Zed

Here I am, at the end of the alphabet, and almost at the end of April. Like most every year when I take on the challenge of writing my way through the alphabet, I spend about half of the time feeling uninspired, and wanting to be done with the commitment. Then, suddenly, I’m at the end, and I realize I’ve wished my way through another month. What happened to April, and all the things I hoped to accomplish? Gone, already.

Counting this one, I have written 25 blogs this month. Some were pretty short, but I’ll count them anyway. With today and tomorrow not yet tallied in, I’ve walked twenty-six miles in April. That’s down from my previous monthly totals this year, but that’s okay. I have not ordered plants or seeds, nor stepped one foot into the garden to start the clean-up there. I haven’t gotten into the studio, either, to tackle any of the necessary tasks up there. Even my reading, which asks so little in terms of energy or commitment, has been neglected. I’ve been sick this month, and that has thrown everything off. I’m not a hundred percent yet, but I’m definitely doing better, and hope to be back to normal soon.

The weather, in April, on Beaver Island this year, has been all over the place. We’ve had high winds, and rain. We’ve had at least three days of significant snowfall. And there have been warm, sunny days when jackets could be set aside. The loons are back, on the inland lakes. I’ve seen the Sandhill cranes in the fields near our family farm. Wild leeks are pushing their green leaves up through last year’s leaf litter. Waves of snowdrops are blooming in my yard; in the woods, the trout lilies are just beginning to open.

Our ferry service, which operates from mid-April until the third week in December, has resumed. That means a better selection on our grocery shelves, and greater liveliness in the downtown area. Winter activities are wrapping up, and businesses are planning ahead for a busy summer. Winters progress, here on Beaver Island, very much like the month of April does for me. First, it seems like it will last forever, with time enough for all of my plans and every good intention. Then suddenly, it’s over.

Out here on the Fox Lake Road, this is a crucial time. There is a narrow window of opportunity between the time the snow melts, and the hatching of large swarms of mosquitoes and biting flies. This coincides with the small window of time between when I realize how quickly time is passing in relation to all the things I have yet to do, before business picks up and my second, summer job kicks in. This is the time, and I’d better not waste it!

Youth and Age

Okay, at almost the end of the alphabet, I’m cheating.

First, I’m skipping the letter X. I don’t think I need to explain that decision. X is a hard letter anyway, and the way the days of April work out this year, if I spent this day on X, I’d run out of the month before I got to Z. Not that Z is a particularly easy letter, either, but still. The decision has been made.

Second, I’m serving up a poem, rather than writing a blog. I’m tired; I’m still getting over this sickness; I’ve had a long day. And, when I remembered that I still hadn’t published a blog today, I had already taken my night-time medicine, including melatonin and cough syrup in the “PM” variety. So, I’m too sleepy to be sensible.

E.B. White is one of my favorite writers. I enjoy his children’s stories, sure, but my favorite things are the essays and sweet, simple poems that he wrote for the New Yorker. So, I offer White’s perspective on youth…and age.

Youth and Age

by E. B. White

This is what youth must figure out:
Girls, love, and living.
The having, the not having,
The spending and giving,
And the melancholy time of not knowing.

This is what age must learn about:
The ABC of dying.
The going, yet not going,
The loving and leaving,
And the unbearable knowing and knowing.

Wake Up!

Mornings start early at my house. Rosa Parks wakes up first. She tap-tap-taps on me, the same way she taps on the door to get me to open it. I lift the covers and she scoots under, and curls up beside me. That usually gives me about five more minutes of sleep. Then she pokes her head out from under the comforter, and starts checking out her options. There are cushions on the floor beside the bed, to make it easier for her to get down. Sometimes, though, the big dog, Darla, is sleeping on those cushions. Sometimes Rosa Parks, who is nearly blind, doesn’t know if Darla is there or not.

If she’s afraid to jump, she starts whining. That annoying habit, she learned from Blackie Chan. That little dog was a world class whiner, and used the tactic whenever he wanted up or down. Or a treat. Or a snuggle. Rosa Parks never had been a whiner, but she’s a quick study, and she picked it up quickly. If she whines for more than a minute, I get up. I lift her down from the bed, and follow her to the door. If she thinks it’s safe, she’ll jump down, and go to the door on her own. I get up and follow. She tap-tap-taps; I open the door. While she’s outside, I run to the bathroom. Sometimes I turn on the coffee pot, but usually not. That feels too much like surrender. I’m not ready to wake up yet.

When she comes in, I get three pieces of kibble. One for Rosa Parks (“Good girl!”), one for Darla (“Rosa Parks got this for you,” I tell her), and one to give Rosa as a bonus when she comes back to bed. I get back under the covers. At this point, I can fall easily back to sleep. The little bit of activity, though, has roused Darla. Darla doesn’t whine and she rarely barks. She doesn’t scratch at or tap on the door. When she needs to go outside, she goes to the door, and breathes. Loudly. If I ignore it, or sleep through it, she will eventually come to the side of the bed and loudly breathe right next to my ear. So, I get up and let her out.

When she comes back in, I still haven’t turned on a single light. I haven’t started the coffee. I distribute treats again: one for Darla (“Good girl!”), one for Rosa Parks (“Darla wanted you to have this”), and a second, bonus treat for Darla…then back to bed for me. At this time, I’m kind of awake, but feel like I need more rest. With slight effort, I fall back asleep. I vaguely notice Rosa Parks adjusting herself next to me. I hear Darla come snuffling around, then gently stepping up onto the bed. She settles in behind my legs. I am now perfectly warm and comfortable, wedged in between two dogs.

I sleep in that position for a short while. It’s a good sleep, but as the room starts to brighten, and my joints start to cry out from spending too long in one position, I know it’s time to get up. Then, the problem is how to shimmy these old bones out from under the covers without disturbing the two sleeping dogs! In my house, waking up happens in stages!

Vulnerability

Talking to my friend Linda on the telephone the other day, I suddenly sneezed…hard…and said, “I’ve gotta go…I just wet myself.” We immediately ended the call.

First, my friend knows that I’m waiting for a new telephone, and that until it arrives, I am limited to an old-fashioned, corded slim line phone that keeps me attached to a corner of my dining room. Second, she is my same age, so understands issues of bladder control. Third, I’ve known Linda since sixth grade. She remembers, as I do, when it was laughing hysterically that would cause an accident like that. And we often set each other off into fits of giggles. So, I didn’t think twice about divulging my problem.

Time was, though, that I would never mention it to anyone else, and certainly never write about it. I’ve always been a private person, hyper-conscious of the image I portrayed to the world, very secretive about my faults and flaws. I would go to great lengths to try to show everyone that I was “normal.” Just like them, or as I perceived them to be. What happened?

Well, age, for one thing. I don’t get embarrassed as easily as I used to. I don’t care as much what other people think. I am more accepting of myself, complete with all my weaknesses and flaws. I’ve reconciled myself to the fact that I’m never going to be the person I was pretending to be, so may as well accept it. I am nit-picky but disorganized. I am a time-waster. I am prone to laziness. I will never be a good housekeeper. I am a terrible procrastinator, and have a propensity for hoarding. Among other things.

For another, I started putting this blog out into the world. If you write about your own life regularly enough, eventually you get beyond the surface fluff, and into what is real and true. At first, that made me very uncomfortable. After a while, I realized that the more foibles and shortcomings I revealed, the more feedback I received. That has led to the understanding that we are all holding on to secrets. We all feel vulnerable. We present the best side of ourselves, and hope that’s all that others see. It’s in the darker, often hidden sides of ourselves that we make the truest connections.

So, though it often makes me cringe, I tend, now, to write from my heart, blemishes and all.

Uninspired

It is a wonderful feeling to hold a tremendous idea in mind, and work toward making it reality. That, however, is rare in my life.

No matter what I’m working on, I usually start at almost zero, and the inspiration comes as I get involved.

In the studio, I play with colors and shapes until an idea starts to take hold. Even then, its often just a fragment of a plan…something of interest that I want to pursue. My mind is working with “what if…” and “how about…” rather than a definite direction. Even when I have settled on a particular scheme, I find a way to inject randomness into the mix.

When working with clay, no matter how rigid your discipline, and in spite of all attempts at control, there comes a point where you have to surrender your work to the kiln. There, surprises happen. Sometimes it’s magic; sometimes disaster. A discouragement to some, I found that lack of control inspiring. I started planning for it.

The three elements of a glaze, silica, alumina and flux, are usually combined in balanced amounts, and applied to the bisque-ware. I tried mixing each element separately, then layering them on the clay body, so that the heat of the kiln would allow them to – only sometimes – merge. I embedded elements like marbles, beach glass and pyrometric cones between the layers of my large coiled sculptures, knowing they would melt during the firing process. That anticipated unknown conclusion was inspiring to me.

I am drawn to collage, and collagraph printmaking for the same reasons that I found working in clay so attractive: many aspects are out of my control. .I may decide on a row of shapes marching across the border of a collage, but I’ll select the shapes blindly from an envelope of random scraps. I’ve used the rolling of a die to determine color choices. I’ve cut materials carefully into uniform shapes, but then shuffled them so that the order of placement was out of my control. It is when I’m in the middle of a self-created problem (like how in the world am I going to make that ugly acid green work next to that lovely velvety rose?) that I feel most inspired.

Last winter, the resale shop was gifted a huge donation of yarn. People crowded in for first pick of the lovely materials. They looked for full skeins, and struggled to find enough of any particular yarn to complete a project. I went, instead, for the variety. A little of this, a little of that, in a hundred different colors and weights and textures. I worked with a basic, simple pattern, and three strands of yarn. When I came to the end of one strand, I tied on another. That way, the colors were changing as I worked. Having to “think on my feet” about which colors and textures will compliment what is already there is inspiring, too.

Of the hundreds of essays I’ve written over the years, not more than a dozen of them have been planned in advance. And, I have to admit, those are some of the dullest compositions. My most engaging writing happens when I dive in, edit as I go, and move sentences or whole paragraphs around to improve the flow. When I wrote first drafts in longhand, the arrows, scribbles and notes in the margins became a challenge to decipher when it came time to type. Then, as I continued to edit as I saw things “in print,” the mounds of waste paper were astounding! Computers, even with my hunt-and-peck typing method, have streamlined that process tremendously! Hurray for the ability to cut and paste!

Sometimes, without any idea of what to write about, I’ll select a photograph. That is often all it takes to give me a topic. Other times, I’ll land on a title, and see where that takes me. Today, feeling uninspired, I went with that. And here it is!

Tommy

This is a long out-of-date photo of my grandson, Tommy. It was taken in 2017, when he was here on Beaver Island for a visit. A lot has changed since then.

Tommy is a grown man now. He’s graduated high school, got a job, bought a car…so many grown-up things! Some things haven’t changed, though. He still has that sweet smile. He still has a gentle manner, and one of the kindliest dispositions of anyone I know. He’s a little bit shy. He is tender-hearted and thoughtful. He has the best giggle in the world!

Today is Tommy’s birthday. What are the odds that his birthday would fall on the day that T is my letter for the April A~Z challenge?! So, I’ve set aside the beginnings of an essay on “Touch,” and another on “Trouble.” Neither were going very well, anyway, and I had already started a third, talking about the “Ten Days I’ve Spent in This House, Feeling Under the Weather.” But, I’ve already complained so much about being sick, even I am getting tired of it! Much better to celebrate this fine young man, on his birthday!

So, Tommy saves the day!

Simple Joy

Simple joy. That’s what I like to focus on these days.

I’ve experienced big joy in my life. I’ve relished those milestones that accumulate over a lifetime: graduations, weddings, births, new home, new job, new location. I’ve fallen in love. I’ve enjoyed my babies…and grandbabies. And I’m thankful every day for the experiences.

Lately, though, I’ve been paying attention to the little things. Often overlooked or taken for granted, it’s those precious little miracles that bring joy to every single day. A perfect poem. A neighbor’s wave. A new spring bloom. The look my little dog gives me when I open the door for her. The small stuff. If I am alert to them, those simple joys fill my days!

Rest

Sometimes it becomes very obvious that good rest is not easily achieved. In the last five days, I’ve spent more time in bed than I usually would in a whole month. I’ve been sleeping about fourteen hours out of every twenty-four. But I do not feel rested.

That can be attributed partly to the cold medicine I’m taking. On the one hand it causes drowsiness. On the other, I think it prevents good, quality sleep. I know my nights are filled with crazy dreams. When I’m up, I’ve been moving through the house like a zombie, no stamina to accomplish anything productive. I go in a trance from desk chair to dining room chair, kitchen to bathroom. After a couple circuits, the bed looks pretty inviting again.

Also, it takes a lot of energy to be sick. A bout of coughing can be exhausting! Making a simple meal makes me almost too tired to eat! Yesterday, I ventured out to give the dogs a walk. I dressed for the North Pole, and still walked with my arms wrapped around myself, chilled to the bone. We went a quarter of the distance we usually go, yet I was worn out by the time I got home. Could my muscles be atrophied after less than a week in bed? I can’t have that!

Today, I gave myself a stern talking-to. Enough of being sick! I’ve tested for Covid four times since Monday. Twenty-four hours between tests, as recommended. Repeating the test because sometimes it takes a while for the viral load to be sufficient for it to show up. All negative! So, this is a cold. A really bad, kick-ass cold, but still. It’s time to get over it!

So, even though I still had little enthusiasm for it, I managed to get a couple loads of laundry started. I tidied the house and gathered up the recyclables. I took Darla out for a good walk. One mile today, in the sunshine. It felt good. Now, I feel like I need a rest!

Quiet

Quiet. That’s my topic for the letter Q. Maybe you expected another post spent complaining about my spring cold? I could have! I’m pretty good at those whiny, self-pitying diatribes. I am still sick, though I’m starting to feel like I’m on the mend. I decided to give it a break. I still have the rest of the alphabet (Recuperation, Sickness, Temperature, Under-the-Weather…)if I feel the need to grumble.

Today, the subject is quiet. Mostly, I love silence. Growing up in a large and raucous household, I went to great lengths to find spaces where I could be away from the fray, alone with my thoughts. The top shelf of a deep built-in bookcase became a cherished hideaway for me. With a soft toy and a book as my only companions, I’d spend hours up there. There were nooks in climbable trees, thickets in the big field behind our house, and spaces in the garden when the corn was tall that were welcoming spaces, too, for a child looking for quiet.

I’ve always felt that I need time alone. When my children were small, no matter how tired and sleep-deprived I was, I’d be up after everyone else was asleep, for the peace and quiet. I rarely feel like I need the background noise of radio or television. Though I talk to the dogs, my house is mostly a very quiet place. Sometimes when I pick up the telephone, I’m a little surprised at the sound of my voice!

For most of my life, I’ve worked in some form of customer service. And, I’m pretty good at it. I could rattle off daily specials, the merits of one product over another, or all the services offered by our Community Center. I’m pretty chatty, when the circumstances warrant it. One time, as I was about to embark on a lengthy lecture about how her behavior was unacceptable, and why the consequences were justified, my young daughter begged, “Pleeeease stop telling me! Just give me the punishment!” But, for all the talking I do, I feel like I have to regain my equilibrium…and for that, I need quiet time.

Progress

Yesterday, sick, I stayed home and stuck to the bare minimum. Audrey kindly delivered cold medicine and a few other necessities from town. Sweet Lois tapped on my door, so softly it didn’t even rouse the dogs, to deliver a healing blend of herbs called “The Cold Chaser.” “This works like magic,” she told me in our quick exchange. I thanked her and quickly closed the door, for fear that this good Samaritan would catch my cold.

I brewed up a pot of the tea right away. A mixture of organic herbs including echinacea, elderberry, cinnamon and other good things, it is very soothing. I warmed some chicken broth, added the juice of a whole lemon, and sipped on that through the day. That was all I had the energy for, and it was enough.

Today, I think I’m feeling a little bit better. Though I still spent the better part of the day in bed, I managed to make an actual meal. Having missed our walk yesterday, Darla was determined to go today, and for a minute there, I thought I was up to taking her. I puzzled over whether to pull out my winter coat again, and if the fresh cold air would help or hurt…and then it started raining. Which, for the record, has now turned to snow. That decided it for me.

“We can’t take a walk,” I said, “how about early dinner instead?” On her own, Darla wouldn’t have accepted that, but Rosa Parks was thrilled at the prospect of being fed, and her excitement was contagious. So. I fed the dogs, and settled in with a bowl of soup for my own dinner. It’s not much, but it feels like progress.