Category: Home

Remember When

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I find it funny that after three years I’m still laughing and losing it. Marriage hasn’t changed you. Marriage hasn’t changed me. Yet, marriage has changed us. Us as who we are together. I find that funny.
I spent 74 minutes on the phone remembering September 18th, 2004. The tent, the guests, the chef, the weather (oh, the weather!) The island had a wedding exactly like ours almost on the same day. Same tent, same weather, same chef, some same guests. We made comparisons back and forth, forth and back again. Ping ponging “remember whens” at each other. “But, her sunset wasn’t as nice” my mother sniffed. She’s just giving My sunset preferential treatment because I’m her daughter, so in a weird way it was her sunset, too. I’m sure it was just as beautiful for the newly pronounced Mr. & Mrs. of September 2007, too. Everything would be remembered as utterly gorgeous on that day. Even if it wasn’t.

Dreams of Diego

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My cousin is getting married. We could say “finally” but that wouldn’t polite. It’s our next big trip and I can’t wait. Hello, southern Cali! I love the west side of where we are and now I’m wondering if we can’t sneak in some southwest while we’re at it. Arizona? New Mexico? Nevada? I’m not a big fan of BigCityBrightLights and all that, but Vegas could be fun…for the food. Doesn’t Emeril have something out that way? I want to buy something turquoise, just to say I was there. I want cowboy boots in black. I want to see the Painted Desert – the place where Natalie says “the stars are so many they seem to overlap.” I wonder if they would rival Monhegan’s celestial night, but we’ll see. Speaking of rivalries, I want to see the San Diego zoo. Could it go head to head with my beloved Bronx? I want to see the Diego library. Five years ago Library Journal pronounced it the best library in the country. It’s public, but I’m not prejudice [inside joke for all those paying attention to my earlier rants, haha 😉 ]
Okay, so I’m suppose to go for my cousin’s wedding but here’s what I’m looking for: great food, beautiful animals, a plethora of books and the big, wide ocean. Not necessarily in that order.

ps~ The above pic is actually Colorado, taken by kisa. The only “western” pic I have on flickr…

Monhegan House Lights

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This is our last night home. A big dinner with friends and a rainy walk home in the dark. We’re not tourists so we shrug off offers of raincoats and laugh off offers of flashlights. Don’t be ridiculous. We don’t need no stinkin’ flashlights! Laughter all around. Passing darkened houses I can remember feeling nostalgic, romantic on that walk home. The last night home is always like that. Every stone in the road is a well known marker for where we are, where we are going. I relish the soft rain and heavy salt air. Standing before the Monhegan House I remember this is where we got married, where we celebrated well into the night. I can hear the music pounding, the clinking of wine glasses, champagne toasts, tuaca shots, the laughter floating out into the night, the love swirling up to the heavens. I imagine my father, ethereal in the clouds, reaching down to catch my prayers wrapped in bittersweet smiles. I imagine the tourists in their guestrooms. Are they reading dogeared fiction, writing in journals about the day’s hike, examining bird books, touching up paintings created on the backside, or sleeping with the lights on? I try to imagine being a real tourist, here for the first time. What would I think of this place on my first night here? I’m always curious about what brings people here in the first place. Only, it’s not my first night here. It’s my last. Hand in hand we walk back to the cottage. Kisa senses my heavy heart and puts his arm around my shoulder. Glancing back at the MH it’s lit up like a pumpkin. My thoughts turn to fall. I’ll be back.

Black Blame Game

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This. This picture is what I thought about when trying to meditate at Now & Zen Yoga studio last night. It looks like a whole lot nothing, a clear mind…but look carefully. Something is there. Something lurks. Just like in my head, something was on the fringe of calm; just on the edge of quiet. Blame. Ruth called it Wanting vs. Not Wanting. Like a psychobabble tennis match, I bounced between the two. I want to be as confident HERE as when I am THERE. I do not want to worry about this zit mutating on my chin. Why can’t I not worry about it HERE like I didn’t worry about it THERE? As this volleying went on I felt panic set in. I was slipping away from the calm and quiet I had so proudly achieved just moments before. Where was that peaceful easy feeling? Why was I thinking about how awful I am all of a sudden? The blame game was in full swing. Was I completely losing it? Was I stepping off the train and utterly missing the boat?
Fortunately, I was able to grab the bouncing ball and stop the guilt game for the rest of the session. But. but, but here it is again. In my court. Thanks to Ms. Klein. We write parallel blogs. Maybe not on the same days, but sooner or later we talk about similar things. Since I have missed a week of her writings I’m a few blogs behind. Today I read about fault. It took me by surprise because that was the very game that I was playing last night in the middle of a meditation class. Try as she might, Ms. Klein was not able to convince herself it was someone else’s fault. It always came back to her and the question of what she did wrong. Just like how I keep coming back to my split personality problem. I’m like a boater who doesn’t know how to skull, so I keep going around in circles with my one oar. Someone can tell me it’s a question of confidence. I’ve figured that one out on my own. Someone can tell me it’s an issue with comfort. I got that, too. I have all the answers. What I still don’t know is WHY.
Maybe some things aren’t meant to be figured out. Maybe being in the dark with only a hint of the answers is how it has to be. Maybe, in this one case, I need to let the mystery be. Oddly enough, this comforts me. It also brings out the creative thoughts in me. Who says I can’t be there permanently some day?

raindrops revive

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Third day home. We had the morning to hike our asses off; to get to the places we didn’t cover the day before. Cathedral to destroy fairy houses built in bad places (& rebuild for good), Gull Pond to ponder the gulls, Blackhead if only to get lost on deer trails, the lighthouse. Giant sandwiches for lunch. Giant appetites to match. I still can’t believe I could eat so much! When the storm crept across the sky we were already lounging across couches, groaning with bellies full and books cracked open. This picture was taken from my vantage point on the couch. We didn’t couldn’t move for hours.

The rain never bothers me at home. Things get a little muddy, but somehow the air tastes different after a good, good storm. The salt has been replaced by something sweeter. The stuff myths are made of. I can’t explain it anymore than that. The rain helped my equilibrium as well. The scales were being tipped in favor of here and, for once, there finally started to slip away.

Juggling Here and There

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Home on day two is always tricky. I am are waiting for street lights to change when the roads aren’t even paved. Traffic is on foot, a gang of overwhelmed artists not sure what to paint next. I step around them and move on. I am listening for a 7am wakeup call when the entire house doesn’t have a clock, alarm, wall, or otherwise (we recommend something). I am thinking the tapwater smells a little funny while the outdoor air smells wonderful. I can’t stop leaning out the kitchen window and inhaling. I am thinking I am missing something and then it dawns on me- I haven’t plugged into the internet, a cell phone or a television set in over 24 hours. Suddenly, there is small panic. I’ll miss The Closer! Who am I missing on myspace? How many emails are piling up on gmail? Yahoo!? Outlook? First Class? What about the blog(s)? Librarything? PostSecret?
Being home is a balance, a juggling act between here and there. I want to be here, but the residue of there is still sticky to the touch, nagging at the brain. It’s not easy to let the Dunkin’ Donuts coffee cup go. The commute to work is still the autopilot I think of.
It’s day two and I start to compromise. Half shave the legs, half comb the hair. Wear half clean clothes. Half think about that life over there and half concentrate on settling in. Crack open the book.
Day two and we hike the backside cliffs, finding mysteries along the way. Who built this thing and why? How long did it take? I can’t let the mystery be for there is a whole army of them, all juggling rocks and drift wood. All juggling here and there. Just like me.

Under the Tuscan Sun

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Mayes, Frances. Under the Tuscan Sun: At Home in Italy. New York: Broadway Books, 1997.Under the Tuscan Sun

Under the Tuscan Sun was made into a movie I have never seen, nor do I think I ever want to. I don’t see how the richness of Mayes’s Italy comes to life on the silver screen. I can’t picture the blood, sweat and tears of rebuilding a house; the glorious smells of garden fresh cooking; the love and laughter of enjoying one’s surroundings in moving pictures. I don’t see how Mayes’s  lush language is communicated. Really. Tuscan Sun is the journey of a woman (with the help of her second husband) to rebuild a Tuscan farmhouse. While she struggles with culture, language barriers and politics she falls in love with her Italian life. Try as I might I can’t see it as a movie. Okay, so now maybe I’ve convinced myself to see it out of curiosity!
I think I’m having trouble picturing a movie because I read Under the Tuscan Sun in my own personal paradise – by the dying light of fiery sunsets with the cadance of the surf as my only distractions. To say that I devoured Under the Tuscan Sun is an understatement. During the day I read it between hiking, eating, and breathing in my own love affair with a place. Every single time Mayes gushed about her Italian home I wanted to challenge her. I wanted to boast that it was I, not she, who was living the perfect life. On page 86 she says, “Where you are is who you are. The further inside you the place moves, the more your identity is intertwined with it. Never casual the choice of place is the choice of something you crave.” I found that quote so profound to my place I had to choke back tears. It is hard to explain arriving on Monhegan and reading those words on the very first night home. I had arrived to the only place my soul knows intimately. The only place where my whole being breathes a sigh of relief. Home is who I am, for sure. Later, I bought a guestbook for our rental cottage and wrote Mayes’s same words on the inside cover.

BookLust Twist: From More Book Lust in the chapter called “Ciao, Italia” (p 46). I like that Pearl describes Mayes adventure as a “love affair” (p 47). We’re both on the same page with this book.

My love affair:
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Sigh of this Soul

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This is my first night home. I remember being exhausted from not sleeping well the night before (I never can in a strange place); tired from traveling all day; tired from being on the water (boats always make me drowsy), and tired from that other life’s load. It was a relief to finally set it down.
We ordered pizza right off the boat. The Humble, large with mom. Sue set aside goat cheese and a decadent dessert for me. Chocolate and cream. We crowded around the dining room table and laughingly devoured it with wine. Welcome home. I felt like a six year old, like Queen Eloise. Skipping and giggling, giddy to be back where I belonged.
Later, Kisa and I slipped away to view the dying light of day, just the two of us, hand in hand. A simple hike to what I call Heather’s point. With arms around each other we talked the “what ifs” of living here, working here, loving here, being here for good. Wild fantasy and speculation gave way to silence as we pondered the possibilities. Lost in our own thoughts of what could be. On that first day nothing seemed impossible.

If I Could Give You

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If I could, I would give you the ocean for your birthday. I would bottle up every wide blue wave with love. Just for you, I would give you just one more day. If I could, I would give you another day of salty skin, fogbound sky and pounding surf. I would command the seas to rise just a little higher. Just for you. If I could, I would throw you a gull party with the loudest squawkers. Lobster tails and ears of corn for party favors. If no one comes we’ll entertain the crows, for one more day. If I could, I would find the finest purple seaglass and present it as a blooming flower. If I could, I would give you just one more day. If I could, I would buy you one more humble or whoopie pie…or maybe one of each. Just one more day.
Instead we’ll have Mocha dreams in a bed fit for a king…or at least a knight in shining armour.

Happy birthday, my love.

Joke of the Day…Is On Me

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Joke: What do you get when you combine an island off the coast of Maine and bunch of knitting yogis?

Punchline

They want $1,900 per person for this retreat. What if you have your own place to stay courtesy of Chez Mum and you don’t care for the touristy critter dinner? (I’m already getting one of those, complete with bib, in less than a week.) I’m curious to see what they’ll say. I’m also curious to see if it would be worth my while to run away from work during one of the busiest months, to knit and practice yoga in my hometown when I have knowledgeable, fun, beautiful people here who could do the same thing for, I’m guessing, way less.

The joke is on me because I want to do it, just to blend in with the crowd. I want the headline to read, “Local girl gone loco”; to see the community’s bemused faces when they realize I’m not home for the hell of it. They don’t know me as someone who knits, runs, practices yoga, goes on retreats…

Small House

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I met someone who doesn’t believe in fairies or faeries. He does not believe in the kind that gather in P’town, nor the ones we build houses for and make wishes to. Our fanciful ideas are nothing but overactive imaginations for the fairies or faeries of either kind, according to him. I have to say it again. According to him.
I guess after reading this news article I’m still thinking of that lie, “to each his own”, spoken like the truth, like it came from the heart.
I think it’s innovative to let the imagination fly. How enticing to think of what could be, what should be! I have to admit it bugs me when someone says no without considering the possibilities. A flat out no is like a stab to the heart. Where is the maybe? What happened to the we’ll see? Why not possibly? When can we try?
We build faery houses for no other reason than to feel like a kid again; to shirk duty and grownup ways…if only for an afternoon. Crouching down to balance stick to bark, building rock walkways and leafy beds. Taking it all oh so seriously. I remember the faery condo G and I made, imagining ours to be the biggest and the bestest. Awards were made for condos such as this, we thought.
Maybe this is where I learned my love of possibility, of taking dares with Yes. Where the only no heard is the one sandwiched between k and w of “I don’t kNOw.” Because even I don’t know leaves the door open, just a crack, for yes.

Cooking It Up

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I have been a cooking fiend. Last night was scallops and spaghetti sprinkled with chili peppers, cilantro, garlic and olive oil. Skewers of toasted sourdough and mozzarella cubes drizzled with garlic, lemon juice and butter. I’m addicted to gratins and fresh herbs lately. Fish poached in coconut cream and sesame seeds. It’s time to break out the smoker. Hickory chips are waiting to burn. Baked beans with smoky chipotles and bacon simmer with sweet brown sugar. It’s summertime, after all. Aint it funny how I’ve become so consumed by food?
I have a friend who can only be described as my food friend for we only meet for meals. Nothing more, nothing less. We don’t talk on the phone. We don’t see movies. We place all of our conversations in the company of food. Something new to talk about only goes with something good to taste. He wants me to try a deep fried hamburger. He’s the same one who wanted me to try goat testicles
Food circles my life and winds in and out of my days.
To celebrate the Closer I have wine (Merlot, of course) followed by one perfect RingDing. Kisa gets the other one. We lick chocolate off our fingers and smack our lips for a treat too small.
Before Rebecca shows it’s gourmet pizza and maybe now a rootbeer float after. I just need to find a better beer.
Then there are roadtrips. They require bottled water and smoky, salty beef jerky.
Monhegan means crab apples straight from the tree, blackberries from the bush, mocha whoopie pies and lobster by sunset’s dying glow.
If I lived in New Jersey I would want a Creations salad, a spicy italian sub or better yet, a shopping spree at Delicious Orchards. Picking perfect plums, soft gouda cheese and crusty sourdough bread. A picnic by the sea.
If I lived in Colorado it would be a Chipotles burrito chased by Fat Tire – bar none.
My most intimate moments are prefaced by food. Sharing spoonfuls of something good leading to something better. Leaning in over linguini to confess something deep.
Food has always hidden my denying ways. Picking walnuts out of a waldorf while breaking up; bringing the rest home to my sister. Holding an oversized mug of coffee with both hands, steam hiding my face as I hear about the cancer that is killing you. You can’t see my tears. Flinging tomatoes to swooping, squawking seagulls, pretending not to hear, yet I listen.

Feed me.

guiding me home

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Dear Dad,

Happy Father’s Day. This is your daughter telling you I thought of you today. If I were home I would lay flowers at your name. Red roses for remembrance. I remember you. Instead I paused to smell the blooms still on the bush, crushed the silky petals between my fingers and pretended to be running wild with mud speckled bare feet, tangled hair flying behind; I heard you calling me home. I’m late for dinner again.

We spent the day on the water and I remembered a boat of a different shape, remembered water of a different color. I thought of skin bruised red by the sun, salty to the tongue. We picnicked on the waves and I thought of you, your laughing eyes behind dark sunglasses, your pocket knife hooked at the hip, your military issued blue shirt stained with grease as only a mechanic could. How you let me steer our way home. A spur of the moment navigation lesson.
We flew over the water and the spray was just the same. I could have been hanging over the Atlantic instead of a river. I leaned out to touch the flying droplets, searching the water’s surface for murky secrets, ghosts in the spray. As usual I didn’t find anything. I never find anything.
Tying at the dock I had one more brush with your past. “1500 hours, driven in by the rain. Lunch on the water aborted. Headed for home. 1512.”
Dear Dad, this is your daughter telling you I missed you today. Happy Father’s Day.

Planning Your Escape

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Sunday we planned our July island trip. Kisa & I met Bri & Stace for coffee, huevos rancheros, coffee, sunflower oatmeal toast, coffee and a little island planning. A leisurely two hour brunch. Not much to plan except what boat to take, what night to order lobsters and who’s in charge of pancakes for breakfast. Talking food was fun. Stace is going to make chicken parm, I mentioned a chili lime corn on the cob cooked on the grill…lobster in rolls or steamed straight up? Make-Your-Own-Tacos with lots and lots of ingredients. We are close enough to town to roll out of bed for chai and scones if no one wants to tackle the griddle, close enough to Sue’s amazing pizza for lunch.

My only other dilemma is what to books to bring…