********
Is it possible that at times, words really aren't enough?
Naaaa. But this will have to do for now. These photos came from a short walk in a cool wind yesterday.
What do you love about Spring?
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
What I Love About Spring
Before I forget, check out Sarah Whylie's fantastic contest here.
********
Is it possible that at times, words really aren't enough?
Naaaa. But this will have to do for now. These photos came from a short walk in a cool wind yesterday.
What do you love about Spring?
********
Is it possible that at times, words really aren't enough?
Naaaa. But this will have to do for now. These photos came from a short walk in a cool wind yesterday.
What do you love about Spring?
Monday, April 12, 2010
Fledglings
Those of you who have been reading Middle Passages for a while know that in some regard, I experienced a rebirth last year. Climbing to my feet, I wobbled through a baby step and then smiled as I took another. Hand-over-handing the length of the low furniture, sometimes I fell down on a padded bottom. Forward progress still feels new and Saturday it occurred to me that just as I was beginning to understand the rhythm of the steps, someone increased the tempo.
Two days ago, I cracked the door to wake my teenager, our only child, who slept sideways on wrinkled striped sheets, one exposed cheek curved, rounded and flushed above a rose-colored blanket--her full lips parting slightly as she exhaled. As I gazed at the faint movement of her soft lashes, a sixteen-year old-memory surfaced, of holding her as an infant in a wing-back chair one evening under the muted glow of a forty-watt bulb. That night, she slept in my arms and I stared at the damp bud of a mouth that had just released an evening bottle and the wisps of blonde hair sweeping flat across the white skin of her head. Feasting my eyes with a swollen yearning to savor and save, I promised myself that I’d always remember the image of her at that moment, the pearled skin, a button nose, the hot hand that clenched my little finger.
It’s been clear for a while that our daughter is a young woman now. Yet, Saturday, as she sighed and stretched oblivious to me, the face that I recorded all those years ago slept there on her twin bed beneath brown hair escaping from a tangled ponytail, beside the pile of cast-off clothes dotting the pink landscape of her painted room. Once again, I caught myself aching to freeze time, to clench her image tight and hard in my palm. Only on this particular morning, she caught me, waking to wrinkle her forehead and ask “What?”
And then, once she was up and dressed, we traveled over the hills and past the boarded-up ocean cottages one town over so she could apply for a first, real summer job, for which she was hired on the spot and advised to check in later this week for her schedule. I drove her there knowing that a license test is scheduled for the immediate future and in a matter of short days she should have the independence to climb behind the wheel and drive the rutted roads to this seaside resort. In a few weeks, she’ll serve pizza and fried clams to tourists and sweep piles of sand from the ceramic tiled floor. She’ll bring home a paycheck and likely scatter with some of the freedom that money provides, and though this is what we want for her, this is how it has to be, I didn’t expect that as a result, I’d wake today with a lump in my throat, staggering under another earthquake of change.
Again, tectonic plates are shifting and I am grabbing for solid walls. For almost 17 years, this child, this beautiful, funny, clever, resourceful girl, so mature that we call her “The Littlest Grown Up,” has nonetheless relied on us. On top of which, over the last fourteen months, because of time carved out following my job elimination, she has partnered with me for afternoon coffees and drives to the beach and when homework and my lack of freelance work allows, clandestine trips to matinee movies.
Now, this gift of time with her that I never expected to get and therefore cherished and celebrated all the more for the surprise of it, is just about over. It's right that she takes these strong steps on her own. But my own legs are quivering because I’m scared I’m going to falter, now that this most important of jobs is almost over too.
Two days ago, I cracked the door to wake my teenager, our only child, who slept sideways on wrinkled striped sheets, one exposed cheek curved, rounded and flushed above a rose-colored blanket--her full lips parting slightly as she exhaled. As I gazed at the faint movement of her soft lashes, a sixteen-year old-memory surfaced, of holding her as an infant in a wing-back chair one evening under the muted glow of a forty-watt bulb. That night, she slept in my arms and I stared at the damp bud of a mouth that had just released an evening bottle and the wisps of blonde hair sweeping flat across the white skin of her head. Feasting my eyes with a swollen yearning to savor and save, I promised myself that I’d always remember the image of her at that moment, the pearled skin, a button nose, the hot hand that clenched my little finger.
It’s been clear for a while that our daughter is a young woman now. Yet, Saturday, as she sighed and stretched oblivious to me, the face that I recorded all those years ago slept there on her twin bed beneath brown hair escaping from a tangled ponytail, beside the pile of cast-off clothes dotting the pink landscape of her painted room. Once again, I caught myself aching to freeze time, to clench her image tight and hard in my palm. Only on this particular morning, she caught me, waking to wrinkle her forehead and ask “What?”
And then, once she was up and dressed, we traveled over the hills and past the boarded-up ocean cottages one town over so she could apply for a first, real summer job, for which she was hired on the spot and advised to check in later this week for her schedule. I drove her there knowing that a license test is scheduled for the immediate future and in a matter of short days she should have the independence to climb behind the wheel and drive the rutted roads to this seaside resort. In a few weeks, she’ll serve pizza and fried clams to tourists and sweep piles of sand from the ceramic tiled floor. She’ll bring home a paycheck and likely scatter with some of the freedom that money provides, and though this is what we want for her, this is how it has to be, I didn’t expect that as a result, I’d wake today with a lump in my throat, staggering under another earthquake of change.
Again, tectonic plates are shifting and I am grabbing for solid walls. For almost 17 years, this child, this beautiful, funny, clever, resourceful girl, so mature that we call her “The Littlest Grown Up,” has nonetheless relied on us. On top of which, over the last fourteen months, because of time carved out following my job elimination, she has partnered with me for afternoon coffees and drives to the beach and when homework and my lack of freelance work allows, clandestine trips to matinee movies.
Now, this gift of time with her that I never expected to get and therefore cherished and celebrated all the more for the surprise of it, is just about over. It's right that she takes these strong steps on her own. But my own legs are quivering because I’m scared I’m going to falter, now that this most important of jobs is almost over too.
Friday, April 9, 2010
Walk Away
Business is slow on the LCS Writes front this month, so I put myself on sale (ten percent off the price of a writing job, and/or ten percent from the final bill, to be paid to anyone who refers a new client that results in a project in April. How is that for blatant solicitation?) Anyway, as a result, other than trying to drum up business, I have time to work on the creative pieces that I’m trying to write, which leads me to today’s topic.
A year ago, as I shifted in my chair and coped with my only dose of unemployment in almost 30 years, I made Middle Passages my job. After dropping our daughter off at school, I cracked my knuckles and sat down to the computer to craft a daily essay. After say, several hours, I’d walk away, returning later to edit the you-know-what-out of the piece before clicking on “publish.” I had, as it were, the luxury of time.
Now that I have work--sporadic though it may be--and volunteering, and other projects that interest me too, sometimes Middle Passages suffers, and to be perfectly honest, I crammed my post in yesterday. It may have sounded like the life of leisure amid my two walks, but with no paying work on the immediate horizon, I directed myself elsewhere between strolls, spending several hours at the library where I focused on the um, less lucrative side of my writing life. Then, since I had a networking phone call scheduled for after supper, I wanted Middle Passages off my mind before we ate, and, well, I rushed.
Here’s what I want to say today folks. No matter what, take a break from your writing so you can come back and read it with fresh eyes. Yesterday’s post struggled with run-on sentences, misplaced and missing commas, extraneous words, and a general lack of flow. Truth be told, I was slightly horrified with myself this morning. If you read it now, I think I’ve fixed most of it. But sheesh, what a reminder.
Today’s lesson: if you hurry to publish a blog post, a story, a letter, a memo, an email, a poem, a book, you are going to miss things.
As a high-scoring champion in a check-off-the-to-do-list world, I live with a compulsion to get things done that gets me in trouble some times. Yesterday’s post was a case in point. So take it from me. Walk away. Peel some potatoes. Think of other projects. Go for a run. Conduct the networking call. Whatever. Get the piece out of your mind so you can read it later with an objective view. Then see what you find. I promise, your delay will serve to improve things.
Oh, and in case you are wondering, I walked away from this one twice.
Did you ever wish you didn’t press publish, or send?
A year ago, as I shifted in my chair and coped with my only dose of unemployment in almost 30 years, I made Middle Passages my job. After dropping our daughter off at school, I cracked my knuckles and sat down to the computer to craft a daily essay. After say, several hours, I’d walk away, returning later to edit the you-know-what-out of the piece before clicking on “publish.” I had, as it were, the luxury of time.
Now that I have work--sporadic though it may be--and volunteering, and other projects that interest me too, sometimes Middle Passages suffers, and to be perfectly honest, I crammed my post in yesterday. It may have sounded like the life of leisure amid my two walks, but with no paying work on the immediate horizon, I directed myself elsewhere between strolls, spending several hours at the library where I focused on the um, less lucrative side of my writing life. Then, since I had a networking phone call scheduled for after supper, I wanted Middle Passages off my mind before we ate, and, well, I rushed.
Here’s what I want to say today folks. No matter what, take a break from your writing so you can come back and read it with fresh eyes. Yesterday’s post struggled with run-on sentences, misplaced and missing commas, extraneous words, and a general lack of flow. Truth be told, I was slightly horrified with myself this morning. If you read it now, I think I’ve fixed most of it. But sheesh, what a reminder.
Today’s lesson: if you hurry to publish a blog post, a story, a letter, a memo, an email, a poem, a book, you are going to miss things.
As a high-scoring champion in a check-off-the-to-do-list world, I live with a compulsion to get things done that gets me in trouble some times. Yesterday’s post was a case in point. So take it from me. Walk away. Peel some potatoes. Think of other projects. Go for a run. Conduct the networking call. Whatever. Get the piece out of your mind so you can read it later with an objective view. Then see what you find. I promise, your delay will serve to improve things.
Oh, and in case you are wondering, I walked away from this one twice.
Did you ever wish you didn’t press publish, or send?
Thursday, April 8, 2010
All Over the Place
I clocked a slow mile-and-a-half strolling with a friend and her elderly mother early today before spending a few hours writing, um, I mean practicing. Then I accepted an unexpected invitation to walk again--a three mile power walk this time.
Now it’s late. I’m low on blog topics so I thought I’d tell you how, this morning, the ocean lit up yellow at the horizon under a focused spill of sun. Cracks heaved in the aging tar on the private road past the red “No Trespassing” sign where we debated, and sighed, before turning back from the view of hulking rocks that amble, like a smooth line of elephants winding to the sea.
Later, salt air off the cold ocean triggered goose bumps with the kind of dampness that travels on a forecast of rain. Inhaling a cinnamon sweetness from blossoms hanging like laundry on a flowering pink magnolia, we approached the low tide sludge in a saltwater pond where ducks offered a soft “plonk, plonk” as we trudged by.
There was more I was going to say, so much more, but I took a break and read the essay attached to the link below by Dean Wesley Smith. It’s off topic and I’ll warn you the post is long, but it’s good lesson and will be worth the time invested. Having read it myself, now I’m off for more “focused” practice.
Killing the Sacred Cows of Publishing: Writers Don’t Need to Practice.
Now it’s late. I’m low on blog topics so I thought I’d tell you how, this morning, the ocean lit up yellow at the horizon under a focused spill of sun. Cracks heaved in the aging tar on the private road past the red “No Trespassing” sign where we debated, and sighed, before turning back from the view of hulking rocks that amble, like a smooth line of elephants winding to the sea.
Later, salt air off the cold ocean triggered goose bumps with the kind of dampness that travels on a forecast of rain. Inhaling a cinnamon sweetness from blossoms hanging like laundry on a flowering pink magnolia, we approached the low tide sludge in a saltwater pond where ducks offered a soft “plonk, plonk” as we trudged by.
There was more I was going to say, so much more, but I took a break and read the essay attached to the link below by Dean Wesley Smith. It’s off topic and I’ll warn you the post is long, but it’s good lesson and will be worth the time invested. Having read it myself, now I’m off for more “focused” practice.
Killing the Sacred Cows of Publishing: Writers Don’t Need to Practice.
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Fantasy Failures
After my husband and I bought our first house, a run-down colonial in a rural town about 40 miles from where we live now, we spent our first winter cleaning and painting the inside. When spring arrived, we carted our enthusiasm outdoors, where we edged around rocks and roots and planted gardens to decorate the perimeter of the yard.
That house stood high on a hill above an s-shaped driveway that angled up along side a wooden retaining wall. Four unkempt juniper bushes with gangly branches crouched on top. To provide a face-lift to the area near the bushes, I dug 80 small holes, filled them with bone meal and planted tulip bulbs. We spent the winter anticipating the nodding pink blossoms that would bend in the breeze come spring, and it would have been lovely, I’m sure, if I hadn’t planted every single bulb upside down.
In April, a few stunted green shoots appeared. In my disgust, I never planted another autumn bulb at that location.
Fast forward several years to our current home. When our house was built in 1956, the plot was subdivided off of a next door property and was surrounded by woods. Over the years, previous owners cleared a bit; along the way, someone planted purple crocus bulbs which come up every year in the garden by the front porch, and bluebells, that poke up in patches by the garage back door. Once evidence that bulbs grow well here proved itself to me, I tucked away my disappointment from that earlier misadventure and decided to try again.
On a cold fall day early in our tenure, I squatted on my knees and planted row upon row of bulbs in a back garden we shaped in front of a granite boulder. Moving to the spot behind the back patio, I planted more. Later, I dug another supply of bulbs into the earth packed on top of the natural stone step beneath our huge ledge. The gray rock would be a perfect backdrop for a vibrant spring planting.
Mind you, all the tubers went in right-side-up this time, but nonetheless, in April, a pathetic arrangement of dwarf-looking tulips raised their shriveled heads out back, and those were the plants that managed to bloom at all. Below the ledge, a bushy crop of ferns appeared in place of my tulips. “I’m done.” I announced. “I’ll never plant bulbs again!”
Here in New England though, our winding streets are lined with tumbling stone walls. About this time each year, it seems like every sunny location hosts clumps of daffodils in front of these winding rivers of granite rock; the yellow blossoms bob and weave, shouting out the news of spring as they bounce in the freshening breeze. Loving the county feel to these casual gardens, two years ago I gave it one last try, spending an afternoon planting bulbs that should have emerged in clumps of blue-grape hyacinths and jonquils around our front light post.
Again I spent the winter looking forward to the bright yellow show that would perform for us each time we pulled into the driveway, but unbeknownst to me, this time the fat squirrels that nestle in the pine trees around us snacked well during the cool winter months.
It’s been almost 25 years since we purchased our first house. I planted eighty bulbs there, and nearest I can figure, I’ve planted about 250 around this yard. Here is what I have to show for it.
So tell me. Isn’t that the most wonderful daffodil you have ever seen?
What are your worst gardening nightmares?
That house stood high on a hill above an s-shaped driveway that angled up along side a wooden retaining wall. Four unkempt juniper bushes with gangly branches crouched on top. To provide a face-lift to the area near the bushes, I dug 80 small holes, filled them with bone meal and planted tulip bulbs. We spent the winter anticipating the nodding pink blossoms that would bend in the breeze come spring, and it would have been lovely, I’m sure, if I hadn’t planted every single bulb upside down.
In April, a few stunted green shoots appeared. In my disgust, I never planted another autumn bulb at that location.
Fast forward several years to our current home. When our house was built in 1956, the plot was subdivided off of a next door property and was surrounded by woods. Over the years, previous owners cleared a bit; along the way, someone planted purple crocus bulbs which come up every year in the garden by the front porch, and bluebells, that poke up in patches by the garage back door. Once evidence that bulbs grow well here proved itself to me, I tucked away my disappointment from that earlier misadventure and decided to try again.
On a cold fall day early in our tenure, I squatted on my knees and planted row upon row of bulbs in a back garden we shaped in front of a granite boulder. Moving to the spot behind the back patio, I planted more. Later, I dug another supply of bulbs into the earth packed on top of the natural stone step beneath our huge ledge. The gray rock would be a perfect backdrop for a vibrant spring planting.
Mind you, all the tubers went in right-side-up this time, but nonetheless, in April, a pathetic arrangement of dwarf-looking tulips raised their shriveled heads out back, and those were the plants that managed to bloom at all. Below the ledge, a bushy crop of ferns appeared in place of my tulips. “I’m done.” I announced. “I’ll never plant bulbs again!”
Here in New England though, our winding streets are lined with tumbling stone walls. About this time each year, it seems like every sunny location hosts clumps of daffodils in front of these winding rivers of granite rock; the yellow blossoms bob and weave, shouting out the news of spring as they bounce in the freshening breeze. Loving the county feel to these casual gardens, two years ago I gave it one last try, spending an afternoon planting bulbs that should have emerged in clumps of blue-grape hyacinths and jonquils around our front light post.
Again I spent the winter looking forward to the bright yellow show that would perform for us each time we pulled into the driveway, but unbeknownst to me, this time the fat squirrels that nestle in the pine trees around us snacked well during the cool winter months.
It’s been almost 25 years since we purchased our first house. I planted eighty bulbs there, and nearest I can figure, I’ve planted about 250 around this yard. Here is what I have to show for it.
So tell me. Isn’t that the most wonderful daffodil you have ever seen?
What are your worst gardening nightmares?
Monday, April 5, 2010
"Watch it Wiggle..." I'd Rather Not.
Oh folks.
As a result of the fun and success of yesterday, sitting outside on the warm patio with family, the awesome ham, the yummy potatoes, the delicious asparagus, my windows that sparkle, the floors I dusted by hand with a cloth, and my house that is spring clean, I am tired, tired, tired. So, this morning I thought I’d extend my long weekend, at least as far as blog posting goes, because the idea of conjuring up a creative post made my brain hurt. But the esteemed JP at Where Sky Meets Ground, bailed me out yet again, by offering up the “It’s like we are Soul Mates” Award, which gave me food for thought, if you will.
This jumping off place helped because the rules for this little prize are to make up something (preferably inoffensive) about the people you send it to, and to link to the people you gave it to and link back to the original award post, which is right about here.
But before I pass it on, you have to read what JP wrote about me, because in his creativity it seems as if he peered inside and exposed a little horror from my childhood soul--his fantasy sounded so much like a cheerful tease from my brother, that I hiccuped a bit as I read:
OK, so here is the thing. JP was off by one letter. Green jelly beans, well, I consider them marginal, but green Jello? I hate it.
My mother, generally an accomplished cook, had a minor failing in the kitchen, in that she liked all thing gelatinous, including aspic (which I call "asp-yick" and you can use your imagination to come up with another, rhyming and less suitable-for-PG-audiences description), and Jello. To this day, the thought of green Jello makes me wrinkle up my nose. All these years later, it remains toward the top of the list as one of my most irrational, stomach churning, feed-it-to-the-dog-but-we-didn't-have-one-so-deposit-it-into-your-napkin dinner dilemmas. For crying out loud, I even eat Brussels sprouts now if I have to. But green Jello? Shoot me now.
This aversion began way back, when, in some Good Housekeeping 1960’s nightmare, Mom began slicing squares of the vile stuff that she had “enhanced” via canned pear halves suspended in the middle, and plopping them onto lettuce leaves. If that wasn’t bad enough, she’d slather a dollop of mayonnaise on top of each serving and have the nerve to call the wiggling mess a salad. Can you imagine? And in our house, we had to try EVERYTHING before we were excused and I am so. not. a. green. Jello. girl. Let's just say that there were more than a few table-leg kicking late nights in my past.
Therefore JP, just so you understand what a good job you did, um, embellishing, let me tell you this. If a tart made from anything resembling the green slime showed up on my table, or any other table I happen to be sitting at, I'm quite clear that there would be no solution other than to make sure my elbow slipped--as in: “Oh, dear, did I do that?”
Now that we have aired that topic, I’d like to pass this award to:
Bridget at JB Chicoine Aspiring Novelist and JB Chicoine Unsupervised and at Large. Bridget fell out of a tree house when she was ten and broke both her wrists. While convalescing, she learned how to paint by holding the brush in her teeth. Recently she was downhill skiing as a part of the US Ski Team, when she broke her wrists again. She is currently editing her first novel by typing with her toes.
Tricia from Talespinning. Tricia swims two miles in the ocean every day, regardless of the weather, tide or wave-height, and has an unspoken desire to become a mermaid. Oh, and don’t tell anyone, but once long ago she saved one (a mermaid, I mean) that had beached herself on a sandbar off the coast of California.
Tabitha at Through My Eyes. Tabitha has taken a month off from posting on her blog to work on her memoir, but really she is living in a tent on an uninhabited portion of Lizard Island on the Great Barrier Reef, where bathing suits are optional.
Carol at Carol’s Prints. Carol decided that yoga was too dull. She has enrolled in tap dancing class and has discovered she’s a prodigy. She’ll have a starring role in the spring dance recital and has been awarded a place in the world’s most exclusive dance company. She will be going on tour starting next month.
Thanks JP for thinking of me again! Once more your timing was impeccable. How do you do that anyway?
What is your worst childhood food nightmare?
As a result of the fun and success of yesterday, sitting outside on the warm patio with family, the awesome ham, the yummy potatoes, the delicious asparagus, my windows that sparkle, the floors I dusted by hand with a cloth, and my house that is spring clean, I am tired, tired, tired. So, this morning I thought I’d extend my long weekend, at least as far as blog posting goes, because the idea of conjuring up a creative post made my brain hurt. But the esteemed JP at Where Sky Meets Ground, bailed me out yet again, by offering up the “It’s like we are Soul Mates” Award, which gave me food for thought, if you will.
This jumping off place helped because the rules for this little prize are to make up something (preferably inoffensive) about the people you send it to, and to link to the people you gave it to and link back to the original award post, which is right about here.
But before I pass it on, you have to read what JP wrote about me, because in his creativity it seems as if he peered inside and exposed a little horror from my childhood soul--his fantasy sounded so much like a cheerful tease from my brother, that I hiccuped a bit as I read:
“Liza from Middle Passages has an irrational fear of green jelly beans. To keep her fear in check, every Easter and Christmas she makes a wonderful green jelly bean tart which all her friends rave about.”
OK, so here is the thing. JP was off by one letter. Green jelly beans, well, I consider them marginal, but green Jello? I hate it.
My mother, generally an accomplished cook, had a minor failing in the kitchen, in that she liked all thing gelatinous, including aspic (which I call "asp-yick" and you can use your imagination to come up with another, rhyming and less suitable-for-PG-audiences description), and Jello. To this day, the thought of green Jello makes me wrinkle up my nose. All these years later, it remains toward the top of the list as one of my most irrational, stomach churning, feed-it-to-the-dog-but-we-didn't-have-one-so-deposit-it-into-your-napkin dinner dilemmas. For crying out loud, I even eat Brussels sprouts now if I have to. But green Jello? Shoot me now.
This aversion began way back, when, in some Good Housekeeping 1960’s nightmare, Mom began slicing squares of the vile stuff that she had “enhanced” via canned pear halves suspended in the middle, and plopping them onto lettuce leaves. If that wasn’t bad enough, she’d slather a dollop of mayonnaise on top of each serving and have the nerve to call the wiggling mess a salad. Can you imagine? And in our house, we had to try EVERYTHING before we were excused and I am so. not. a. green. Jello. girl. Let's just say that there were more than a few table-leg kicking late nights in my past.
Therefore JP, just so you understand what a good job you did, um, embellishing, let me tell you this. If a tart made from anything resembling the green slime showed up on my table, or any other table I happen to be sitting at, I'm quite clear that there would be no solution other than to make sure my elbow slipped--as in: “Oh, dear, did I do that?”
Now that we have aired that topic, I’d like to pass this award to:
Bridget at JB Chicoine Aspiring Novelist and JB Chicoine Unsupervised and at Large. Bridget fell out of a tree house when she was ten and broke both her wrists. While convalescing, she learned how to paint by holding the brush in her teeth. Recently she was downhill skiing as a part of the US Ski Team, when she broke her wrists again. She is currently editing her first novel by typing with her toes.
Tricia from Talespinning. Tricia swims two miles in the ocean every day, regardless of the weather, tide or wave-height, and has an unspoken desire to become a mermaid. Oh, and don’t tell anyone, but once long ago she saved one (a mermaid, I mean) that had beached herself on a sandbar off the coast of California.
Tabitha at Through My Eyes. Tabitha has taken a month off from posting on her blog to work on her memoir, but really she is living in a tent on an uninhabited portion of Lizard Island on the Great Barrier Reef, where bathing suits are optional.
Carol at Carol’s Prints. Carol decided that yoga was too dull. She has enrolled in tap dancing class and has discovered she’s a prodigy. She’ll have a starring role in the spring dance recital and has been awarded a place in the world’s most exclusive dance company. She will be going on tour starting next month.
Thanks JP for thinking of me again! Once more your timing was impeccable. How do you do that anyway?
What is your worst childhood food nightmare?
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Dripping Dry
A lot of folks are wringing themselves out here in New England, so we consider ourselves fortunate. In spite of the fact that our house sits on, and below, granite ledge, after a 10-inch deluge two weeks ago, thanks to vigilance and three, count 'em three pumps, a sopping wall-to-wall carpet in the basement was the worst of our worries. In fact, we felt pretty pleased with our clean rug once we returned the steamer we rented to purge the remains of that nuisance.
Of course, on Monday it began to rain again, dumping a total of seven inches this time. Eighteen homemade sand bags later we succeeded in diverting the lake of water that formed on our patio just as the leaking window well began to fill up again. When the rain stopped two days later we surveyed the 2'x4' wet spot on the basement carpet and, well, that breeze that brushed your ear yesterday morning? That was my sigh of relief. If you've been watching the news, you know it could have been Oh. So. Much. Worse. In the eighteen years we've lived here, there hasn't been a winter Nor'easter or a raging blizzard that has scared me as much as a March downpour on saturated ground.
So, I'm grateful we've made it to April and in honor of that momentous feat, I’m going to take a long weekend. I’ll leave you with a couple of quotes I borrowed from The Artist's Way, as well as wishes for a joyful Easter if you celebrate, and a lovely weekend if you don’t.
“Be really whole and all things will come to you.” Lao-tzu
“We learn to do something by doing it. There is no other way.” John Holt/Educator
“Learning is movement from moment to moment.” J. Krishnamurti
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