. I’ll start and maybe you guys can weigh in.
Daddy figure. When 9/11 occurred, as soon as he actually got out of that elementary school, he said, “There, there. I will send troops. I will fix it. It will be okay.” People actually buy that stuff.
The faith thing. In America 70% of people go to church, even if only rarely. They like to think that their leaders go to church. You would think Kerry would get this one, too. Big difference from Europe.
Family values: the dark side. Gay marriage and abortion. Against Kerry, not really pro-Bush. Not views I agree with, but fear-based ideas that are broadly held.
The cowboy thing. “I’ll take on….whatever.” Americans like rugged individualists. Known in some circles as "leadership."
The talk versus the walk. I think tax cuts are a good thing, I like limited government. I hate Bush’s actual, real, verifiable record.
Pretty weak. I never claimed to be a political thinker. Who can help?
My cousin in Geneva would like to know why Southerners like George W. Bush. I figured you were better qualified to answer the question than me. Plus you enjoy writing! So, Prof. Lynch, on behalf of my cousin, why do Southerners like Bush?
Uh. I don’t think I can do this alone. I’ll start and maybe you guys can weigh in.
Daddy figure. When 9/11 occurred, as soon as he actually got out of that elementary school, he said, “There, there. I will send troops. I will fix it. It will be okay.” People actually buy that stuff.
The faith thing. In America 70% of people go to church, even if only rarely. They like to think that their leaders go to church. You would think Kerry would get this one, too. Big difference from Europe.
Family values: the dark side. Gay marriage and abortion. Against Kerry, not really pro-Bush. Not views I agree with, but fear-based ideas that are broadly held.
The cowboy thing. “I’ll take on….whatever.” Americans like rugged individualists. Known in some circles as "leadership."
The talk versus the walk. I think tax cuts are a good thing, I like limited government. I hate Bush’s actual, real, verifiable record.
Pretty weak. I never claimed to be a political thinker. Who can help?
Tuesday, November 02, 2004
Fortunately Fiction
I once said that “I had Cheerios for breakfast” is my idea of a really boring blog. Who really cares? It is already a bad sign that I am quoting myself, but….if writing a boring novel is bad, then writing about writing a boring novel must be intolerable. I will spare you anything beyond the daily word count and final couple of sentences.
I am deeply surprised by how much I am enjoying this writing. While I am still not convinced that I have any talent for fiction, it makes for a nice change from my usual essay style. It’s kind of a kick to name people or place right there in mid-sentence. My chapters are on the short side, and I catch myself in continuity errors. I still have a second plot that I want to overlay on this one. But all of that can be fixed. For now, it just flows from my fingers. It actually is fun. Ask me again when I hit my first roadblock.
Today I went to vote for the first time in Hyde Park. The ballots are paper, and the candidates themselves were lined up in the rain. Vermont is the most doggedly democratic place I know. Politics offer an amusing respite from the winter’s cold.
What does a justice of the peace do, anyway? The ballot said to vote for ten people, but I voted for everyone I knew and that was only six.
As I sit here typing this, Vermont is the first state to go for Kerry. Is anyone surprised?
5,461 words. Last paragraph:
“Once at camp, Al also realized that she had no idea what she expected Rusty to do. They had a good refresher in basic obedience and spiffed up Rusty’s recall skills, never one of his strengths. Agility was a lot to expect of a dog moving into his arthritic years, and Rusty found the doggie games merely undignified. Their best times, it seemed to Al were chasing tennis balls in the brook, or better yet, chasing other dogs. Al laughed until her ribs were sore one day watching Rusty—the ultimate herding dog—attempt to herd border collies, who thought they were herding Rusty. This, she thought, wiping her eyes dry, this is what I need.”
I am deeply surprised by how much I am enjoying this writing. While I am still not convinced that I have any talent for fiction, it makes for a nice change from my usual essay style. It’s kind of a kick to name people or place right there in mid-sentence. My chapters are on the short side, and I catch myself in continuity errors. I still have a second plot that I want to overlay on this one. But all of that can be fixed. For now, it just flows from my fingers. It actually is fun. Ask me again when I hit my first roadblock.
Today I went to vote for the first time in Hyde Park. The ballots are paper, and the candidates themselves were lined up in the rain. Vermont is the most doggedly democratic place I know. Politics offer an amusing respite from the winter’s cold.
What does a justice of the peace do, anyway? The ballot said to vote for ten people, but I voted for everyone I knew and that was only six.
As I sit here typing this, Vermont is the first state to go for Kerry. Is anyone surprised?
5,461 words. Last paragraph:
“Once at camp, Al also realized that she had no idea what she expected Rusty to do. They had a good refresher in basic obedience and spiffed up Rusty’s recall skills, never one of his strengths. Agility was a lot to expect of a dog moving into his arthritic years, and Rusty found the doggie games merely undignified. Their best times, it seemed to Al were chasing tennis balls in the brook, or better yet, chasing other dogs. Al laughed until her ribs were sore one day watching Rusty—the ultimate herding dog—attempt to herd border collies, who thought they were herding Rusty. This, she thought, wiping her eyes dry, this is what I need.”
Taken by Aliens
NaNoWriMo…NaNoWriMo…I can’t stop saying it. And I really can’t stop doing it. If you want to know what all the fuss is go to www.nanowrimo.org to read about some 35,000 people around the world signed up online, each with the intention of writing a novel in a month. Surely it is just the burst of early enthusiasm that has me at the computer morning and evening, entranced by my character Althea Mae (Al for short) and wondering how her story will turn out.
In general terms, I know how it all ends. I even know the last line, or at least I think I do. I have fallen victim to the fate of novelists everywhere—I have been highjacked by my character. It’s the strangest sensation, the funniest feeling. I understand the stresses in her psyche, not-so-surprisingly like my own. But I am not at all sure what she will do next. I think she’s on her way to dog camp, but who knows? I’m only at 3,352 words with over 46,648 to go. Or to be more upbeat, I am 7% done.
One of the other authors has a delightful blog at www.hoardedordinaries.com and she has the flexibility to put a sentence a day in the right sidebar. I won’t promise to give you a sentence every day, and I certainly have no intention of letting anyone read the finished novel, but I will leave you with one more sentence today.
“Al grabbed Rusty’s leash and headed for the door. Time for a little networking in the park, time for some non-Wall Street perspectives, time to avoid writing the resume, and most especially, time to avoid that imaginary psychotherapist who did not know what she was talking about.”
In general terms, I know how it all ends. I even know the last line, or at least I think I do. I have fallen victim to the fate of novelists everywhere—I have been highjacked by my character. It’s the strangest sensation, the funniest feeling. I understand the stresses in her psyche, not-so-surprisingly like my own. But I am not at all sure what she will do next. I think she’s on her way to dog camp, but who knows? I’m only at 3,352 words with over 46,648 to go. Or to be more upbeat, I am 7% done.
One of the other authors has a delightful blog at www.hoardedordinaries.com and she has the flexibility to put a sentence a day in the right sidebar. I won’t promise to give you a sentence every day, and I certainly have no intention of letting anyone read the finished novel, but I will leave you with one more sentence today.
“Al grabbed Rusty’s leash and headed for the door. Time for a little networking in the park, time for some non-Wall Street perspectives, time to avoid writing the resume, and most especially, time to avoid that imaginary psychotherapist who did not know what she was talking about.”
Monday, November 01, 2004
She Sings!
Not me. I sing only in church—where people are honor bound to forgive me. Nell sings. Loud, long, drawn out “woooo-woooo” wails. Too funny! I am told it’s a retriever thing.
I have photos of Miss Nell for you, but I am still trying to understand the intricacies of Hello and BloggerBot. No puppies yet, and she is annoying Toby mightily.
Meanwhile, NaNoWriMo is well underway. I wrote about 1100 words this morning, and about as many this evening. While some aspiring novelists want to display their works in progress, others—like me and like one of my correspondents who notes, nobody ever said these words have to be good—are more inclined to limit our postings to, say, the last paragraph written for the day. Or maybe a different excerpt. So here you are.
“Oh, gee,” Max repeated, looking as if he wanted to be somewhere else, anywhere else.
Al took pity on him, reflecting that it was remarkable how often she had felt responsible for other people’s feelings in the last day, given that this was her crisis. Looking across the lawn, she picked the first person she saw and made a quick bid for escape: “Oh, look, there’s Rosie, now. Maybe I will check out her news. Catch ya later, Max. Be good, Joshua.” And she strode off in Rosie’s direction.
I have photos of Miss Nell for you, but I am still trying to understand the intricacies of Hello and BloggerBot. No puppies yet, and she is annoying Toby mightily.
Meanwhile, NaNoWriMo is well underway. I wrote about 1100 words this morning, and about as many this evening. While some aspiring novelists want to display their works in progress, others—like me and like one of my correspondents who notes, nobody ever said these words have to be good—are more inclined to limit our postings to, say, the last paragraph written for the day. Or maybe a different excerpt. So here you are.
“Oh, gee,” Max repeated, looking as if he wanted to be somewhere else, anywhere else.
Al took pity on him, reflecting that it was remarkable how often she had felt responsible for other people’s feelings in the last day, given that this was her crisis. Looking across the lawn, she picked the first person she saw and made a quick bid for escape: “Oh, look, there’s Rosie, now. Maybe I will check out her news. Catch ya later, Max. Be good, Joshua.” And she strode off in Rosie’s direction.
Saturday, October 30, 2004
More New York
It is my habit to reread my posts before I send them to prevent hurt feelings. I read them again the next morning, and today I can almost see my New York readers’ necks stiffen and fingers reach for the keyboards to reply, “What! Surely you don’t mean to imply that those grasping, overanxious seekers of Trump’s attention are representative of New Yorkers?”
Of course not. If that were the case, I certainly would not have stayed in the city for close to two decades. On the contrary, there is so very much of New York that is attractive, even seductive. The closest I have ever come to explaining New York’s appeal is that it is an addiction.
On first experiencing New York, you just can’t take it in. There is so much. Different neighborhoods, different communities of all descriptions stretching across neighborhoods. While there are pockets of quality in arts and other endeavors elsewhere, for sheer quantity of very, very good work, it is hard to match New York. This concentration of excellence creates communities that feed on themselves, organisms that spiral into efforts than any one participant could never have dreamed.
The more you become aware of how much is happening in New York, the more you realize the necessity of taking it in baby steps. It is easier to live in New York than to visit, because you know how to pace yourself. New Yorkers have the skills to do an errand, then take a break—really rest and occupy a public space—and move on to the next errand.
Another way to deal with New York is systematic analysis, getting to know it neighborhood by neighborhood. Going to Chinatown for dancing shoes, to Sixth Street for cheap dinner. Shopping for fabric on lower Broadway and plants further north. Each little trip is a revelation. Hardly ever is an errand simply routine.
I lived in Manhattan only a few months one summer. I could never imagine living with all that creative/destructive buzz outside my windows, much less the rumble of traffic or the sirens. Not even to be walking distance from Lincoln Center or the Metropolitan Museum. The outer boroughs of Brooklyn and Staten Island were quieter, psychically safer, close enough to “the city” to take small bites. I was very, very happy for a very long time.
Then one day it no longer worked for me. Obviously, people grow old in New York, many of them very happily. Many women live out their later years in apartments in New York, but I couldn’t see myself in that life. From an analytical point of view, it ought to have been very appealing to me—living someplace with so much intellectual and sensory stimulation. But instead I saw myself someplace like here, and here I am.
Of course not. If that were the case, I certainly would not have stayed in the city for close to two decades. On the contrary, there is so very much of New York that is attractive, even seductive. The closest I have ever come to explaining New York’s appeal is that it is an addiction.
On first experiencing New York, you just can’t take it in. There is so much. Different neighborhoods, different communities of all descriptions stretching across neighborhoods. While there are pockets of quality in arts and other endeavors elsewhere, for sheer quantity of very, very good work, it is hard to match New York. This concentration of excellence creates communities that feed on themselves, organisms that spiral into efforts than any one participant could never have dreamed.
The more you become aware of how much is happening in New York, the more you realize the necessity of taking it in baby steps. It is easier to live in New York than to visit, because you know how to pace yourself. New Yorkers have the skills to do an errand, then take a break—really rest and occupy a public space—and move on to the next errand.
Another way to deal with New York is systematic analysis, getting to know it neighborhood by neighborhood. Going to Chinatown for dancing shoes, to Sixth Street for cheap dinner. Shopping for fabric on lower Broadway and plants further north. Each little trip is a revelation. Hardly ever is an errand simply routine.
I lived in Manhattan only a few months one summer. I could never imagine living with all that creative/destructive buzz outside my windows, much less the rumble of traffic or the sirens. Not even to be walking distance from Lincoln Center or the Metropolitan Museum. The outer boroughs of Brooklyn and Staten Island were quieter, psychically safer, close enough to “the city” to take small bites. I was very, very happy for a very long time.
Then one day it no longer worked for me. Obviously, people grow old in New York, many of them very happily. Many women live out their later years in apartments in New York, but I couldn’t see myself in that life. From an analytical point of view, it ought to have been very appealing to me—living someplace with so much intellectual and sensory stimulation. But instead I saw myself someplace like here, and here I am.
Friday, October 29, 2004
Shadows of a Former Life
From my vantage point safe in Vermont, I faithfully watch The Apprentice. It reminds me of my old life on Wall Street, not that I was ever in the leagues of Trump or his lieutenants. No, I was one of thousands of bank vice presidents, neither very successful nor very unsuccessful. Eventually, like thousands of others, I was laid off—twice actually, an overachiever to the end.
During the many years I lived in New York, I took a lot of ribbing from family, friends and acquaintances. Please read the following with a heavy Southern accent in mind: “Why, I could never live in such a place.” These days I get the same comment with a Vermont accent.
But I loved New York. I still do. New York needs no defense from me.
And I left to save my life. Someone I respect—I don’t remember who—told me that we humans never change until we have no other choice. That observation is consistent with my experience. So when I packed all my belongings into a truck two years ago and moved to Vermont, it was not because I was brave; it was because I had no choice but to make a change. I can analyze the career insecurity of the financial services industry, the toll its long hours were taking on my health, the numbing difficulting of doing even the smallest task in New York, but all those factors had existed for decades. Ultimately the decision to move was intuitive.
Where to go was also intuitive. There were other places I could have gone, but I came to Vermont.
Now I watch the aspiring Trumps and Trumpettes, and the intellectual part of me enjoys seeing them execute strategy and learn people management. I appreciate the clarity of the bottom line orientation. I have opinions about who does a good job and who doesn’t. I appreciate many of the show’s lessons about business. But I don’t like these people much. And I’m glad I don’t live among them any more, although of course there are lots of more congenial people in New York as well.
On the other hand, one of the unexpected pleasures of Vermont has been finding some of the brightest, savviest business people I have ever worked with. And I have worked with the best.
I left New York to save my life and to get a life. I’m still working on it but the early returns are excellent. When I watch The Apprentice, I remember how far I have traveled.
During the many years I lived in New York, I took a lot of ribbing from family, friends and acquaintances. Please read the following with a heavy Southern accent in mind: “Why, I could never live in such a place.” These days I get the same comment with a Vermont accent.
But I loved New York. I still do. New York needs no defense from me.
And I left to save my life. Someone I respect—I don’t remember who—told me that we humans never change until we have no other choice. That observation is consistent with my experience. So when I packed all my belongings into a truck two years ago and moved to Vermont, it was not because I was brave; it was because I had no choice but to make a change. I can analyze the career insecurity of the financial services industry, the toll its long hours were taking on my health, the numbing difficulting of doing even the smallest task in New York, but all those factors had existed for decades. Ultimately the decision to move was intuitive.
Where to go was also intuitive. There were other places I could have gone, but I came to Vermont.
Now I watch the aspiring Trumps and Trumpettes, and the intellectual part of me enjoys seeing them execute strategy and learn people management. I appreciate the clarity of the bottom line orientation. I have opinions about who does a good job and who doesn’t. I appreciate many of the show’s lessons about business. But I don’t like these people much. And I’m glad I don’t live among them any more, although of course there are lots of more congenial people in New York as well.
On the other hand, one of the unexpected pleasures of Vermont has been finding some of the brightest, savviest business people I have ever worked with. And I have worked with the best.
I left New York to save my life and to get a life. I’m still working on it but the early returns are excellent. When I watch The Apprentice, I remember how far I have traveled.
Wednesday, October 27, 2004
Head on Lap
It’s hard to type with a German Shepherd head on your lap. Even steadfast Max is sometimes in need of a little extra care. It’s that visiting girl. She takes up my attention, she steals his toys, she growls. How much worse can it get? Puppies, hmph. Don’t care for ‘em.
Max will be fine. I bought him the extra special whitefish and sweet potato cookies that are his favorite. And I have discovered, sadly, that his recall improves dramatically if I use the word “cookie” rather than “come” or my most authoritative “come now,” which used to work. This is not a good development in dog training, but the fact that Max has been able to train me to buy whitefish and sweet potato cookies is even more threatening to my pack position.
Can I extend the pack metaphor to come up with ways to entice other board members into more thoughtful, engaged involvement in our work? I have three active board members. While I am grateful to have so many, I worry that I become—professionally and on a very personal, emotional level—too dependent on the few. My role as director of a tiny non-profit is surprisingly lonely.
The structure is an upside down pyramid: hundreds of potential members, dozens of members, about a dozen board members, and at the vortex there’s just me and my half time assistant. Is there any doubt what flows downhill and where it stops?
Managing the board as pack. That has possibilities. At home I am working on subtle signals to reinforce our new, temporary pack structure. In the evenings, Max and Toby get to sit next to me, while Nell is on the floor. They get extra invitations to come upstairs at the end of the evening. If Nell growls at them, she gets a gentle reprimand. Max and Toby get human food treats and special cookies; Nell is not allowed to have anything but her puppy food. Overall message to everyone: Nell is welcome, but Max and Toby are top dogs. Between the two of them they have worked it out: Toby is top dog, and Max allows it to be so.
With the board, it would be a matter of actively trying to build up the ones who might be willing to be more involved. It’s not an area where I can bend them to my will. Hardly! These are bright, motivated, capable people. Maybe more a matter of (1) being aware of subtle signals and creating positive reinforcement for increased involvement, and (2) keeping communication flowing so that nobody feels left out or overlooked.
As tiring as it is, I believe in over-communication. The end game is that working together, we can do far more than any of us individually. Of course, the more people that need explicit communications…well, the effort grows exponentially. Maybe it’s that forecast weariness that is getting me down.
Meanwhile, I’ve been reading lots of blogs, and I have some to recommend to you.
I adore http://www.stuttercut.org/hungry/ and especially the hungry tiger: "Then why don't you eat something?" she asked. "It's no use," said the Tiger sadly. "I've tried that, but I always get hungry again." Too true, but this recipe archive has lots of good, easy, very tasty options. Funny food.
I really like http://www.cookingforengineers.com/ It ‘s beyond the recipes, it’s the whole thing, but the recipes themselves are tested and engineered to make it easy to replicate good results time and time again. Lots of people seem to like the innovative recipe format, which apparently does actually work for engineers.
I like the weekly photo challenge in http://www.hoardedordinaries.com/ I like the concept of “hoarded ordinaries.” I think the writer would get along with Toby, who is huddled on the other sofa with his tennis ball, his apple (same apple, sometimes they last a week), his bone, and his water bottle.
There is a lot I like about http://beginnermind.blogspot.com/ –overall feel, content, ideas for add-ons, nice list of links. Besides, ya hafta like a guy who gives you a good pre-launch review!
Then there’s http://blogthoreau.blogspot.com/ who writes better about New England than any of the rest of us. Nice, very nice actually, to experience Thoreau’s journals as they unfold daily.
Visiting Miss Nell has now displaced Max. A smaller, more insistent head is pressed to my chest with a gentle woof and vigorous wag. “I’m cute, you know. So I insist you pet me!” Retriever temperament!
Max will be fine. I bought him the extra special whitefish and sweet potato cookies that are his favorite. And I have discovered, sadly, that his recall improves dramatically if I use the word “cookie” rather than “come” or my most authoritative “come now,” which used to work. This is not a good development in dog training, but the fact that Max has been able to train me to buy whitefish and sweet potato cookies is even more threatening to my pack position.
Can I extend the pack metaphor to come up with ways to entice other board members into more thoughtful, engaged involvement in our work? I have three active board members. While I am grateful to have so many, I worry that I become—professionally and on a very personal, emotional level—too dependent on the few. My role as director of a tiny non-profit is surprisingly lonely.
The structure is an upside down pyramid: hundreds of potential members, dozens of members, about a dozen board members, and at the vortex there’s just me and my half time assistant. Is there any doubt what flows downhill and where it stops?
Managing the board as pack. That has possibilities. At home I am working on subtle signals to reinforce our new, temporary pack structure. In the evenings, Max and Toby get to sit next to me, while Nell is on the floor. They get extra invitations to come upstairs at the end of the evening. If Nell growls at them, she gets a gentle reprimand. Max and Toby get human food treats and special cookies; Nell is not allowed to have anything but her puppy food. Overall message to everyone: Nell is welcome, but Max and Toby are top dogs. Between the two of them they have worked it out: Toby is top dog, and Max allows it to be so.
With the board, it would be a matter of actively trying to build up the ones who might be willing to be more involved. It’s not an area where I can bend them to my will. Hardly! These are bright, motivated, capable people. Maybe more a matter of (1) being aware of subtle signals and creating positive reinforcement for increased involvement, and (2) keeping communication flowing so that nobody feels left out or overlooked.
As tiring as it is, I believe in over-communication. The end game is that working together, we can do far more than any of us individually. Of course, the more people that need explicit communications…well, the effort grows exponentially. Maybe it’s that forecast weariness that is getting me down.
Meanwhile, I’ve been reading lots of blogs, and I have some to recommend to you.
I adore http://www.stuttercut.org/hungry/ and especially the hungry tiger: "Then why don't you eat something?" she asked. "It's no use," said the Tiger sadly. "I've tried that, but I always get hungry again." Too true, but this recipe archive has lots of good, easy, very tasty options. Funny food.
I really like http://www.cookingforengineers.com/ It ‘s beyond the recipes, it’s the whole thing, but the recipes themselves are tested and engineered to make it easy to replicate good results time and time again. Lots of people seem to like the innovative recipe format, which apparently does actually work for engineers.
I like the weekly photo challenge in http://www.hoardedordinaries.com/ I like the concept of “hoarded ordinaries.” I think the writer would get along with Toby, who is huddled on the other sofa with his tennis ball, his apple (same apple, sometimes they last a week), his bone, and his water bottle.
There is a lot I like about http://beginnermind.blogspot.com/ –overall feel, content, ideas for add-ons, nice list of links. Besides, ya hafta like a guy who gives you a good pre-launch review!
Then there’s http://blogthoreau.blogspot.com/ who writes better about New England than any of the rest of us. Nice, very nice actually, to experience Thoreau’s journals as they unfold daily.
Visiting Miss Nell has now displaced Max. A smaller, more insistent head is pressed to my chest with a gentle woof and vigorous wag. “I’m cute, you know. So I insist you pet me!” Retriever temperament!
Tuesday, October 26, 2004
Don’t be surprised
“Don't be surprised if life in general seems a bit confusing…”
That’s how my horoscope starts today, then it goes on to explain planetary positions and the impact of the full moon. The analytical part doesn’t mean much to me, but that simple charge does: “Don’t be surprised.”
Don’t be surprised if today is different from yesterday. Other people whirling in their own orbits collide with you in ways that are different from mere hours before. They exist separate from you after all. Don’t be surprised.
I am, of course, always surprised. We each live as outside observers of the lives of people we know. I experience my own life as an amazing, oversized, romantic, even excessive story…and why not? And each of the dozen or so people I encounter on the average day lives on a separately defined planet, populated by the people they know and playing out stories that are just as amazing and wonderful. From time to time, worlds collide, in ways large or small. You shouldn’t be surprised.
Don’t be surprised if Monday is a difficult day. It happens every week. Sunday is a tough day; Monday I tackle the tough projects; Tuesday is better, and I am always surprised.
Don’t be surprised if the dogs who got along yesterday are growling and snarling over a water bottle or an apple today. Toby loves apples beyond all measure, and Nell is a little closer to motherhood today than she was yesterday. Max knows you bought cookies yesterday, so yesterday’s generalized mourning has morphed into a series of pointed, barky reminders that you are most certainly neglecting him.
Impossible not to be surprised all over again by the landscape. Early morning fog in the valleys and fields faded to sage green by frost. Bright (really bright!) yellow maple leaves in relief against tree limbs more prominent every day. Italy is like this, they tell me, not in the details but in that the light is different every day. Almost daily, there is something that leaves me staring, slack jawed and glassy eyed, at this place where I live.
That’s how my horoscope starts today, then it goes on to explain planetary positions and the impact of the full moon. The analytical part doesn’t mean much to me, but that simple charge does: “Don’t be surprised.”
Don’t be surprised if today is different from yesterday. Other people whirling in their own orbits collide with you in ways that are different from mere hours before. They exist separate from you after all. Don’t be surprised.
I am, of course, always surprised. We each live as outside observers of the lives of people we know. I experience my own life as an amazing, oversized, romantic, even excessive story…and why not? And each of the dozen or so people I encounter on the average day lives on a separately defined planet, populated by the people they know and playing out stories that are just as amazing and wonderful. From time to time, worlds collide, in ways large or small. You shouldn’t be surprised.
Don’t be surprised if Monday is a difficult day. It happens every week. Sunday is a tough day; Monday I tackle the tough projects; Tuesday is better, and I am always surprised.
Don’t be surprised if the dogs who got along yesterday are growling and snarling over a water bottle or an apple today. Toby loves apples beyond all measure, and Nell is a little closer to motherhood today than she was yesterday. Max knows you bought cookies yesterday, so yesterday’s generalized mourning has morphed into a series of pointed, barky reminders that you are most certainly neglecting him.
Impossible not to be surprised all over again by the landscape. Early morning fog in the valleys and fields faded to sage green by frost. Bright (really bright!) yellow maple leaves in relief against tree limbs more prominent every day. Italy is like this, they tell me, not in the details but in that the light is different every day. Almost daily, there is something that leaves me staring, slack jawed and glassy eyed, at this place where I live.
Monday, October 25, 2004
Old Dogs
This feedback from one of my e-corrrespondents: One of the things I think about from time to time is an article to tell owners of aging dogs not to worry so much. It's something I am very
conscious of as my Spot is 13+ and Ollie died of cancer at 11. Cloudy eyes, not so bad, stiff joints, keep the weight off and exercise, sleeps too much (me, too) but also need new interests to keep them going. Lucy the cat has proved a rejuvenating irritation for little Spot. Also get rid of the fatty tumors as they can really slow these guys down even through the vets say they are benign. At work, so got to run. Nell sounds like my kind of dog, but we're a little over run at the mo.
conscious of as my Spot is 13+ and Ollie died of cancer at 11. Cloudy eyes, not so bad, stiff joints, keep the weight off and exercise, sleeps too much (me, too) but also need new interests to keep them going. Lucy the cat has proved a rejuvenating irritation for little Spot. Also get rid of the fatty tumors as they can really slow these guys down even through the vets say they are benign. At work, so got to run. Nell sounds like my kind of dog, but we're a little over run at the mo.
Hostages to Fortune
My life is simple. I live alone, with two large dogs. I have nobody to please or fuss over. Yes, it is sometimes lonely, but that is not the point of this piece. The point is that even the simplest life gets complicated in the twitch of an eyelash.
“He who hath a wife and children has given hostages to fortune.” That’s Sir Francis Bacon. If we care, we open ourselves up to hurt, disappointment, and grief.
I already dread losing my dogs to old age. I fuss too much. Although they are nine (Toby) and eleven (Max), they are active, sometimes too active when it comes to porcupines and manure.
Back when I was married, I felt the same way about my husband, and you know, my fussing and solicitude didn’t change anything in the course of events. I lost him anyway. Not in the sense of doing something terrible that made him move away from me. Not in the casual sense of having mislaid him somewhere. No, the truth is that we lost each other, and twenty years later, I don’t know if it had to be that way or not. But that’s how it was.
And whatever else it was, it was a loss. I have no children, only dogs and foster dog and foster puppies on the way. I can’t even imagine how parents live with fear for their children. I can’t. Life must seem like one huge continuous falling off a log into open space.
Living alone, moving every few years, traveling light would seem to be a prescription for avoiding the frightening prospect of misfortune. Misguided solicitude sometimes leads people to feel sorry for me, living alone as I do.
I am here to tell you that while solitude has its attractions, safety is not among them. In a heartbeat, I am drawn into the lives of others, whether my friends, my family, my staff, my colleagues, or little Miss Nell, who needs a place other than the shelter to be pregnant. On the contrary, I am working hard to learn how to have good boundaries, to let in only those I want to let in. When it comes to entanglements, there is no place of safety other than steadfastly shutting others out. As a temporary measure for regaining equilibrium, that might work, but it’s no long term formula for happiness.
Perhaps the best we can hope for is to choose who we let in and on what terms—then once they are close by, all argument and reasoning is meaningless.
“He who hath a wife and children has given hostages to fortune.” That’s Sir Francis Bacon. If we care, we open ourselves up to hurt, disappointment, and grief.
I already dread losing my dogs to old age. I fuss too much. Although they are nine (Toby) and eleven (Max), they are active, sometimes too active when it comes to porcupines and manure.
Back when I was married, I felt the same way about my husband, and you know, my fussing and solicitude didn’t change anything in the course of events. I lost him anyway. Not in the sense of doing something terrible that made him move away from me. Not in the casual sense of having mislaid him somewhere. No, the truth is that we lost each other, and twenty years later, I don’t know if it had to be that way or not. But that’s how it was.
And whatever else it was, it was a loss. I have no children, only dogs and foster dog and foster puppies on the way. I can’t even imagine how parents live with fear for their children. I can’t. Life must seem like one huge continuous falling off a log into open space.
Living alone, moving every few years, traveling light would seem to be a prescription for avoiding the frightening prospect of misfortune. Misguided solicitude sometimes leads people to feel sorry for me, living alone as I do.
I am here to tell you that while solitude has its attractions, safety is not among them. In a heartbeat, I am drawn into the lives of others, whether my friends, my family, my staff, my colleagues, or little Miss Nell, who needs a place other than the shelter to be pregnant. On the contrary, I am working hard to learn how to have good boundaries, to let in only those I want to let in. When it comes to entanglements, there is no place of safety other than steadfastly shutting others out. As a temporary measure for regaining equilibrium, that might work, but it’s no long term formula for happiness.
Perhaps the best we can hope for is to choose who we let in and on what terms—then once they are close by, all argument and reasoning is meaningless.
Sunday, October 24, 2004
Cleanup Day in the Garden
Contrary to all forecasts, we had a spectacular sunny weekend, and I managed to get some trim painted as well as cleaning up the garden. Even Miss Nell enjoyed being out in the sunshine, although she continues to find it unfair that she has to be tied up while the boys romp. She continues well behaved, although the boys—predictably—are acting out a bit. Max, the German Shepherd, came over a few minutes ago and insisted on sitting in the armchair with me. So I am perched on the edge, attempting my first blog-by-email.
It is not typical of me to find beauty in death and decay, but tomatoes in every shade of red, orange, yellow and green were even more lovely for having been frozen into translucence. Add clearest yellow leaves drifting down from the sugarbush, and the day could only be seen as pure celebration of the moment.
I’m not big on existential nothingness, either, but attempts to pull mint out of the garden come as close to futility as anything I know. If I were of a cynical turn of mind, Toby’s helpful actions in fetching back green tomatoes that I threw out of the vegetable plot would be symbolic. For me, Toby is just goofy, another instance of pure joy.
Don’t even think of lecturing me about throwing out green tomatoes. Have you any idea how many I have in the kitchen? I also have about 8 pounds of carrots and 12 pounds of turnips and a surprising quantity of daikon, not to mention their nifty little seed pods. I am so going to be overrun by daikon next summer. Worse things have happened. Did I mention the mint?
It is not typical of me to find beauty in death and decay, but tomatoes in every shade of red, orange, yellow and green were even more lovely for having been frozen into translucence. Add clearest yellow leaves drifting down from the sugarbush, and the day could only be seen as pure celebration of the moment.
I’m not big on existential nothingness, either, but attempts to pull mint out of the garden come as close to futility as anything I know. If I were of a cynical turn of mind, Toby’s helpful actions in fetching back green tomatoes that I threw out of the vegetable plot would be symbolic. For me, Toby is just goofy, another instance of pure joy.
Don’t even think of lecturing me about throwing out green tomatoes. Have you any idea how many I have in the kitchen? I also have about 8 pounds of carrots and 12 pounds of turnips and a surprising quantity of daikon, not to mention their nifty little seed pods. I am so going to be overrun by daikon next summer. Worse things have happened. Did I mention the mint?
Saturday, October 23, 2004
Routine and Puppies
I am getting back into my routine after the disruptive shortening of days. I resent it that it is too dark in the mornings now to walk outside before time to go to work. But eventually, I get over fighting with myself and with nature’s forward plunge, and I go back to the Nordictrak indoors along with therapy light. Maybe I should just mark the calendar that once the annual meeting is past, it is time to declare the winter schedule in operation.
After a few stressful weeks with the annual meeting and visitors and changing bosses, I have also reverted to my usual healthy diet. How funny it is that I sometimes only know I am stressed by what I am eating. I never eat fried foods. I never eat ice cream. When I start eating unhealthy things, it is a sign that I must be stressed, so I can go and look for the cause. Or I can just consciously revert to my preferred routine and watch stress fall away. Cool.
Routine, huh? How do puppies fit into routine? If there is anything the opposite of routine, it is puppies. I knew it was risky to go to the Animal League for a Chamber of Commerce mixer. There are dogs there. Cats, too, but we are not allowed to have cats. Max thinks cats are snacks.
I’m in that vulnerable place where I know my dogs are getting old. Toby is nine and Max is eleven. I like having three dogs, and I know that once you have four dogs, you suddenly have way too many. So soon, maybe, it will be time for a new dog. But I’m not quite ready. I recognize this state of mind from the times when my dogs have found me. It is the state of mind that attracts dogs.
But all they really wanted was someone to foster Nell. The shelter is a tough place to be pregnant. So here Miss Nell is, with her head on my foot, and she seems very grateful to be out of the shelter’s noise. The boys don’t mind her, except when she steals their bones. We will work out a new routine for eating separately, exercise, and sleeping spots that incorporate the inevitability of puppies.
P wants to know if I am raising them for meat. No, P. They all go back to the shelter for new homes, Mother Nell included. She is a nice dog—sweet and pretty. She looks like a black flat coat retriever, with one white paw. I suppose she might grow on me, but she has that retriever neediness, not the quiet reserve punctuated by occasional goofiness that German shepherd owners are accustomed to. T is simply appalled. She had trouble even giving the shelter a reference for me, concerned as she was about my sanity.
After a few stressful weeks with the annual meeting and visitors and changing bosses, I have also reverted to my usual healthy diet. How funny it is that I sometimes only know I am stressed by what I am eating. I never eat fried foods. I never eat ice cream. When I start eating unhealthy things, it is a sign that I must be stressed, so I can go and look for the cause. Or I can just consciously revert to my preferred routine and watch stress fall away. Cool.
Routine, huh? How do puppies fit into routine? If there is anything the opposite of routine, it is puppies. I knew it was risky to go to the Animal League for a Chamber of Commerce mixer. There are dogs there. Cats, too, but we are not allowed to have cats. Max thinks cats are snacks.
I’m in that vulnerable place where I know my dogs are getting old. Toby is nine and Max is eleven. I like having three dogs, and I know that once you have four dogs, you suddenly have way too many. So soon, maybe, it will be time for a new dog. But I’m not quite ready. I recognize this state of mind from the times when my dogs have found me. It is the state of mind that attracts dogs.
But all they really wanted was someone to foster Nell. The shelter is a tough place to be pregnant. So here Miss Nell is, with her head on my foot, and she seems very grateful to be out of the shelter’s noise. The boys don’t mind her, except when she steals their bones. We will work out a new routine for eating separately, exercise, and sleeping spots that incorporate the inevitability of puppies.
P wants to know if I am raising them for meat. No, P. They all go back to the shelter for new homes, Mother Nell included. She is a nice dog—sweet and pretty. She looks like a black flat coat retriever, with one white paw. I suppose she might grow on me, but she has that retriever neediness, not the quiet reserve punctuated by occasional goofiness that German shepherd owners are accustomed to. T is simply appalled. She had trouble even giving the shelter a reference for me, concerned as she was about my sanity.
Thursday, October 14, 2004
Light and Not-Light
These days I think a lot about light. On a literal level, there is less of it each day. My indoor therapy lamp seems to help with mood, but sitting under the lamp for an hour is a poor substitute for a two-mile walk complete with foliage approaching peak. This morning I couldn’t help myself. Late to work or not, I craved time outdoors and happily tramped up to the corner and back.
As I walked, I thought of my friends. I have become unabashedly Vermont-centric. When out of town visitors come, they tend to think we are excessive in our love for this place where we live. But everywhere I looked this morning, I waxed enthusiastic: the frosty fields, the foliage (well, really, it is exceptional), the composition of scenes of lake with cows and mountain backdrop. Is it boring when I go on like this?
In large part, what makes the view always breathtaking is the difference in light. The quality of the light changes with the different angles in different seasons, and the backdrop colors vary so dramatically from spring and summer’s myriad greens to splashy foliage to winter white that the view is—quite literally—always new. As the foliage approaches peak, light bounces off the yellows, not so much off the reds, and the very contours of the hills are transformed. With my visitor last week, I found myself saying again and again, “Look, just look at that.” While she appreciated the views, I don’t think she felt the awe that comes with repeated experience of the same vista in different lights. There is so much to look at here.
Light and shadow have long been themes for writers more accomplished than I. My old favorite, Mikhail Bulgakov’s The Master and Margarita springs to mind. If I tell you that it is about the devil’s visit to Moscow, the crucifixion, and the story of a novelist imprisoned by Stalin, that probably doesn’t do much to make it sound readable, but it is. Bulgakov’s use of plot is surpassed only by his use of imagery, with light and darkness predominant.
The image at the end of Pontius Pilate, his sins forgiven, being led up a beam of moonlight has staying power long after the book is closed. You remember Pontius Pilate. He washed his hands of making the decision to crucify Yeshua, the name for Bulgakov’s distinctly human Jesus figure. Pilate’s sin was to fail to choose between fighting for light or fighting on the side of darkness.
Let’s get one thing straight. This is not about being on the winning side—right can lose, often does lose. It is also not about finding the silver lining, a wimpy way of saying “Oh well, I didn’t really care,” handwashing after the fact. Most important, it is about recognizing that the light does not exist without the darkness and that both are within us. It is about trying to find where the light leads us, but looking hard at shadow and contour.
In Vermont, in this season of not-light and changing contours, we get new angles on the world. But in any season and from any latitude, we have the obligation to choose between fighting for light or fighting on the side of darkness.
As I walked, I thought of my friends. I have become unabashedly Vermont-centric. When out of town visitors come, they tend to think we are excessive in our love for this place where we live. But everywhere I looked this morning, I waxed enthusiastic: the frosty fields, the foliage (well, really, it is exceptional), the composition of scenes of lake with cows and mountain backdrop. Is it boring when I go on like this?
In large part, what makes the view always breathtaking is the difference in light. The quality of the light changes with the different angles in different seasons, and the backdrop colors vary so dramatically from spring and summer’s myriad greens to splashy foliage to winter white that the view is—quite literally—always new. As the foliage approaches peak, light bounces off the yellows, not so much off the reds, and the very contours of the hills are transformed. With my visitor last week, I found myself saying again and again, “Look, just look at that.” While she appreciated the views, I don’t think she felt the awe that comes with repeated experience of the same vista in different lights. There is so much to look at here.
Light and shadow have long been themes for writers more accomplished than I. My old favorite, Mikhail Bulgakov’s The Master and Margarita springs to mind. If I tell you that it is about the devil’s visit to Moscow, the crucifixion, and the story of a novelist imprisoned by Stalin, that probably doesn’t do much to make it sound readable, but it is. Bulgakov’s use of plot is surpassed only by his use of imagery, with light and darkness predominant.
The image at the end of Pontius Pilate, his sins forgiven, being led up a beam of moonlight has staying power long after the book is closed. You remember Pontius Pilate. He washed his hands of making the decision to crucify Yeshua, the name for Bulgakov’s distinctly human Jesus figure. Pilate’s sin was to fail to choose between fighting for light or fighting on the side of darkness.
Let’s get one thing straight. This is not about being on the winning side—right can lose, often does lose. It is also not about finding the silver lining, a wimpy way of saying “Oh well, I didn’t really care,” handwashing after the fact. Most important, it is about recognizing that the light does not exist without the darkness and that both are within us. It is about trying to find where the light leads us, but looking hard at shadow and contour.
In Vermont, in this season of not-light and changing contours, we get new angles on the world. But in any season and from any latitude, we have the obligation to choose between fighting for light or fighting on the side of darkness.
Wednesday, October 06, 2004
Slow down
"Put off taking action for a while and turn inward. You're in touch with your deepest feelings right now, so it's a golden opportunity to figure out what you're really looking for."
Another horoscope that works, if not every day, then for many days. These days drive frantic activity, the pursuit of the last rays of sunshine, the last few ergs of warmth, the last foot candles of light before the sun goes away. We talk about the weather every day, but in these crisp, bright autumn days, it is with reverence. We soak up the good days, and as for the bad days, there really are few.
But the calendar is relentless. First frost varies depending on microclimate. People on the mountains have had theirs long since, and last night we had our first real frost. Much of last night, they were haying the field across the road. The radio station is phasing out the lawn and garden report. And yesterday if you looked over toward Mount Mansfield, you could see the first snow sparkling on the peak.
“It’s comin’!” exclaimed my friend in the auto shop. The light in her eyes spoke of even crisper days working the snowmobiles. A few more months, and she will be weary of too many cars sliding off roads, fuel bills that are too high, and all the shadow side of winter. For now, there is excitement, anticipation and joy.
This time of year is treacherous for me. I get a new boss every year, and no matter how congenial, there is always a transition. The retreat of sunlight appears to affect me badly, so I am trying light therapy. Stay tuned…I just got the lamp yesterday. Meanwhile, I have enjoyed obeying my doctor’s prescription that I get outdoors at midday. It is an odd sensation, leaving behind pressing projects to go outdoors and walk.
What happens? I get perspective on the pressing projects, or on my attitude toward them. I stretch both muscles and worldview. I come back rested and richer. Why do I have to relearn this every single day? Wouldn’t you think I would get it after some large number of repetitions of the very same experience?
I have friends—mostly men—who are dedicated to routine exercise. I envy their ability to make a priority of storing up reserves. By taking care of themselves, they create a strength and focus that they can bring to bear on whatever other priorities they choose. There is a lesson there for all the rest of us, if we could only choose to learn it.
This time of year, it is easy to get out in the sunshine, to enjoy nature’s colorful display. Maybe I can learn the lesson this week that slowing down is the right way to figure out what I’m really looking for and to strategize how to get there. Or at least, in the name of complying with doctor’s orders, I can delight in these spectacular days.
Another horoscope that works, if not every day, then for many days. These days drive frantic activity, the pursuit of the last rays of sunshine, the last few ergs of warmth, the last foot candles of light before the sun goes away. We talk about the weather every day, but in these crisp, bright autumn days, it is with reverence. We soak up the good days, and as for the bad days, there really are few.
But the calendar is relentless. First frost varies depending on microclimate. People on the mountains have had theirs long since, and last night we had our first real frost. Much of last night, they were haying the field across the road. The radio station is phasing out the lawn and garden report. And yesterday if you looked over toward Mount Mansfield, you could see the first snow sparkling on the peak.
“It’s comin’!” exclaimed my friend in the auto shop. The light in her eyes spoke of even crisper days working the snowmobiles. A few more months, and she will be weary of too many cars sliding off roads, fuel bills that are too high, and all the shadow side of winter. For now, there is excitement, anticipation and joy.
This time of year is treacherous for me. I get a new boss every year, and no matter how congenial, there is always a transition. The retreat of sunlight appears to affect me badly, so I am trying light therapy. Stay tuned…I just got the lamp yesterday. Meanwhile, I have enjoyed obeying my doctor’s prescription that I get outdoors at midday. It is an odd sensation, leaving behind pressing projects to go outdoors and walk.
What happens? I get perspective on the pressing projects, or on my attitude toward them. I stretch both muscles and worldview. I come back rested and richer. Why do I have to relearn this every single day? Wouldn’t you think I would get it after some large number of repetitions of the very same experience?
I have friends—mostly men—who are dedicated to routine exercise. I envy their ability to make a priority of storing up reserves. By taking care of themselves, they create a strength and focus that they can bring to bear on whatever other priorities they choose. There is a lesson there for all the rest of us, if we could only choose to learn it.
This time of year, it is easy to get out in the sunshine, to enjoy nature’s colorful display. Maybe I can learn the lesson this week that slowing down is the right way to figure out what I’m really looking for and to strategize how to get there. Or at least, in the name of complying with doctor’s orders, I can delight in these spectacular days.
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