We are listening to the radio, and the boy, who is no longer a baby, is sleeping.
Today, I roasted a chicken, and made the car fit into the garage. We are waiting for winter to begin, as it must. The little tasks are as done as they will be. The windows remain un-plasticated, but the hose is detached and coiled over my sagging bicycle in the garage, and there are milk and eggs and bread enough. Tonight, I am grateful for the house, sighing as the temperature slowly sinks. For the chicken in the pot, for fat, warm cats lounging around the living room. For the gas and electric and water and sewer and cable internet, still working. for the million, million little graces that make up my life. If you are reading this, chances are, you are somewhere safe enough, warm enough. Be glad of it, as the snow comes, and the wind and bitter cold. Martinmas is this week. Think of Martin, who cut his regulation-Roman cloak of heavy scarlet wool into two pieces with his sword, which probably scared the wits out of the shivering beggar in front of him. Martin, who stabbed his sword through the security and complacency of power and offered not only warmth, but humanity, and who saw the divine flame burning lighting through the skin of the beggar in his dreams that night.
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Maybe if I had read or watched Game of Thrones, I'd be better prepared for the winter they say is coming. In fact, they say it's coming tomorrow night. Weren't we just out, reveling in crimson and yellow-gold? Wasn't it just time for this? and now they are telling me to expect this: At least the boy has boots. My boots need repair. But it's the deep cold, and the dark, that I am afraid of. I feel unready. Maybe it's time to bake more bread and pies, and make kettles of soup, and knit up all the yarn. Or to tell stories. Come to the Linden Hills Farmers Market, Sundays at noon, and warm up with a story. I heard an awesome interview by Kerri Miller this summer with Dan Wilson, of Trip Shakespeare and Semisonic, in which he talked about how you have to do the work of artistic creation in order to make anything. You don't only work when inspired, but you work, and maybe, if you're lucky, you're in the studio when the muse shows up. (He says a lot of good stuff here).
I'm here, writing. Every night. Ugh, it's hard. There's no uninterrupted time; I have multiple jobs and a family and there are PILES of laundry downstairs. I'm not complaining now, just naming the excuses that my little brain tries to serve me, but as Elizabeth Gilbert said recently, your excuses are boring. My excuses are boring. Let's talk about all the reasons we can't make art. Can't tell stories. Can't paint. Blah blah blah blah. make like a 90's Nike ad and Do It. They have their own stories and struggles.
no one wants to hear how tired you are, how late you were up, how the baby wouldn't sleep, how work was hard, or just long. No one really wants to hear about your aching feet, or head, or heart. Unless. Unless you are willing to punch through the tired, the ache, into the source, into the deep human longing. Pull back the tight-wound layers of it all, the election, the dishes, the words bitten back, the ones you regret, and take a moment to tell me what the moon looks like tonight. tell me about your anger, or your sorrow, or your need for something you can't quite name. It's so much more than tired. No one wants to hear they want too much to see, to touch, to hold. to hold you up. to hold your hand. to hold on when you are so ready to let go. I'm tired of battle metaphors. I want a metaphor of building. less tearing, less fighting, less struggle. No one wants to hear how tired you are. I want a soft pillow, and a gentle hand, and strengthening sleep, not just for me. for you, and for them, and for the person who made you angriest. Goodnight. Tomorrow, the sun will rise, and we will go on building. It's colder in Scotland than in England, or at least, it was when we took the train north together. I was spending my junior year of college at Oxford, and my mother flew out to visit me after Christmas. It was a visit I look back on and wonder at -- it was that year that literally changed my life, the best year of college, the year of self-discovery and adventure, and my mom took the long plane trip over the ocean to visit me during the ten months I was away. My grandmother had left her some money, and she was determined to enjoy that trip to the fullest. I met her at Paddington Station, full of confidence in my understanding of the UK after three months of living in the terrace house in Marlborough Road. The first night, we stayed in a student-rate hotel in Belgravia or something like that, and I don't think either of us slept a wink. We saw Cirque du Soleil in the Albert Hall. She got to hear me sing in the chorus for Mozart's Requiem at St. Martin in the Fields. We toured the Tower. A dear friend was in England, visiting family, and had extra days left on her BritRail pass. When she headed home, she gave us the pass. What does one do with free time, some inherited cash, and free rail travel? One goes to Scotland, to Glasgow. It was my mother's second trip to Scotland, my first. We arrived at night, but it could have been late afternoon. It's dark in January in Scotland. We found a hotel, settled in for the night, and planned our adventure. We had a few days before I had to be back for the start of term, when she'd meet my friends and choir mates and drink with us in the college bar and endear herself to everyone. I can see our visit in flashes -- the extravagant meal in a beautiful restaurant, rose pouchong tea surrounded by Charles Rennie Mackintosh design, the dark stone of the cathedral -- but what came back to me full force this weekend as I listened to the Battlefield Band on Prairie Home Companion, was that we attended a concert with bagpipes and fiddles and a full orchestra. I think it was Phil Cunningham's Highlands and Islands Suite, maybe? I don't know for sure. All I know is that the moment when the band fell away and the pipes took over, that characteristic change of rhythm from skipping to skirling, sounding through my car's stereo on Saturday made me break down in sobs, as January, 1997, slammed back into my mind. Funny, though, that it was that memory, and not the dozens of other times we listened to the pipes together. Mom loved bagpipes; we shared that love. I was glad to find a piper for her funeral last spring. How could we send her onto the Low Road, without the sound of mourning and battle and victory and longing that the pipes have? My mother's birthday is this Saturday. My stepdad is hosting a dinner in her honor, and some of us who loved her will gather and eat and drink and laugh and cry. She was loved by, and loved, so many -- there were not enough chairs in the funeral chapel for everyone who came to her funeral -- and I wish I could call her and ask about that concert. Instead, I guess I'll buy a recording of the Highlands and Islands Suite, and let the music carry me back again to the darkness of midwinter Glasgow, and to the brilliant light and warmth of my mother's love. going to hot yoga, like writing, is a lot harder to do when you haven't gone in a while. inertia exists.
also, it's very hot at hot yoga. and it''s okay to stop, and lie down on your mat. yep. totally ok. all this is a metaphor for writing, except it's also really about yoga. It's happening. I'm getting excited to write. I found myself thinking today, "Yes. I will share this. And this. And this."
Because I am beginning to feel the urge again, and I love it. "A writer writes." So often, I have taken this as a tsk-tsk, how dare you call yourself a writer if you don't write?! But now, it feels like permission. I am writing. Ergo, I am a writer; you, if you write, are a writer. We write. We are writers. And I have permission to do it HORRIBLY! So do you. What shall I share with you? Today, I made delicious Golden Milk, green juice, grilled cheese sandwiches, and toad-in-the-hole. The Sugar Sprite took away a pumpkin full of candy and left two books. I read almost half of this book by Seanan McGuire. I brought a photo of my mom holding my son when he was hours old, and placed it on the table at the front of the church. I enjoyed this doodle. The desire to share all of this with you has been immense, and I am delighted to know you are there, and reading, and living. What did you do today? Halloween was magical and lovely. We fell in with a newly-discovered group of neighbors with little boys who live on the other side of the block, and my Wild Kratt Bat joyfully demanded treats from every house with a porchlight on, accompanied by Harry Potter, a soldier in desert camo, and a very sweet turtle. It was cold, the bat ears didn't make it more than a quarter of the way (darn that low-temp glue gun!), but there was CANDY at stake! That candy has been sorted now, examined, and considered. A small bag of chosen treats have been carefully saved, and the rest have gone to the Sugar Sprite. Sugar Sprite, also known as the Switch Witch or Halloween Fairy, collects children's treats and leaves a present in place of the goodies. Our Sprite then takes the candy and cooks it down into pure sugar syrup to sweeten the maple sap and provide the flowers with nectar for next year's bees. She tends to bring books to our house, but some families report a toy or game being left as a thank you for the candy. So, just in case you want to lessen the sugar load, she can visit any time she's needed. As for me, I feel a need to pay closer attention these days to what I'm eating myself. I find that there are evenings when I look back over the day, and I can't remember eating a vegetable or any non-dairy protein. On the worst days, I eat an entire bag of Lundberg's Brown Rice Cakes, and forget to eat dinner. Or lunch. Maybe Sugar Sprite needs to visit me, too. But what might she leave in place of my starchy crutches? What would she leave for you? What would she take? Perhaps the replacement will be real food, for me, and time to read and write. It's November, and you know that means NaBloPoMo! So, for my bloggy version of NaNoWriMo, I look forward to your comments and questions. What do you want to know about? Here is my renewed commitment to daily posts for the month. Also! More Storytelling is coming soon! I'm working on some downloadable stories, and local peeps will be able to catch me at the Linden Hills Winter Market and at Heartfelt's Preschool mornings. More info will be forthcoming... |
AuthorHi. That's me. I write, sometimes, about parenting, storytelling, and about living a life with stories. Categories
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