Category Archive

Yesterday was Bloomsday. I remember my first attempt at reading Ulysses, carrying the book like a schoolgirl, close, and trying to hold onto the wildly accumulating words long enough for my brain to grasp some meaning in them. It was a long process for me, one that took place over years, not months. So, I recognized the words with sadness as Garrison Keillor read that passage yesterday on NPR’s Writer’s Almanac. He read, just before 9am, my coffee in the cup holder, while I was on my way to work.

No, no: these words are not for busy mornings. The inappropriateness is not so much that they are wonderful, gushing words, but they are the last of them in that novel. Their images, so full and inviting, made me long yesterday. For what? Damn. I had just fixed my face, just got ready. Damn bleary eyes. I hate these endings, knowing that words you read for the first time will never come back again in the same way, knowing that the next book will not be as satisfying, and with a long, difficult book, I hate leaving it after all that. Well…

It is also that time of year, when school ends with a flurry–no, a blizzard–of activity, with too much to do, far too much to do. And everyone else is rushing, too, just to make it to that end.

I always hate the end, hate the goodbyes, hate the disruption, the worries of how to manage time, manage children, how I can work and make things work. I hate not seeing the people who make life work for us, with us, during the rest of the year. I miss them. I miss the familiarity of the year, the schedule, the routine, and the surprises tucked beneath it all. It abruptly stops.

I wonder what this end will mean this year. It has been a year full of change already, and letting go of yet more feels so unwieldy. I wonder what will happen. I wonder…

And yet, this year, I want change.

It became all too apparent during the last week that life as I know it now is not the life I want to lead. I worked hard, which usually feels good. But this time, work seemed more of an escape than an accomplishment; too much to do felt like an excuse. Maybe days were too long, too little time spent with the things and the people that mean the most to me. I came out of it all feeling that the sacrifice was not a means to a better end for all of us. Money in the bank, eventually, perhaps, but at what cost?

The work is good, in theory–in practice, too, for the most part. I believe in it, and wish to do more in my role there, to make a difference. Maybe we all do. We all tend to wonder in frustrating moments where that fulfilling life is. It has long been my stoic family’s way to chastise dreamchasers… and yet, the absence of meaning has nearly destroyed me at times. So, when my coworker suggested that I may need to cut back hours this summer, or figure out ways to work from home more, I was surprised. There is always too much to do in the office. But then there is life, too.

Hearing those words from Ulysses, too, I realize that the sadness came from the overflowing sensuality that I long for, if only just a little. I long not for all of it, not for “the queer little streets and the pink and blue and yellow houses and the rose gardens and the jessamine and geraniums and cactuses and Gibraltar”, but I do crave the yes.

Oh, yes, this year has felt like such a year of no. I find myself clinging to endings, but now letting go, releasing the pain and frustrations, at least just a bit. Yes, I maybe do want pink and blue and yellow houses, and gardens, and yes, maybe I do want even more than I let myself wish for. Oh yes! I do crave the yes.

The peonies (the self-bought version, alas) were full, round buds when I went to bed last night. They smelled good, but you never know how supermarket flowers are going to fare. The birthday bunch was none too satisfying, but I am never one to give up hope too easily. I stuck the buds in a vase and traipsed off to dreamland, exhausted at the prospect of the busy work day ahead.

This morning, lit by clear sunshine spilling through my dining room windows, the flowers were open: beautiful and naked.

And I caught them! Happy Thursday, everyone.

Mr. Bunny is going to be disappointed… or more likely, my kids are going to be sad not to see Mr. Bunny hopping around our backyard jungle. Why?

The jungle is gone. Anticipating today’s heat wave and the mosquitoes that normally come with it, I woke up early to pull the lawn mower out of the garage for the first time this year.

I realize it’s a little late, but if you saw my yard, you would understand how I have gotten away with not cutting the grass all spring. There is practically no grass. The yard itself is small, but not tiny, and it should have grass. Instead, it is a mixture of sand, rocks, mulched leaves, pine needles, and weeds. Oh…. and legos. Lately, though, the weeds have gotten a little high, providing nourishment for the rabbits, but a big, buggy mess for me. The time to cut had come.

Over the past several years, I have developed a thing for power tools. They come in handy for projects, and there is something almost cathartic about cutting things down, or blowing them away, making holes in them, sanding them smooth. I am a year older and wiser now, and I have started buying my own peonies again, and have more or less given up on the idea of finding true love. So, in the spirit of do-it-yourselfness, I find myself enjoying these little moments of accomplishment more than I resent them, much to the disbelief of my mom and brother. It is true that they were the ones watching This Old House while I headed out the door on whatever night that show was on, but I did absorb a few things. Or at least, I have Google.

I didn’t need Google or This Old House just to mow the lawn. For one thing, I never recall a discussion of lawn mowing, or the importance of removing legos from the yard before mowing. Amazing how big a bruise those little plastic bricks can make! I finished, and swept up (could not justify getting out the leaf blower). I scraped more paint off the front porch (which is almost ready for the new coat). A shovel (or the leaf blower) may have been a more appropriate tool than a broom in my daughters’ room. Nonetheless, the past-due book (Roald Dahl’s The Twits, if you are curious) has been recovered, and no one will be hiding in the school bathroom during library this week.

It is after 10:00 on a warm Saturday night, and I find myself self-sufficient, happy to have a fresh-cut yard, a few loads of laundry folded, a shoveled-out room, groceries in the kitchen. I am happy, but also a little… Well, words escape me. I love my house, love my kids, love life.

But really, is this all there is? I do cherish the bunnies that hop into my yard, the delicious feeling of heat that overwhelms me, makes me feel lazy, and then invigorated when the cool shower water hits my face. I love the haze after rain lets loose unexpectedly, and the evening that becomes balmy.

Yes, I do love all these things, but somehow today I find myself noticing the absence of a smile returned, or a gesture offered. I miss kisses, words, laughter. I miss breaths, heartbeats, steps. I miss things I have never had, and maybe I miss things that do not exist. In all the busy days that run together with no time left for anything at all outside of the bare necessities of life, I find it hard to stop—there is always more to do—and I wonder again, is this really all there is?

I love this life, this beautiful, imperfect life.. if only to know it, to wallow in it… but yes, I need more than power tools and a never-ending list of things to do. Passion, trust, fun… I want these things, too. I need them. And resignation never got me more than … resigned. Well, I am not quite ready to give in to cynicism.

Tomorrow is a new week.

Against my own resolutions, I bought myself peonies. They are hot pink, and not yet open, full of the promises of the coming year.

It is a new year, a new number, full of the hope and empowerment that do-it-yourself projects like window repairs can bring. I see through a clear pane of glass now, a bit more protected, and no longer avoiding the jagged edges that I had simply covered with a board. I can see, and the window can be broken again without the helplessness I felt before. Repair is possible. Only… would I want to do that again?

At the end of 2007, I said I would not buy myself flowers. With a new sense of self-sufficiency, I wonder if I should amend my previous thoughts. Peonies are in bloom now, as they always are right about now, and I need them. I need the beauty, and I want the things I wanted when I wanted flowers to be given to me. Only… those things are not in my control. It would be much nicer not to want. Or would it?

It has been a year of heartbreak and hereafters. Perhaps I have worn my heart on my sleeve too much, allowing myself to be an open target for criticism or misuse. I have indeed been criticized, but praised sometimes, too. As for the misuse… well, that was a bit harder to bear.

Still, I have met special people in the past year, and learned many things about myself, about the world. There are still so many wonderful souls wandering, and a world still left to find. Love remains, in children, but also in hopes. And perhaps once, there will be some safe place, visible in the distance, so I can take my sails down, coast in, throw an anchor. It is no island I seek, but a protected harbor on the edge of life, a warm harbor full of lights and sounds and spices and splendor. A good place.

But for now, I’ll enjoy my peonies, and the new summer sun. I will navigate through the waves and wind, and also through still waters, quiet moments left just to watch the stars.

“Heavenly shades of night are falling,” indeed.

I am shivering, holding onto a cup of hot tea on my back step, spoiled after the summer like conditions that woke up the trees this week.

It is quiet here, a different house without movement or voices, but nice for one evening.

Just before I took this picture, the neighborhood was cast in dramatic shadows, as the sun peeked out from behind clouds that have now disappeared. The sun has gone now, too, and this light is all that remains of the day. The leaves of the Japanese maple opened just a little today, promising more.

More. More spring, more warmth, more quiet, more voices, more love, more “rendezvous beneath the blue,” more you, whoever you are, wherever you are, more.

Spring. Yes, it is here, really here, in full bloom, literally, making me wonder if. If ever.

It is supposed to be just talking, just talking, and then, it is not. We are no longer talking, the room is warm, warmer than before, too warm—and yet, just right—and I know he is going to, think he is going to, want him to, am not sure (can anyone ever be really sure?) that I would want this to stop.

And yes, it would be wondrid and splenderful, and would it be too much like a teenager to say I would never wash again? Yes, of course it would, but it never hurts to think it.

It must be spring.

I love walking in the woods. I hesitate to call it hiking, because I’m rarely in search of a summit, or conquering some trail. I hesitate to call it birding, because I feel none of the obsession or competitive spirit that I associate with that particular pastime. My fascination is neither botanical in nature, even if I like trees and other plants, know some of their names. I just like the woods, and I always have. It started before I even remember, way back in the wilds near Route 66 as it winds through St. Louis.

Route 66 was a wondrous thing when I was younger, but its true appeal was not a Target, or a strip mall, or a subdivision—which is apparently what people (or a market survey group) wanted, or at least did not argue. It is largely that whole thought process—the apathy for special things—that made me leave St. Louis when I did. Not that it is really different in other places, but it felt so personal twenty years ago. The drive-in movie theater—the first movie I saw was there—gone to build a huge grocery store. Shopping galore, chain restaurants, anything unique obliterated by the brightly colored coziness of a ubiquitous logo—could we really need more? I hear things about my hometown, and they sound nice. Could it have changed now? Would I like it better now, or would I cringe at the thought of I sometimes wonder, but it is no longer my city.

When I was younger, though, one of the great things about riding a bike down 66, or Laclede Station (which ran next to it) was that in the hot St. Louis summers, there were many areas of shade. Full stretches of land were undeveloped, still wooded. That was my backyard.

The old binoculars were kept on the shelf of the hall closet, often not handy enough to catch a clear view of whatever bird was pecking or perching on the oak tree down the hill. Still, we looked. Birds were important, it was clear from early on, and a sighting of something unusual would often result in an exchange of ringing telephones.

“Look outside! The flickers are back,” our neighbor Jean used to call.

“Did you see the great barred last night?” my mom answered.

“Mama mallard is down in the creek,” we all noticed while out in the backyard.

Our house was set on a hill, an ordinary ranch with a walk-out basement to a small backyard on a terrace, then down the rest of the hill to the creek. Beyond the creek was a large, level wooded area, which we were not supposed to explore—a rule we respected for quite some time—but the creek was open for exploration.

The creek was rarely full of water, though it could fill quickly in a downpour (we were caught a few times on the wrong side of one of those). There were still areas that were usually wet, some great for wading, which was our main pastime before we were allowed to wander farther. There were interesting rocks, sand, fallen branches. It was a great playground, one that grew as we grew older. It wound around forever, it seemed, went under Laclede Station Road at some point, and on to Watson Road, which is Route 66. I once tried to follow it to the River Des Peres, because someone told me that’s where it went.

The woods behind the creek were private property, but it was understood after some time that no one would stop us from being there. A ways down, the creek leveled off, anyway, and wandering was irresistible. A dead tree covered in vines, endless ground cover all around, no houses anywhere in sight: the area invited birds of all sorts. It was a wonderland. I had my favorites. Flickers, wrens, the owl, the occasional pileated woodpecker. I could walk for hours, often did, often found myself heading off instead of doing homework, exploring until late at times, until dinner was ready, or it was getting dark, or until I absolutely had to be back. For some time, my cat came along. She was sort of a wild thing, never warmed up much the way the Siamese kitties always had, but she followed me like a dog through the trails.

For all the time in those woods, I rarely saw another person. Occasionally someone was throwing grass clippings from one of the bordering yards, or a few kids wandered on their own creek adventures, but it was after the era when the high schoolers were avidly seeking that much privacy in wooded areas—maybe the thorns and bugs didn’t go with pink and green. The wildflowers sprouting up in spring, the leaves in fall, the barren cold brush where birds still hid, my own dreams—they were a private oasis.

The owner of the property lived in the area, but not on it. At one time, my dad entertained the thought of buying part of it, but never did. Instead, the owner eventually sold all of the land to a religious charitable organization—a move that sealed the land’s fate ultimately. It was developed, but despite (or maybe because of) the vehement opposition some residents expressed against the project, the cottages that were built were nowhere near as destructive to the woods as the budget castles and strip malls that popped up as land was clear cut on the other side of Laclede Station. I imagine, actually (and it astounds me to hear myself say this, as much as I disliked the idea of development at all), that those cottages are quite wonderful, surrounded as they still are by the trees and birds.

I am far, far from those days now, but woods still call me, birds do, trees do. I don’t have woods in my backyard now, but I find places, anyway—it is vital!—places to wander, explore, to remember and regenerate: places simply to rejoice the world and all its small and everyday wonders.

A couple of weeks ago, I was at Trader Joe’s to replenish our supply of milk, cereal, and honey-roasted peanuts, when I saw them peeking out between the bouquets of holly and pine branches, white roses, ivy, mistletoe, and poinsettias: peonies!—pale pink, tightly closed, and remarkably out of season.

I looked at the price, nine dollars, picked out the nicest bunch, and put them in my basket. It was a little splurge, just for me, something to brighten my home, which would be quiet for several days. I looked again at the bouquet. A few of the outer leaves were already brown and curled on the edges. The leaves were pretty tired looking.

I put the flowers back, and walked across the aisle to grab a box of Joe’s Os.

The New Year is upon us, and as we are all wont to do as December ends, I am pondering my existence and what I can do to make it—me—better. Many articles are published on this subject every year about this time, right next to the lists of famous people who have died, and the countdowns of top songs.

It must also be a big time for self-help book sales. You know those books you see—especially if you are a woman—that tell you about taking care of yourself and doing nice things just for you, because you are so overwhelmed by taking care of everyone else and really deserve to have a week in a spa, a personal shopper and a nice meal cooked by someone else?… Oprah often reminds us that self-pampering is nice, and one particular bit of advice I have tried taking from her from time to time is to stop waiting for a man to send me flowers and just buy them myself.

Well, after years of buying my own flowers, I have to say that this advice is crap.

Now, that is not the only reason that I put back the peonies at Trader Joe’s. In fact, I do love peonies, and I’ve grown them when I’ve had gardens. When I’m lucky, they bloom around my birthday, and then, I do buy them for myself. The screen in my bedroom has them all over, off-white, pink, even yellow, and most beautiful, deep red ones, signs of prosperity and good luck, love, healing. Some fairly convincing fake peonies sit stylishly in a long rectangular vase on the floor in my hall. Open my front door. There, at the bottom of the stairs—those are peonies, too. Sure, I would love to have real ones, and this time of year—what a treat that would be! But not like this.

Rarity does not equal beauty. And just because the supply goes down doesn’t mean my demand goes up. It just means that I wait for the right time, unless they are something truly special. Now, it may be true that these particular flowers would have released their perfume and charm when they opened, but it just didn’t seem likely. In fact, what I saw when I looked at them just made me sad: supermarket flowers to feed the commercial interests that mark the season. Not even a Chinese empress could force these flowers to bloom in winter. Why should I?

To every thing there is a season…

And then, there is the other factor… the part about Oprah’s questionable advice.

I do believe that waiting around for someone else to make your life for you is a really bad idea. Live, live for yourself, just live! Yes, I do believe that. I do, and I fill it with the things that mean a lot to me, and I do want to be better, and do more. But buying my own peonies?

Really, all those times I went ahead and filled my vases with beautiful flowers I bought for myself, I really did wish that I had someone to thank them for, someone, someone who knew me well enough to know the thing about the peonies, someone who cared enough to waste the money on something beautiful that is already dying, something fleeting, something frivolous, something totally and utterly impractical… for absolutely no reason at all. Buying peonies for myself just makes me wish I had not been the one to buy them, and wishing that does not make me feel pampered.

So, a garden I may grow, but I will no longer buy my own flowers. That is my resolution for this year. Telling myself that the flowers themselves are all I ever wanted… that just cannot be all there is to hope for. But dreams are not so bad, and I will not stop dreaming. That is my other resolution.

Ah, it is the end of this year, the beginning of new days, new dreams, new songs. To all of you, both the dreamers and you more practical and level-headed sorts, I wish you all the beautiful gifts of the year that follows.