Lots of Bits

The dome at the Minnesota State Capitol 

It's been a long several days. I started penning this out Friday night in our hotel room in Rochester, Minnesota (yes, the Emerald City). Over the weekend I added more bits. It is now Tuesday evening and I am finishing this back home in Ohio.

We spent more time than usual in Minnesota because of the way my Mayo appointments fell. The longer time, encompassing a weekend, allowed for some great moments.

So, I have lots of bits.

You cannot drive this distance (660 miles one way) without gas prices hitting you in the face, especially as we skirted around Chicago. Regular gas is how much? We did fine, as we have done this jaunt so many times we know not to fill up in Chicago or, indeed, Illinois at all, but my heart hurt for people who live there and have no choice.

At my blood draw, the nurse, the assistant, and I talked money: the price of gasoline, the price of groceries, the expenses of everyday life. The nurse's husband was coming home from being away on the family farm (it's harvest time) and she said that in his phone calls home he was just stunned with the diesel costs, even though he knew they'd be high.

I walked a lot on Saturday morning before we headed north to the Twin Cities for a full day. There is a massive Mayo expansion going on and even as a pedestrian, I at times had to thread my way very deliberately to avoid street and sidewalk closures. Warren and I walked Sunday and ran into more of the same.

The saddest thing I saw in Rochester on my limited walks? Almost all of the Little Free Libraries that I have stopped at over the years are empty. 

We spent most of Saturday in or near the Twin Cities. We had an early lunch with a blogger friend, Sandy, who blogs as Sam at Sam Squared. You ever "know" someone, then get to meet them in real life and the real person is even warmer, funnier, more thoughtful? That was Sandy and we had a great lunch. We then headed to the Minnesota Capitol Building (Warren and I both enjoy touring capitol buildings) for a great tour where I think I walked up and down at least 5000 stairs (okay, okay, 4999), then headed to the Minneapolis side of the Twins to see longtime dear friends Tom and Tani before heading back to Rochester.

Plans to meet up with family on Sunday in a nearby community did not pan out, so we hung out in Rochester, walking, reading, and such. I saw my wonderful oncologist late Monday morning, then we barreled back to Ohio, arriving a little bit after 1:00 a.m. this morning.

Yeah, it was a lot. And yeah, I'm tired. 

I spent a lot of Sunday afternoon rereading various years of my blog. (I had brought along Thirteen Moons by Charles Frazier but finished it Sunday midday). As I read, I was a bit taken aback at how much I've let go of (activities) and how even THAT MANY YEARS AGO I was dealing with health issues, exhaustion, and yes, my old friend depression. Not to mention overcrowded schedules. Yes, sometimes this household still has full days, but I am so grateful that I can afford not to work. 

I have spent the day catching up: laundry, sorting receipts, catching up. Our county fair is this week and today is Senior Day (free admission for someone in my age bracket). I'd hoped that we'd head over late afternoon and see the sights and enjoy some fair food. But it has rained all weekend and turned the fairgrounds into a muddy mess, to quote my friend Cindy, who is exhibiting. Muddy fairgrounds, damp chill weather, and my being tired make for a combination that shouts "Stay home!" So we are. There is bean soup on the stove, I'm about to go make some cornbread, and life is good.

On A Quest

My next door neighbor Mary texted me that per a Yale study (done over a decade ago, I might note), regular readers live an average of 23 months longer than their cohorts. I replied: "So given that I typically read 200+ books a year, I'm in good shape, right?" 

I just finished The Hour I First Believed by Wally Lamb. It is not for the light of heart. It is a dense, well-crafted novel with the Columbine school massacre being a core event in the life of the narrator. Just saying. But from it, I plucked this quote:

At the door, Dr. Patel wished me good luck with my students. "It's a curious things about quests, isn't it, Mr. Quirk?" she said. "The seeker embarks on a journey to find what he wants and discovers, along the way, what he needs."

That quote about the the concept of a quest has stayed with me. It brings to mind much earlier reflections on pilgrimages. And it stirred me to pen this out (pen and paper!) last night.

Per Blogger, this is my 1001st post. (Dang.) I last wrote in July, particularly about my father's hospitalization and how I felt I was in a box. In truth, I am still struggling to get a rhythm back into my daily life. My sleep is erratic. My focus is erratic. My handling of tasks—what to do when in what order—is erratic. I get frustrated internally far too easily far too often. 

 You get the idea. 

So that is my quest: getting my daily rhythm adjusted to my needs. 

There are some pieces I have put in place, some of them predating July. While my walking continues to be impaired (and will be permanently), I try (and usually succeed) to walk daily. I have stopped measuring how far I walk but am still noting how long I walk.

So that is one: walking almost daily.

A few months ago, thanks to my friend Tani, I have added a tai chi practice to my daily routine. I follow Don Fiore on YouTube. While I started with a longer clip of his, some 16+ minutes, I have been using a much shorter clip (8 minutes) since the hospitalization episode. I have committed the shorter one to memory, and even in a crowded day, can find a place to tuck it in. 

So that is two: tai chi daily.

I listen to "Jupiter" (from The Planets by Gustav Holst) daily. I am particular; I only listen to a 2014 performance by the NDR Radiophilharmonie under the baton of Andrew Manze. I not only listen but also watch and confess I have watched it so many times that I can follow Manze's cues. But the point is I listen to it not just as background music but for the focus. I don't even read for those 8 minutes.

So that is three: "Jupiter" daily.

 A few weeks ago, I started lifting weights DAILY. We're not talking gym membership and hoisting barbells, folks. We have some 3 pound dumbbells that I do a set of reps with. I just added some reps with the 5 pound weights. (We have a pair of 10-pounders, but trust me, they are not even on my horizon yet.) It is a totally different focus from walking and tai chi.

So that is four: weights daily. 

And within the last few days, totally unexpectedly, I have added a daily dose of meditative talk by Thich Nhat Hanh, a renown Buddhist monk and peace activist. Hanh died in 2022. I had read some of his books before his death, so when his name popped up in my YouTube feed, I clicked on it.

And was immediately drawn in.

The episodes, put out by the Plum Village Monastery (which Hanh helped cofound in the 1980s), are small, only 5 to 6 minutes each. Each is just one small teaching, one little gem of thought. I have only seen three, but that is already enough for me to understand Hanh's Vietnamese-accented English better.

So that is five: daily Buddhist moments.

Anne Lamott, who writes often about issues of belief and faith, talked about a friend who considered themselves "Jew-ish," as in not fully immersed in the religion but believing in elements of it. I think she also talked about Jew-ish friends who also were drawn to Buddhism in the same way; she may have called them (or they called themselves) "Bu-Jews." I can see that combination working for me: continuing to follow the Jewish imperative to mend the broken world and finding solace and focus in the Buddhist teachings.

There has been a lot (A. Lot.) of things going on in my sphere—watching out for my aging father and his needs (and while he is doing great for 93, the decline is more obvious); keeping his sister, my beloved Aunt Gail, informed; boosting (along with others) a very close friend who has hit a hard brick wall not of her own making; herding the Justice Bus volunteers; Warren's extremely busy schedule between his booming business and his college teaching starting up in a few more weeks. To name a few. I miss my children and their families. I am not keeping up on the household, on the garden, on...let's face it. On much of anything. 

But tai chi, walking, weights, "Jupiter," and Thich Nhat Hanh: those are a start. Those may be the things I need to find on this quest for myself. 

After the Fog

I was at my PCP's office last week and shared with her the gray fog depression that had wrapped itself around me. After ascertaining that I was stable, my doctor said, "And let's not overlook that it's wintertime and that can add to depression what with the grayness and cold."

I burst out laughing. "Winter is my 2nd favorite season," I said. "Not a factor!" 

Melissa didn't miss a beat. "You just always have to be different, don't you?" And then we both laughed.

In the last few days, the gray fog has disappeared. Disappeared, not just moved over to the side to descend upon me again. I feel I am back to my non-depressed self with a normal (for me, given Melissa's observation about me never being "normal") range of emotions. 

And it does not surprise me one bit to say that I owe this lifting to—what else?—books, two that I just read and one that I am finishing shortly. 

The first is Tracy Kidder's latest: Rough Sleepers: Dr. Jim O'Connell's Urgent Mission to Bring Healing to Homeless People. I am a huge Kidder fan from way back and this book is no exception to his superb eyes, ears, and pen in capturing the story. Kidder's portrayal of a doctor whose career has been dedicated to treating homeless people in Boston is stunning and I heartily recommend it.

Besides the sweep of the story Kidder tells, a tiny piece that captured me was a retelling of the story of Sisyphus, condemned in Greek mythology to push a massive boulder up a steep incline to place it on top, thus freeing him from the ordeal, only to see the boulder roll down and away just as he reaches the summit, dooming him to start all over the next day. Dr. O'Connell, however, talks about a reinterpretation of the tale by existentialist writer Albert Camus: "The struggle itself toward the height is enough to fill a man's heart. One must imagine Sisyphus happy."

Sisyphus happy. Oh, oh, oh.

Upon finishing Kidder's book I began HumanKind: Changing the World One Small Act at a Time by Brad Aronson. I had brought it to one of Warren's rehearsals, along with the Kidder, knowing I'd finish the Kidder before the rehearsal ended.  I read the last lines in Rough Sleepers and opened the Aronson. How far did I get before I was in tears? Not far.

Aronson writes movingly and passionately about acts of kindness: some huge, many tiny, but all just acts of kindness towards others. How tiny? Just smiling at people as you pass them on the street or in a store aisle. What moved me deeply was the affirmation for me that small acts do make a difference. This book reinforced my commitment to tikkun olam (mending the world) and underscores what the Talmud emphasizes: the small acts, the small steps, are just as important to take as acts far beyond many of us (think of Martin Luther King, Jr.). We are not "excused" from tikkun olam because we cannot fix the whole world. Instead, the obligation on me as a Jew is, quite simply, just do it. Daily. 

After finishing Aronson Saturday night while Warren was at another rehearsal and concert, I began the third book, Class Cultures and Social Mobility: The Hidden Strengths of Working-Class First Generation Graduates by Paul Dean, a professor at Ohio Wesleyan University here in Delaware.

Oh my. 

Several years ago, I wrote about being a first-gen college student, about still identifying myself as a working class person, and about navigating life through that perspective. 

And now I am reading about those same realities, feelings, and issues in this new work. As I read, I am nodding my head in agreement at what Dean (who is also a first-gen) writes. I feel seen. I feel validated. And, just so you know, I was one of the many individuals that Dean interviewed, so at times I truly see myself. 

I truly believe these books are why my depression has finally lifted. Despite the larger matters that weigh on me (and have not gone away), I'm still here. And I am still mending the world, my world, in small steps and bits that matter. Camus had it right about Sisyphus: the joy was in reaching that summit every single day, then walking back down the hill to start again the next day. 

I can do that. 

Frugality? Therapy?

Maybe both?

I have been a longtime reader of Katy Wolk-Stanley's blog, The Non-Consumer Advocate. Over the years, she has more than once posted about her extending the life of socks and other knitted materials by darning them.

As I make known far and wide, I don't sew. I don't knit, crochet, or weave. I don't craft, period. Just not within my skill set. I admire those who do, but again, I can't do it. I can mend a tear or replace a button, but that is pretty much the limit of what I can do.

So why was I sitting last night mending a tear in a wool cap I wear often this time of year? 

One reason was because it is COLD outside. I walk a lot. A. Lot. And I need something warm and toasty that keeps my head warm.

Another reason was because the area in need of repair was small. The opening was about the size of my thumb. Okay, even I could do that. 

Another reason was sentimentality. My son Benjamin, about to turn 40, received this cap as a birthday present at, I think, a birthday party with friends when he turned 11. Or maybe 12. Whichever. The bottom line is the cap has been in my closet for years and I have worn it regularly for the last 20 or so. 

One final reason is that, although I do not knit or sew or other, I am married to a skilled, artistic, talented craftsman who has been making custom mallets for himself and others for decades. Decades? Like five of them. The keyboard mallet heads are wrapped over and over in yarn. As a result, the yarn was already in the house. All I had to do was ask.

So, there I sat quietly, mending, taking great satisfaction in taking care of a small task.

A small, concrete task.

A small, concrete task that I could focus on. Draw satisfaction from. Finish. 

Ever read a book where a sentence or a sentiment or a concept leaps off the page and grabs you? That is not an uncommon experience for me and it happened several weeks ago when I read Rabbi Angela Buchdahl's stunning memoir Heart of the Stranger. She ends each chapter with a mini-sermon ruminating on a Hebrew word and its importance in Judaism. The word at the end of one chapter was simcha (joy) and she reflected on the importance of finding joy even in the midst of hard times and sorrow and depression. 

Buchdahl quotes Søren Kierkegaard: "It takes moral courage to grieve, it takes religious courage to be joyful." She then write about Hasidic Rabbi Nachman of Breslov, who struggled with depression and wrote that even when one did not feel happy, they should act happy and "genuine joy will follow."

That was not the part of her writing that caught me. It was her discussion with Alan Schlechter, an NYU professor, and his observation that Nachman's response is a major therapeutic tool in treating depression and is called "behavioral activation." "The method insists we start doing the things that bring us joy, even if they are not making us feel the way they used to. In the doing, the feelings will change," he told her.

Behavioral activation! That is where I leaped off the chair. Well, leaped figuratively. What I actually did was grab my Chromebook and Google "behavioral activation." Within a few minutes, I was looking at a sample worksheet and burst into laughter. The first page was suggested activities, the following pages contained a log to chart one's activities and to assess how one felt after a week of such deliberate actions.

My laughter? I have been treating myself by behavioral activation for weeks now, without knowing I was doing it. Small, deliberate tasks. Running an errand. Cleaning up the kitchen. Organizing the paperwork messes that pile up in my study. 

And mending a hat that came into my life years ago.

It's a Good Life

In the tangle, still some tomatoes! 

"It's a good life," my dad said as he and I parted today, Dad to go up to lunch in the dining room and me to walk home.

I about fell over when he said that, but recovered quickly enough to say, "It is indeed. See you soon." My surprise was that I had never ever heard him say anything even remotely resembling that thought. But he clearly meant it and today I needed to hear that message. 

My morning emotions started out grayer than they have been as of late (and they have not been bright and sunny in recent days). How gray? I got ready to walk out the door to run an early morning errand, then came to a standstill in our living room. I took the car keys out of my pocket and took off my jacket. I plopped down on a chair and called up to Warren, "I'm not going to Kroger." "Are you okay?" "No." Warren came down the stairs with concern. "What's wrong?" "I feel like I'm ready to cry."

No specific reason. I was just ready to cry.

I did not cry. I "pulled myself together" and did some small chores: collecting all the fans we had used during the summer (five total) to ready them for their winter hiatus in our attic; collecting, folding, and putting away the fabric we use on our east and west windows in the summer to cut down on the direct heat from the bright sun (nine pieces total). Then I walked to Dad's apartment and spent time with him until, as I got ready to leave, he surprised me with his comment about this being a good life.

I thought about my dad's words as I walked home. The sun was out, the temperature was cool, fall is definitely setting in.  Just being outside in the sun lifted some of the grayness. I ran into one of my long-ago DI kids, now on the edge of 40 (40? How did these kids get to be 40?) and we hugged one another. "Tell Ben I said hi," she said as we parted.

Warren was getting ready to leave for class when I walked through the door, so talk was brief and most of it would have to wait. I did manage to tell him what Dad said about it being a good life, and Warren smiled. "Sure is."

After Warren drove off, I could feel the grayness starting to gather again. So after a quick lunch, I focused on concrete tasks, some inside and some outside. After starting a load of towels, I retreated to the kitchen garden and spent time in bee therapy. There were not a lot of bees in the basil today, but the ones that were there were hard at work. As for me, after sitting on the bee stool for a bit, I turned to my own outside tasks. Okay, I was not collecting pollen, but I did trim and clear out overgrown tomato vines, as well as repair the bee stool (it had come into our life broken). Will the duct tape hold it until the bees are gone for the season? Probably.

Somewhere between cutting and cleaning out many of the overgrown tomato vines (and finding more tomatoes within) and folding the now dry laundry, the grayness lifted a little more.

It is late in the evening as I type these words. Other obligations and events filled the rest of the afternoon and early evening. I have stayed steady. The big event was a community gathering to discuss food, food security, food insecurity. It was an emotional discussion for those of us in the room (some representing local non-profits, others there because of their own passion and commitment to help others). It is a topic close to my heart. In many ways, it was the absolute best way for me to spend an hour, talking with others (we broke into groups) about how this community (our city, Delaware) both sees and does not see the hurdles and issues for making sure all have access to food and, in a larger sense, all are welcome at the table. Warren was there beside me, adding his observations about the greater community and its needs. I saw familiar faces, I saw new faces, and it was a welcome and needed affirmation that giving my time and heart to this community is what sustains and feeds me.

Afterwards, we ran that Kroger errand I had set aside this morning. It was cold, it was rainy, we were both chilled and exhausted. "Turn into KFC," I said. "We need something warm and ready to eat." [Note: Yes, KFC is a guilty pleasure that we very occasionally indulge in.] Once home, we hurried into the house, turned on the furnace for the first time this fall, and ate our supper quietly, grateful for the heat, the warm food, and, most important, one another.

It IS a good life. 

Bee Therapy

My basil patch in full flower

I have been writing a lot (A. Lot.) lately about focusing on small things to center myself. There is a lot of noise and overload on many fronts, and some large family matters (my side of the family) that have really hit hard and, in my case, triggered my PTSD. Warren has been giving me support and comfort; we earlier this month passed our 17th wedding anniversary and I am daily aware of how much light and joy and love and strength he gives me. 

Even without a wedding anniversary, I am so grateful for what he has given me; he lifts me up. All the same, and this is one of those times, I sometimes stumble and fall back into those outside matters. So I think I caught him a little off guard yesterday when I said that I had thought of maybe going back to therapy.

After saying that out loud (as things sound different when spoken outside of our head), I thought back to the things I had learned 22+ years ago with my brilliant therapist. Can I do this, "this" being work through where I am, using those lessons? 

Later that afternoon, as I turned over the therapy question in my mind, I said to Warren, "I have an idea of how to move forward." 

Warren looked at me. "And...?"

"Bee therapy."

Bee therapy? Yes, bee therapy. 

I always let the basil patch go to flower in the fall and this year is no exception. As we move deeper into the fall, the bees take over the basil flowers.

So after announcing that, I grabbed a garden stool (thank you, Amanda!) and set it in the garden in the recently cleared lettuce patch, which is right next to the basil patch. I then sat down and waited.

But not for long. 

A Sunday bee

At this time of year, in the basil patch, bees fly in, bees fly out. Bees burrow their heads deep in the basil flowers then pull out, go sideways or up or down to another. Repeat.

I repeated therapy again today, albeit early afternoon when the sun was on the patch and it was considerably warmer. Yesterday in the cooling air there were perhaps a half-dozen bees. Today, in the full sun, I counted over two dozen. 

A bee today

Bee therapy.

As I watch them and their singular focus, my mind slows down. My body relaxes. Bit by bit, I find myself letting go of the emotional bundle I am holding.

I hope we are in for a very long autumn. As I mentioned in my last post, we just had our first frost. It was a light one, but frost is frost. I know at some point the bees will disappear for the year. Some of them are already showing their lifespan is growing short.  I even petted a bee yesterday. It had landed on a stem before I got out there and was clearly too tired and worn to lift off. I touched it very gently and it wiggled, slowly, one antenna, but did not move.  

Bee therapy. Who knew? 

"I'm ready for my closeup..."

"You Are Enough"

The frozen lake

A long-sleeved tee was in the gift shop in Eisenberg Building at Mayo Clinic. Across its front were the words "You are enough." When I walked past it this past Monday, I told Warren I needed to tell myself that more regularly: "April, you are enough."

We returned home Wednesday evening from a trip to my Emerald City (Mayo Clinic in Rochester, Minnesota). We left last Friday to visit Ann and David, now very close friends, in northern Wisconsin, made our way to Oz for two days, then on to Milwaukee, where Warren had an instrument to deliver to the University of Wisconsin Milwaukee. I wrote some of this post Sunday evening, some more on Monday evening, and am now getting around to finishing it today.

The time in northern Wisconsin was stunning, incredible, amazing. We went there on a heartfelt invitation from a retired symphony Executive Director to Warren on his retirement. The visit was two days of wonderful food, laughter, tears, deep conversations on music, life, language, and implicit bias, a walk across a frozen lake, sharing books, family stories, and more. It was one of the very best times we have ever spent with another couple. It was with heartfelt hugs we said our thanks and drove away Sunday midday to Rochester.

By the time we arrived in Rochester late in the afternoon, I was spent. Warren and I had stubbed our emotional toes as we began the trek, a verbal miscue resulting in a long silent trip with mixed emotions hanging heavy in the air. When we got into our hotel room and after eating supper quietly, we were ready to begin to get back on the same page. As we talked, I surprised myself by saying, slowly, "And I may be dealing with a little depression."

My brilliant therapist Doug, now from over two decades ago, and I talked about depression and that I occasionally experienced what he diagnosed as "situational depression" (as compared to an Axis 1 major depression). He felt strongly that I knew when it happened, what it felt like, and how to first cope and then move beyond it. 

So why now? I thought about that Sunday evening and on into the week. I can toss up several thoughts: the geographical distance of my family and concerns about their personal safety in this country, growing responsibility for my aging father, the screeds in social media (so much so that I am leaning towards deactivating my Facebook account; I don't need to be yelled at about the current administration; trust me, I know): all that and more. 

But without ignoring any of those concerns, I need to move forward, focusing on where I am able to help mend the broken world in my immediate community and family. As the Talmud reminds me, it is not my responsibility to finish the work of perfecting the world, but I am not free to desist from that work either. (From Pirkei Avot.) Taking those words apart and applying them to my feelings, just because I am not able to fix the broken world, I need not dismiss my efforts and work in my sphere, in my life.

As I finish typing this in Friday morning, my mood has shifted as I look into what is ahead of me in the next few months, from legal clinics (the hot sandwiches to go at February's Justice Bus were a hit and I will be repeating that this coming March) to family matters to Warren's brilliant work to this year's garden. (And for those of you who are wondering, the medical front continues to be steady as she goes, to the great delight of all.)

A Hyer Percussion Products; note the university logo on the end piece!

So, back to where this started. "You are enough." I don't need a shirt to remind myself that. And, as Doug worked with me on so many years ago, I have the capacity to deal with whatever this is. I am enough.  

Of Dragons' Tails and Corn Bags

We saw in the New Year in the best way possible: sitting outside around a fire with our close friends Margo and Gerald. By the time 2011 was down to its last hour, the night sky had cleared and the stars had grown bright. Gerald came back from taking the dog in and announced that the Big Dipper was prominent in the northeast; I joined him in the yard and picked out Orion in the south.

When the New Year came, we all kissed our spouses. There were fireworks on the horizon in several directions. Warren and Gerald poked the fire until we could safely leave it to burn out. We said our goodnights, exchanged hugs and best wishes, and then my dear husband and I drove home in 2012, smelling of wood smoke and friendship.

The next day, I read a line in an old New Yorker that the "happiest civilizations had existed in the age of Homer, when the starry sky was the map of all possible paths." Certainly it seemed that way the night before as we watched the stars wheel by.

I have been reading the Byron Blakely biography of the writer, John Cheever. It is not the first biography of Cheever I have ever read, but it is the best. It presents an intricately detailed and ultimately sympathetic portrait of Cheever, who was a very complex individual on his best days. That alone is an achievement. But what Blakely does particularly well is make the reader see the beauty and structure of Cheever's prose. It is akin to Blakely placing a hummingbird in your hands for the briefest of seconds and then telling you to release it to the garden.

One such hummingbird is this excerpt from Cheever's essay, "A Miscellany of Characters That Will Not Appear." Cheever is describing the ascent and descent of an imaginary popular writer and criticizes the final works thusly:

You might say that he had lost the gift of evoking the perfumes of life: sea water, the smoke of burning hemlock, and the breasts of women. He had damaged, you might say, the ear's innermost chamber, where we hear the heavy noise of the dragon's tail moving over the dead leaves.

I have read those two sentences over and over for the last few days. I read them and smell the ocean. I read them and recall the smoke of New Year's Eve. I read them and hear the dragon's tail moving over the dead leaves.

I have written very little in the last few months. Chalk it up to any number of reasons: the press of life, family issues, Warren's and my schedules, niggling little medical problems that have put me in medical offices, the needs and demands of others, a lingering and persistent depression threaded through the holiday season. I pick up a pen to write, then set it aside. My inner ear is not damaged, but I am not listening well. I am mistaking the rumble of the weekly garbage truck for the heavy noise of the dragon's tail.

As I often do when in this place, I am scaling back everywhere I can, cutting the daily demands down to the smallest size possible. I am focusing on the small moments: writing letters to close friends, cooking savory meals, paying attention to the intense blue of the daytime sky when I am outside. My smallest moment occurs each evening when I warm a corn bag in the microwave and then read with it on my lap. (Corn bags, for the uninitiated, are large pieces of terry cloth (bigger than a washcloth, smaller than a dishtowel) sewed first to make a sack, partially filled with dried field corn, and then sewn shut.) A warmed corn bag has the weight of a fat puppy and the smell of a corncrib on a hot day. It radiates heat and comfort far beyond the physical. When bedtime draws close, we warm up several such bags and throw them under the bedclothes to take off the chill. I often drift off to sleep with the smell of harvest time lacing the air.

2012 holds great promise, I hope and believe. For now, though, it is just beyond the tip of my pen. For now I can only trust that I am building up a store of ideas and impressions and sentences. Somewhere there is sea water. Somewhere there is the sound of the heavy dragon's tail moving over dead leaves. Somewhere I will return to writing.

To the Peaky Mountain

Zora Neale Hurston, Drumming

Monday was one of those days. You know, the never quite get it into gear, really tired, where did the weekend go?, somewhat numb kind of day that all of us stub our toes on every now and then. Well, Monday was that day for me. (Still is, even though it is no longer Monday.)

The weekend was way, way full. Warren had rehearsals and a concert in a city about an hour from here. The concert was an all Rodgers & Hammerstein evening. Now, I like R & H. I mean, really like them. Sigh. This was an inconsistent performance. Some of it was excellent (a couple of the soloists were superb), some of it was good, and some of it was, well, never mind. I will only say I have never heard "Oklahoma" sung at quite that tempo. You could not only spell "Oklahoma" but could probably embroider it to boot before the song finished. Between the rehearsals (Thursday and Friday) and the concert (Saturday), there were a lot of late, late nights.

As a result, I don’t really remember the weekend. Was there one? I know I got to Monday morning and said to Warren "I need a weekend now." Boy, do I ever.

Monday was made longer by my rising earlier than usual to take Aunt Ginger to the hospital for some pre-surgical testing. She sailed through without a hitch, looking unusually bright-eyed and perky (anxiety brings out her coloring). I hope I look half that good in five years when I turn 60, let alone if I ever reach almost 82.

So by the time I reached Monday night, I was beat. Exhausted. Worn out. I made oatmeal cookies for Tuesday’s legal clinic, I finished reading an excellent biography about Zora Neale Hurston (Wrapped in Rainbows by Valerie Boyd), I thought about but did not pick the tomatoes and beans. (It was evening. The mosquitoes were out. I hate mosquitoes.)

A day later, I am less physically tired, but my mood remains all over the floor. Limp. Worn out. I poke it around the edges. Sad? Depressed? Definitely on the numb side. I feel as if I have a lot on my mind, but nothing yet I can really catch up and deal with. (Or, perhaps more truthfully, nothing I am ready to catch up in my hands and deal with. Dealing with stuff is hard work.)

The biography I just finished started with a quote by Zora that I have long known: I have been in Sorrow's kitchen and licked out all the pots. What I didn’t know until I read this book is that there is more to the quote then that. 

I have been in Sorrow's kitchen and licked out all the pots. Then I have stood on the peaky mountain wrapped in rainbows, with a harp and sword in my hands. [From Dust Tracks on the Road, 1942.]

As I emailed Warren this morning, right now I seem to be in Sorrow's kitchen, licking out all the pots. I need to move myself forward to the rest of that quote. I want to be wrapped in rainbows, with a harp and a sword in hand, standing on the peaky mountain.

Letting in the Light

"Blessed are the cracks, for they shall let the light in."

I have carried that quote around in one of my notebooks for years. It is a good place to start today. This morning, despite the heavy, gray overcast, there were cracks in the cloud cover which were luminous with the early light. I stood for several long moments at the back deck door, just looking.

Last night was our monthly legal clinic. Clinic night is always a reminder that despite my tiredness, physical or otherwise, so many others out there are carrying far heavier burdens. They come to the clinic looking for advice, looking for hope, looking for a place in which to lay down those bundles of worry and dead ends, even if only for an hour. We give them coffee and comfort, cookies and counsel, before sending them back out into the world again.

Working at the clinic does not "cure" my depression, but it softens it by helping me gain a fresh perspective. It cracks open the soft gray in which I am wrapped and lets the light enter.

Thoreau ends Walden on a Transcendentalist note: The sun is but a morning star. As I type these words, it is early afternoon and the room has suddenly brightened. I look up from the screen. The sky is blue and clear; the morning star is shining bright.

A Note on Journeying

My last post worried Warren, more than he was willing to admit at first. But it was obvious within some five minutes of his coming home for supper last night that it was gnawing at him.

What bothered him the most was my use of the word "journey" repeatedly.

I didn't get it (or him) at first. But I'm not taking a physical journey, I said. I'm staying right here. I'm just traveling in spirit.

That didn't seem to allay his concerns.

After some discussion, I think I finally understood what he was trying to tell me. One, Warren thinks he and I are on a "pretty amazing journey" ourselves, that being our marriage, and there is a little pang that I feel the need to journey in other ways. Two, he has seen others head down different paths with all good intentions and then find themselves too far apart to ever put the bond back together.

If he hadn't been so heartfelt on that last comment, I would have wrapped my arms around him and said "silly Warren." Instead, I just hugged him close and said "you know better."

We talked a little more about my view of spirituality and about our mutual commitments to this relationship. Warren then headed off to the monthly Symphony board meeting. These are tight times for the Symphony and Warren has been spending many, many hours beyond the office week working on various issues. While he was away, I baked for tonight's legal clinic. The rhythm of baking, sliding the cookie sheets in and out of the oven, gave me plenty of time to think about our conversation and to explore further my own thoughts.

When Warren came home, chilled and exhausted, we shared heart cookies, hot chocolate, and some more talk. Because of events in my life before Warren, I needed reassurance that we were "okay." (This was one of those nights in which the Ghost of Relationships Past sat down on the couch to eavesdrop.)  I also needed to voice what I was feeling.

I shared with Warren that I have struggled emotionally more this winter than perhaps he has known, even if he has sensed it. Given the weight of the Symphony matters, I have kept somewhat quiet in recent months when it comes to talking about my personal concerns. Fairly or unfairly to him, my thinking has been "Warren has enough on his plate already; he doesn't need this." So I have masked my moods as "exhaustion" and spoken somewhat vaguely of how tired I am and how hard it has been to keep up with him this winter.

That is not untrue, but a more honest label would be "depression." Not serious (I am blessed that it rarely is) and not omnipresent, but depression nonetheless.

It is what it is. Not the first time, not the last time. Just there.

This morning as I drove to swim, I felt the gray mood settle gently on me, despite the brilliant sunshine, despite a quiet breakfast with Warren just minutes earlier. I said aloud the words I ended yesterday's post with: Go where your best prayers take you…Unclench the fists of your spirit…Breathe deep of the glad air.

In this winter of my discontent, it is solace to intentionally, purposefully carve out time to read and reflect on words such as these.

I can't be on all of Warren's journeys and he can't be on all of mine. We are blessed to share many of them, the most precious one being our marriage. As I finish this post, I breathe deep of the glad air, knowing that at least one of my best prayers took me to where I am today, alongside Warren.

Feeding My Soul

I grew up in a household in which the magazine du jour was Reader's Digest. Being even then an avid reader - the kind who will read the backs of cereal boxes if need be - I read them every month. Having the type of mind I do - the garbage can kind that holds all kinds of small bits and pieces of useless information thrown into it over the years - I still remember a few articles from way back when.

One of them was written by a wife describing her husband's purchase of a lavender Cadillac, despite their financial insecurity at the time, and how she overcame her concerns about paying the rent and feeding the kids to enjoy the joyous inauguration ride. The author cited a Hindu proverb: "If you have two loafs of bread, give one to the poor and sell the other to buy hyacinths to feed your soul."

Many years later, the proverb still resonates with me. (The story still sticks with me too, but for different reasons. Did they pay their rent or were they evicted? What did the kids eat? Did she eventually grow tired of the lavender Cadillac and his irresponsible ways? Did they stay married?)

I always liked the image of feeding one's soul with flowers. I always liked the realization that sometimes you need more than bread, or need something other than bread, to keep going.

That quote has been on my mind a lot in recent weeks. It has shadowed me all day today. It swam alongside me this morning at the Y; it accompanied me as I walked to and from a midday downtown coffee date. I kept turning the quote over in my mind, and before I got home, I figured out I'd better be finding some hyacinths.

Lately, I have been dealing with a touch of depression. Not so black and suffocating that I cannot draw a breath that is not raggedy, not so omnipresent that I cannot do anything other than stare out the window, but depression all the same.

Depression and I are old friends. I have been fortunate not to suffer heavily from it; we have a respectful relationship at this point in my life. Generally I have found my bouts with it to be times of self-reflection, albeit times when my world has the sound turned off and the color missing.

Right now the colors are merely muted and the sounds turned down.

It has been a busy spring - too busy in some ways, and too tiring in others. Between work and the Symphony and our respective children and Life in general, both Warren and I have had overfull plates for weeks on end. As of late, Warren has been building a shed - 12 x 14 - and that has dominated our free time. I am helping on the periphery of the project, not as much as I would like but as much as I am capable, and that along with gardening and other homefront tasks has hit me hard in the exhaustion and overdoing it departments.

Exhaustion and overdoing it are depression triggers for me.

Another trigger is Sam, who has now been out in Oregon for about 7 weeks. We talked today and he is struggling a little at his end: looking for work, worrying about putting food on the table. I am so proud of him for making the leap. All the same, I miss him tremendously and worry about him as he moves into adulthood.

Warren does a wonderful job taking care of me. He is concerned about my mood and trying hard not to hover too much. I have explained to him that for this type of sadness, I have to work through it on my own at times, as it keeps its own schedule and its own company.

And working through it brings me back to the opening quote about buying hyacinths to feed one's soul. I recently learned that there is a very similar quote in the Koran:

If of all your worldly goods you are bereft,
and two loaves of bread alone to you are left;
sell one, and with the dole,
buy hyacinths to feed your soul.

I like the Hindu version better. Giving one loaf to the poor fits more with my own beliefs. Still, I appreciate that two world religions found caring for one's inner needs to be of such importance that it triumphs over food.

It's not hyacinth season in Ohio. The days are turning hotter and more humid; the stores are selling flats of summer annuals. While driving out of the Westfield parking lot yesterday, I glanced over at the Kroger seasonal garden center. The petunias were in tiers of colors: pink, red, white, blue, purple, lavender. The colors were so crisp that they sliced through my muted mood sharply and quickly, so much so that I wheeled back into the lot and jumped out of the car.

There are now three flats of petunias on the rear deck. In a moment, I will pick up a trowel and head outside. There are flower containers to fill.

And my soul to feed. Petunias will do so just fine.