Monthly Archives: November 2012

Stitches of Gratitude

28 Wednesday Nov 2012

Posted by in friendship, inspiration, meditation, writing

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This fall Paul and I have gone on a crime-watching spree. We’ve been turning on the TV, and taking in episode after episode, season after season of detective shows.

We began in pre-World War II England with Foyle’s War, traveled to Sweden for the Wallander series, and are now back in the U.K. following Helen Mirren in Prime Suspect.

Like Madame Dufarge in Charles Dickens’ Tale of Two Cities, I have been sitting in my chair, quietly knitting, whilst bedlam breaks out before my eyes. I’m not as clever as Madame Dufarge, I can’t knit names into my work.

But like her I am keeping a list. Names of people I’ve had the luck and pleasure to connect with during this past year. People who, in this online world, have been both supportive and inspiring.

And so, stitch by stitch, I’ve been knitting my gratitude into a series of hats.

One recipient likened my stitches to a row of brussel sprouts.

Knitting is one of the few places in life where I have even a ghost of a chance at mimicking nature’s perfection.

My original concept for this post was a question: Why can’t writing, or even life be more like knitting? I’ve since realized that I don’t want either of those things to be as straightforward as knitting.

I want both my writing and my life to include the unexpected, the good, and the bad. Those detective shows on TV would be pretty boring without the false leads, wild goose chases, and surprise endings. Writing and life would be pretty boring too if I always arrived on time, and at the expected destination.

In fact, those hats might be getting a bit too straightforward. So for my next project, I’m thinking … SOCKS!

Socks knitted by Ronnie Citron-Fink, photo by Jen Kialba.

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This Year Will Be Different

20 Tuesday Nov 2012

Posted by in adult children, friendship, mid-life transition

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This family of turkeys has been patrolling our neighborhood for weeks. There are five in all, and lately, they have taken to roosting outside our ground-level basement window.

We first spotted them over the summer: two adults, three chicks. Now we can’t tell who is who.

They stick together these five. And when they appear in our yard, I always check to make sure each one is present and accounted for.

They remind me that this year, Thanksgiving will be markedly different for Paul and me. Like other years, we will be sharing the meal with friends, but for the first time ever, neither of our sons will be at our table.

Older Son will be celebrating with his girlfriend’s family in Connecticut, and Younger Son will be cooking and eating dinner with a group of fellow Peace Corps volunteers in Morocco.

While this change makes me a little sad, I’ve begun to embrace the new order. Planning a meal and hanging out with friends —without the pressures of family— is a lot of fun. And this year, just like our sons, Paul and I will be doing that too.

I know I will miss them. Especially Younger Son, who is so far away and won’t be home for Christmas either. But I also know that the love they feel when they sit at our table will be with them on this day too.

Both of our boys have grown into loved men. They carry home with them wherever they go.

For that, I am truly grateful.

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This post was published today on Women’s Voices for Change.

We Are the Good Guys

14 Wednesday Nov 2012

Posted by in environment, politics, writing

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A couple of summers ago, my sons encouraged me to read Cormac McCarthy’s The Road, a novel about a father and son fighting for survival as they traverse a cold, sunless, ash-covered landscape. What touched me most about the book was the way the father tried to explain, even normalize, this post-apocalyptic world for his son.

In this fictional world, other people pose a threat. They may help you, but they are more likely to kill you. The father helped his son understand this dangerous world by dividing it into good guys and bad guys.

“This is what the good guys do,” he told his son. “They keep trying. They don’t give up.”

Amid the devastation left by Hurricane Sandy, I imagine parents up and down the Eastern Seaboard are doing the same for their children. They have to put a hopeful spin on their new reality and project an optimistic future.

Fortunately, in today’s post-Sandy, nonfiction catastrophe, most people are “the good guys.” Together, they are helping each other navigate their devastated lives.

I’ve watched this video taken in Rockaway Queens over and over again.

I can’t get the images out of my head: streets buried in sand, cars scattered into piles like pick-up sticks. “It’s like a scene from some end-of-the-world movie,” says the film’s narrator. It has been weeks since Sandy raged through this neighborhood, and many people are still without power, heat, or hot water.

This is where we are. We can’t go back. We can only move forward. But the fork in the road that will take us toward McCarthy’s dystopian future is ever closer.

These superstorms are the new normal. And while it will take decades to bring our planet back from the brink, actions we take now can slow and maybe even halt climate change tomorrow.

We have to be like the good guys in McCarthy’s book, who keep trying  and don’t give up.

Fighting for a clean and safe environment is like every other battle we’ve undertaken.  We haven’t made progress in attaining civil rights, equality for women, or gay rights by asking politely. We demand those rights, loudly, consistently — because we are entitled to them.

We must do no less in our fight to stop climate change. Not only are we and future generations entitled to a clean and healthy environment, our lives, and theirs, depend on it.

A slightly different version of this post appeared on Moms Clean Air Force. Click here to act now and join the good guys.

This Zine Is the Real Thing

07 Wednesday Nov 2012

Posted by in aging, art, friendship, inspiration, writing

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“Age” © Elizabeth Cohen

Sometime during the summer of 2009, I received an email from my friend, Martha Nichols, inviting me to participate in a literary blog she was starting called “Talking Writing.” A seasoned writer and editor, Martha sent the email to several of her writing colleagues asking them to participate in and comment on her new endeavor.

A year later, in the fall of 2010, Martha and the equally experienced, Elizabeth Langosy, with some help from me, launched Talking Writing: A Magazine for Writers. Since that time, I have had the great luck and pleasure to be a part of this groundbreaking endeavor.

Working long hours, Martha and Elizabeth have poured their brilliance and passion into creating a fully formed magazine that is beautiful to look at and loaded with thoughtful and unique voices and perspectives. If you haven’t read it, you should.

In fact, I’d encourage all of my blogging friends to think about pitching a piece or two. TW can’t offer you money — what literary magazine can? — but  you will have the satisfaction of working with its talented team of editors, and your byline will appear in the pages of a zine that receives close to 9000 hits per month.

While I enjoy the freedom of writing unedited on my own blog, it also feels good to put myself in the hands of these capable and talented women. They help their writers develop their pieces in the most supportive way possible. Martha and Elizabeth are great teachers and they always make my work better.

So I was flattered when they asked to republish a post from my blog. Martha assured me that it just required a “few, minor edits.” And while she was true to her word, those edits helped turn a blog post into a publishable piece.

“Porcelain Bones,” appeared here last March as “Inside a Potter’s Studio, a Daughter Finds Answers.” I hope you will give the edited version a read. While you are there, check out the rest of TW’s November/December issue — and if you haven’t already, take a few extra seconds to subscribe.

Turning Back the Clocks

05 Monday Nov 2012

Posted by in aging, environment, meditation, pets, politics

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Last weekend we turned back the clocks. We do this every autumn in the U.S. — excepting Hawaii and parts of Arizona. I always savor the extra hour in the morning, yet as the day progresses, and the light thins, that bonus hour is soon forgotten. During this annual transition, evidence of time’s passage is everywhere.

The heat of late summer is long gone, and the brilliance of early fall is fading fast. The winds from Hurricane Sandy expedited the process. But a few, last gasps of color remain.

Changing the clocks marks the passage of Time.

Those turkey chicks that sashayed through the yard last August are all grown up.

Time.

We buried our 16-year old cat, Boots in September. She was a plump bundle of thick black fur that padded around on dainty white feet. Boots, I should mention, was an excellent mouser, and she proudly announced every kill in a loud, guttural, yowl. When she joined our family, she was tiny enough to fit inside a teacup, and our boys were aged 10 and 13.

Time.

She has been gone less than two months, and yet her grave has already weathered its first major storm.

And more Time.

The race toward winter has begun. This dogwood shrub, for example, has already donned its red winter coat.

With most of the leaves down, we can now see through the woods behind our house into the farmer’s fields and beyond.

We can turn the clocks back, set them ahead, and stop them. But no matter what we do to our timepieces, the future arrives with every minute.

Tomorrow is election day. The future of our country’s 99% hangs in the balance. Will the voters turn back the clock, erasing hard fought gains and reopening old battlefields? Or will they keep up with Time and allow the country to continue moving forward?

48 Hours in Portland, Oregon

02 Friday Nov 2012

Posted by in friendship, inspiration, travel

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We left on the Thursday before hurricane Sandy made its way up the East Coast. We knew it was coming, but nothing was certain. After one, slightly tense discussion, we decided to take our chances and head west.

From the plane

We stayed in a tiny bungalow — 750 square feet, to be exact — that included a sofa bed, TV, kitchen, dining area, and bathroom. The inside was Ikea-made from top to bottom.

We’d rented a car so that Paul could take some side trips to visit his brother, who was in a hospital in nearby Vancouver, Washington.

On our first morning, we awoke to rain that continued throughout our visit. While Paul was with his brother I spent a good deal of time in Powell’s Books and drinking tea.

At this particular cafe, the teacups were dainty, but the music was not. It had an edgy, tough vibe. And yes, that’s my hat on the table. I’m conflicted about hats. I love them, but not the resulting “hat hair.” This particular hat had been sitting on my desk at home, unworn, for months. I’m glad I brought it, it was the perfect shield for Portland’s drizzle.

But enough about hats, Portland is all about the food. Our first breakfast took place in a French bakery near our place. Perhaps not the best croissants in town (more about those later) but they sure were buttery.

Perfectly poached eggs atop grilled tomatoes and pesto with squash and home fries, croissant also included.

The rain prevented me from taking many photos but it let up on Saturday, while we were at the farmer’s market at Portland State University.

“Hot” peppers

The kids at the market had a chance to show off their formidable pumpkin-carving skills.

Some of the farmers also displayed their Halloween spirit, like these friendly “scarecrows.”

By Saturday night, it was clear that given Sandy’s trajectory, our flights back to Boston on Monday would likely be cancelled. Luckily, we were able to reschedule our departure for early the next morning.

But not before we had a fabulous meal with some new friends. Can you believe I met Leslie online, through my friend Heather in Arles? It was a match made in heaven.

Leslie and her husband Scott insisted on taking us out to dinner. We ate at the Bent Brick. Scott convinced us that we’d be doing him a tremendous favor by taking the “whole menu” option. Yes, dear readers, we ate the whole thing.

The food was amazing, the company even more so. It felt like we were reconnecting with two old friends. The conversation covered our careers, our kids, our homes, our dogs, and politics — our mutual desire to live in a country of “we” and not one of “me.”

As Paul said, we could have talked to them all night. We closed down the restaurant. When we said good-bye, Scott handed us a care package for our trip home. It contained the day’s New York Times, the best croissants, and a bag of local hazelnuts from their food co-op.

We went to bed at midnight and got up at 4 am to make our plane.

I want more. We’re going back.