Blogging about Not Blogging

In case the few of you who follow my blog haven't noticed, I haven't posted a new topic in a really long time. At first I thought it might be writer's block, then that I just had nothing to say. None of that is true, however. I'm working on a new novel, so I'm obviously not blocked creatively, and I ALWAYS have plenty to say. The difference is my life is peaceful, no turbulent waters to toss me up high to those topics that filled my mind with meandering clouds before now.

Of course when I say "peaceful," I don't mean in the traditional sense. We just adopted two dogs after our abject failure with Duke (who has happily found a new home with a couple--dog trainers--and is doing terrific). Our new pups are nine-month-old German Shepherds and they like to eat furniture, paper, clothing, and socks, and not necessarily in that order. I'm home with them alone most days, and sometimes I feel like I'm losing my mind. But the waters aren't turbulent enough to lift me up to lofty heights of thought, and so I'm just down here on a relatively normal level, and gearing up for the Holidays.

I can really count my blessings right now. My niece is ten months old and we're great friends. Despite the dogs, I've been enjoying my sister's company at Starbucks every other day or so, and reveling in my life with Jim, for which I'm so grateful. The rest of my family is coming for Thanksgiving, and also Jim's family, and my cup will runneth over on that night if I may be so cliche. My opinions on issues are not so passionate these days. Does this mean I'm winding up things here at my blog? Maybe. I don't need to express myself in this way right now, although it may come back. I'll leave it where it stands and if anything jumps up and grabs me, you can bet I'll be back with something to say. Until then, blessings on you all.

Letting Go on Claytor Lake

Letting go.

That phrase/idea carries such a negative connotation, but today it bears addressing for me.  Apparently I have amassed a few things that desperately need to be let go. But being me, I can’t just let my issues go with a wave of th hand and move on. Oh, that’s in the past, don’t think about it anymore, move on. No, not I. I have to make this kind of relinquishing a ritualistic occasion, so I dream up a scenario that I can return to when I'll inevitably try to exhume the issues/memories I’ve already released.  This day-dream picture comes to me in such crystalline detail, I know I’ve chosen the right place to let these things drift from my hands.

I picture myself at twilight by Claytor Lake, the Virginia lake where I played every summer as a child, and on this occasion I’m on Uncle C.O.’s beach, alone, with no sense of urgency, but one of purpose. The days of swimming and splashing and building sand castles on this beach have passed. My reasons for being here are adult in the way I used to dread as a child, but this is life, the life I sensed would come when I floated on a raft on the lake and thought about the impossible future.

No one is home at C.O.’s house; he passed away years ago and the house belongs to people I don't know. All the boats are docked for the day; everyone’s gone, busy with their own issues; I’m alone with mine. The surface of the lake is so calm, the ducks floating near the mossy concrete wall by the dock barely undulate on its surface.

The pebbles crunch beneath my knees and the water laps just inches from me as I reach into my Bag of Memories and Issues for the first thing that needs to be let go. Bowling Green in Kentucky. Without thinking too hard, I cup it in my hands and let the water flood in and float it away. I’ve wallowed in my feelings about Bowling Green too long; they’ve started to turn, to paint themselves an un-pretty brown in my mind for the way they affect what I’m trying to do in my life now. I can no longer hold onto Bowling Green.

In the far, far distance a boat motor echoes on the breeze, but here on Uncle C.O.’s beach, I’m in a personal cathedral of stillness, in the midst of a ritual. Next I withdraw the memories of a handful of people, some still here, and some long gone, and gently submerge them in the water instead of drowning them. Some of them might deserve to be drowned, but I remember I’m simply trying to let go of issues and memories that do more harm to me than good. Let them go gently into the water, I think, because no doubt they’re hauling around their own issues, and God forbid I might be one. Sometimes I'm sure I must be one. I know my part in things. I have to wiggle my fingers to disengage from these people, from their faces and the sound of their voices, but eventually they let go, I let go, and they float beneath the surface.

A wave laps in too close to my knees and soaks my jeans. I’m not thinking about the seeping damp, but about the memories that have too long been issues, the ones I’ve just released into Claytor Lake. My bag feels lighter. I withdraw the memory of my father and look at it a long time before I slide it back where it was. I can’t let that issue go to the lake; it’s too much a part of me. Another way will come to me in which I can find peace over what I missed without him. He will always be with me, though;not an issue, but a gift.

Next come memories of anger and hurt, humiliation and disappointment. They have served me so poorly. I don’t just release them into the water, I anchor them down with rocks so they can’t find their way back to the surface. They leave a vestige in me, a faint bitter taste, but the brunt of them will remain beneath those rocks, and I will move on.

The sun is setting, and here come the mosquitos. (Yes, it’s summer in my scenario, which is ironic for those of you who know me.) I’m almost done. Reaching a last time inside my bag, I feel the velvety secrets in my fingers, and for all their actual  lack of impressiveness, they carry a surprising weight, almost more than the other issues I’ve released. Yet they’ve been precious; they make me who I am, at least in part. I pick through them and let go the ones that haunt me. I keep very few. I’m a person with my face to the sun. Secrets feed the clouds that try to creep in.

That’s it. No one can entirely empty his bag of issues and agonies, so I’ve left an integral few for now. I brush off and take a long, last look at the lake that I love so well. I don’t know when I’ll see it again. When I leave, I always feel I've left a part of myself behind.

This time it’s true, and it’s right.

What's Really Going On

Today I met up with a friend at Starbuck's whom I haven't seen in a long time. She's having a baby in a few months, and she looked so beautiful--that glowing, joyful, pregnant thing people talk about. I was happy just to sit and look at her, that's how gorgeous she was. My sister and her eight-month-old were there, and I tried to keep my niece distracted and happy so our friend and my sister could talk baby stuff. I'd be lying if I said I didn't feel a little left out, but they were talking about bottle brands and baby gadgets and other things I didn't understand. What I could understand was my niece, her smile, her gurgles, her love for me and mine for her. Sometimes I forget I'm The Guardian. I forgot for a while today, but after I got home with my mildly aching heart, I remembered one of the big purposes I serve in the world. I hope it doesn't sound conceited to say that you don't need to be a mom to know you'd make a great one. I'd be a great mom.

Anyway, at one point our friend asked me what was going on in my life, and all we ended up discussing was the motorcycle accident. Jim's back needs surgery pronto, and that ball starts rolling on Thursday when we go see the surgeon. I've joined a gym and am exercising my knees as much as they can take, but the nights are rough and I wake up a lot to dreams of having my kneecaps bludgeoned. Fun! It's hard to think about all the wonderful things that fill a life when your body parts are hurting, but in my most conscious state, I never forget my gratitude at still being here and the reasons why I'm still here--I believe there may be too many to count.

If I had my visit with my friend to do over, I'd tell her what was happening in my life besides fall-out from the accident. For example, I really do love the gym. It's the first place I think of to go when I feel blue. I should have joined a long time ago. Also, I would discuss looking at puppies, which Jim and I have been talking about (not yet doing, however--maybe the search will begin in earnest after Christmas). I'm always open to people's opinions about dogs. I would tell my friend about the awesome writing conference I'm attending at the end of September and how excited I am to tour some big ol' plantations with my girlfriends while we're on the road. I would let her know how insane with joy I am that autumn is coming, despite the 120-degree heat index we had today (can you BELIEVE that?). I would have told her about my recent trip to Virginia, about the fascinating and obscure places I visited, like historic Sachs Bridge in Gettysburg, PA, and Rock Creek Cemetery in search of ancestors. I would have told her how much I love having my mom come for a visit, and how, when I visited her, Mom went out of her way to make sure I saw and did all the things on my list that I'd planned. I love my mom so, so much.  That much love keeps the earth spinning. My earth.

To wind things up here, I took a paltry amount of photos of some of the things mentioned above if anyone wants to know what's really going on in my life...and while that's really more than graveyards, bridges and babies, currently I find these a most compelling mixture.

Rock Creek

Battlefield Road

Rock Creek

Rock Creek

Rock Creek

Rock Creek

Sachs Bridge, Gettysburg, PA

Sachs Bridge

Sachs Bridge

View from Sachs Bridge

A Grandmother's Joy

Breathe and Think

Most people find graveyards depressing, and while I’m not quite there, I do think they’re beautiful, eerie, and melancholy, not just in idea, but in the wake of the emotions that have swirled around them, sometimes for centuries.  In the Victorian era, many cemeteries were set up like parks where people could stroll and visit their deceased loved ones while also reveling in the flora and fauna. Rock Creek Cemetery in Washington DC is one of these. Settled in the heart of the city, the sprawling graveyard is comprised of verdant rolling hills, poignant and exquisite sculpture, and for me and other insane genealogists, breadcrumbs to our never-ending searches.

While there, I was too busy trying to locate ancestral graves without headstones (insanity, I say!) to really focus on the statuary around me as much as I would have liked, but I did visit the Adams Memorial, an amazing mini-park of solace and meditation in the heart of Rock Creek. I don’t know much about it except that it’s a tribute to a woman who committed suicide, which makes it all the more misty to a writer like me. Here, for some reason, I could breathe. I could forget about everything happening beyond the maze of painstakingly manicured yew trees surrounding it. I could also better appreciate what I didn't forget on the other side of that garden. 

The daunting sculpture in the center of the memorial might run off a less foolhardy person, but truly, once you sit on the bench and take in the cool breeze, the sense of peace and the sweet sound of the birds, you understand why this particular cloaked figure was chosen to represent Mr. Adams' grief over his wife's untimely death. The sculpture is not meant to be ghostly, but contemplative, and perhaps to serve as an admonishment to think, think, think before you throw away a life steeped in beauty and love.

Ready for some Wassailing

Christmas is coming.

Well, in four months it is.  However, in order to lift myself out of the dog days of summer, I’ve already started to plan. This will be the first Christmas for my niece, and the first in three years that we’ll have my mom down here. I’ve started collecting the 1940’s and 50’s mercury glass ornaments—oh yes, the tacky ones—similar to my dad’s collection (we broke a lot of his through the years), and found a 1950’s color wheel on EBay, the kind with a noisy motor that you can’t touch because it will burn the heck out of you…the kind that you aim at a big, fluffy evergreen and watch the wall behind it turn blue, then meld into green, into yellow, into red… I remember our magical trees with a full heart. This joyous year I want to recreate that scene, that feeling, that warm glow when you turn out all the lights in the room and lie on the sofa (or the floor nearly under the tree, as I’m wont to do) and watch the sparkle and twinkle of tree lights reflected on the ornaments.

Today we have a 107-degree index outside, but not in four months. In four months (and a few more days) it will be a crisp, star-filled indigo night, and we’ll have a roaring fire in the fireplace which will only die down after everyone has imbibed in eggnog and mulled wine and stumbled off to bed. Then I’ll get up and come out to put on soft Christmas music for my ears only, and it will play through the blessed night. I’ll watch the tree sparkle in the dark and the slow dying of the fire, and I’ll bask in the echo of laughter and the anticipation of the next day. The gifts under the tree are wonderful, always in gluttonous amounts, but I’ll be most excited about what I’ve wrapped up for my family and friends. I usually give gifts that I myself would like, which they say are the best kind to give (unless you’re Jim, in which case it should always be something that radiates testosterone).

I’m getting ahead of myself, and not because I’m talking about Christmas now, but because I haven’t yet covered what I do in the kitchen starting at Thanksgiving.  I always make about 20 batches of tollhouse cookies for which there are no words. On this, yes, I shall pat myself on the back. I also make hand-painted sugar and gingerbread cookies (see my Facebook Cookie Hell photo album) and pumpkin bread, whose recipe I have copied below because you have to try it. Do it. In four months, I mean.

I like to hand-stamp my own wrapping paper when I have the time and make my own bows. I also make at least two or three wreaths as gifts, my favorite being the Williamsburg Della Robbia kind with the apples and pineapples (use fake in Florida if you hate fruit flies). As for decorating, I’ll have something in every room this year. You know those wonderful hand-made dolls by the Byers’ Choice company?  If not, look them up. They embody the Holidays. Byers’ Choice makes hundreds of different kinds. I favor the Williamsburg figurines. They all have little “o” mouths that look like they’re singing—even the dogs. My Auntie Mame turned me onto them those as a child, and she left her collection to me when she passed away. Every year I put them out, even on the Christmases we’re not here.

I’ve got a nervous feeling I’m boring some people, so I’ll wind this up. In closing I’d like to remind everyone with great glee that the winter Holidays are closer than you think, and never close enough for this Yankee-hearted girl. Now go make this pumpkin bread and share it. Everyone will love you.

Down East Maine Pumpkin Bread (from All Recipes website)

1 15-oz. can of pumpkin (not pie filling)

4 eggs

½ cup melted butter

½ cup vegetable oil

2/3 cup water

1 tsp. vanilla

1 cup brown sugar (light)

2 cups white sugar

3-1/2 cups all-purpose flour

2 tsp. baking soda

1-1/2 tsp. salt

1 tsp. ground cinnamon

1 tsp. ground nutmeg

Scant ½ tsp. ground cloves

¼ tsp. Ground ginger

½ cup dried cranberries

1-1/2 cups chopped pecans

Preheat oven to 325 degrees. Spray 3- 7X3” aluminum loaf pans. In BIG bowl, mix pumpkin, eggs, butter, oil, water, vanilla, sugars. In separate bowl, whisk flour, baking soda, salt, cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves and ginger.  Stir dry ingredients into pumpkin mixture until just blended. Pour into pans.  Bake one hour before checking; lower heat to 300 degrees and bake until skewer inserted in middle comes out clean. You might need to tweak the baking time/temp. according to your oven.

Clouds

When things go wrong, why do we call them “trying times?” What in particular is being tried? Our patience? Our tolerance to pain and anguish? Our management of disappointment and sadness?  In the last week, my whatevers are being tried.  Medical bills are dumping on our heads from the accident in April (Jim takes it all in stride while I’m freaking),  Jim needs surgery on his back RIGHT NOW because of the accident, and you know how much fun that’s going to be for the poor man; and our new dog (whom we named Duke but then changed to Wiley, for Wile E. Coyote, because he is much too doofy for a serious name like Duke) isn’t fitting into our household.  And trust me—it takes a LOT of behavioral problems to not fit into our household. What makes it so awful is the fact that Wiley’s such a sweet boy, he truly is, but he needs a much firmer, more skilled trainer than Jim or I know how to be. We have him doing the basics, but he needs specialized training, and with his hyper-intelligence, probably some kind of job. He should be a service dog, not a cuddly pet.  And I’m supposed to be a writer, not a giant chew toy. I’m supposed to be flesh-toned, not black and blue and scratched up. I’m supposed to be level and calm, not crying at the thought that I’m a crappy dog owner. Everything seems big and scary to me right now, including my new dog. I miss Buster. I miss last year and any time other than now.

Has anyone seen that commercial for some supplemental depression drug for people already on medication, where the depressed person is walking around with a dark cloud following close behind? When he takes the advertised medicine, voila! The cloud backs up a little so the person has some distance from it. Not much, but a little. The damn cloud is still there, roiling and threatening, but the person looks all relieved to have a few more feet between it and him. That commercial kills me. Here’s this drug that will move your depression a few more feet away, but there it still is, lurking not far behind you…ridiculous! A total advertising failure. The cloud needs to GO AWAY, I say!  What good is a drug that only half works when you feel like crap? This really has nothing to do with my topic except it all falls under the heading of irritability and whining. Plus that commercial was on TV just now.

Anyway, it’s August, summer is almost over, and soon autumn, my favorite season, will bring cooler days and the holidays I love most, Halloween and Thanksgiving. It's impossible not to be bouyant then. I do have things to look forward to. Soon the rough spots will be behind me and I’ll feel like writing happy blog posts again, or at least prudent ones. But today…call me a hypocrite…I’m going to say those dreaded words…I WILL BE SO DAMNED GLAD WHEN THIS YEAR IS OVER!!

His Name is Duke...

...and he's ours.