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.

My Hero

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I have to blog about this. It might offend someone. No, it probably will offend someone. The truth is in-your-face dirty.
Years ago when I started the whole blog thing I had decided I would write about the first thing that came to my head – the first and only thing. That has been modified to include what’s important to me and what I simply cannot get off the brain. Writing is an effort to nudge some thoughts out of the head, get out what I can’t stop pondering. Here’s what is sticking right now: I have one prescription and I can bet you know what it’s for. Before Walgreens I would, once a month, TRY to remember to call ahead to get it refilled. Calling ahead meant I could run in, state my name, pay, and run back out. BingBangBoom. Sometimes, I would forget and would have to wait while some pimply teenage receptionist boy scrutinized my medical records and got the pharmacist to fill the prescription. This sit-and-wait episode would cause anxiety because of my overactive imagination. It wasn’t like I could pick up the prescription and go. Sitting and waiting meant they, the behind the counter pharmacy men, could put a face to a name, put a pill to person. Me. I am always painfully aware that this pill is a sex pill. Yes, it’s so I can have sex without having to agonize once a month over Am I? or Am I Not? Yeah. Yeah, it has other benefits like an easier time of the month, clearer skin and all that, but more importantly the pill spares me from peeing on a plastic stick and perspiring while expecting the blue line (or happy face or whatever it is these days). But, having to wait while the prescription is being filled is like wearing a sign. I have sex. I told you – overactive imagination at work here. I guess it’s like this for people with more embarrassing ailments, predicaments that a particular pill gives away. When the guy with an STD comes in I imagine the pharmacist shaking his head, thinking “you poor bastard” as he hands him his topical ointment.
So it comes down to this. Walgreens. I love Walgreens. I can’t believe how simple they have made my life. Instead of me calling them to fill the prescription, they call me. Automatically. No more calling ahead. No more forgetting to call ahead. It’s a beautiful thing.

1968: The Year That Rocked the World

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1968Kurlansky, Mark. 1968: The Year That Rocked the World. New York: Ballentine Books, 2004.

The year before I came into being. What an amazingly troubled yet vibrant time. There is very little that Kurlansky doesn’t cover. Everything you want to know about what changed world views is here. My favorite chapters were about the civil rights movement and the protesting that went on. From sit-ins and the feminist movement to Freedom Rides and every raised sign in between. Talk about voicing your opinion! Here are my favorite quote on the subject: “The protesters can be nonviolent, but they must evoke a violent reaction. If both sides are nonviolent, there is no story” (p. 38). For this very reason women had a hard time getting their January protest march on Washington documented. They weren’t violent enough.
The harder chapters to read were about politics and the Vietnam war, two very unavoidable subjects for 1968. Both carried the weight of violence and unbridled hatred. The Chicago convention in August…”miraculously, the clubbings in Chicago killed no one…At the same time, Vietnam had its worst week of the summer, with 308 Americans killed, 1,134 wounded, and an estimated 4,755 enemy soldiers killed” (p286).

BookLust Twist: In the chapter “The 1960s in Fact & Fiction” (p 179) from More Book Lust.

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?

Bastard out of Carolina

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Bastard out of CarolinaAllison, Dorothy. Bastard out of Carolina. New York: Penguin, 1993.

The only way I can describe how I felt after finishing Bastard is raw. Raw and used up. Maybe it’s because this is my second time reading it. Maybe it’s because I reread this in two days. I don’t know. There are a thousand different ways to describe the book itself: coming of age, looking for acceptance, southern, white trash poverty, motherhood gone by the wayside. It’s a nightmare of a mother loving a cruel stepfather (Pearl calls him “violent and predatory”) more than her own daughter. I could go on and on but that would only ruin the depression. Oddly enough, I loved it. I loved Bone’s defiant voice as she tried to make her way through life as the oldest daughter of young mother Anney. I loved her keen observance of her surroundings, “It was dangerous, that heat. It wanted to pour out and burn everything up, everything they had that we couldn’t have, everything that made them think they were better than us” (p 103).
The social commentary on men and women, men against women was poignant, too. “A man belongs to the woman who feeds him…the woman belongs to the ones she feeds” (p 157).

BookLust Twist: Bastard out of Carolina is mentioned twice in Nancy Pearl’s Book Lust. First, in the chapter called “Grit Lit” (p 106), and then in the chapter simply called “Southern Fiction” (p 222).

pps~ I was wondering if this was ever made into a movie and it has…back in 1996. Where have I been?

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.

Gift from the Sea

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GiftsLindbergh, Anne Morrow. Gift From the Sea. New York: Vintage Books, 1991.

I have to say this is something every woman should read annually. The words and their meaning will change every single time and they will be different for every reader. In the simpliest of terms Gift From the Sea uses seashells, (whelk, moon shell, oyster) all gifts from the sea, as metaphors for life, vehicles for deeper thoughts. On vacation (ironically on an island, like me) Anne picks seashells and ponders religion, relationships, growing old, being young, nature, love and marriage…She picks at nagging thoughts like scabs, letting them bleed, revealing raw emotion and a tender heart. Here are a few of my favorite quotes:

“…I think best with a pencil in my hand” (p 9). I agree!
“…I have shed the shell of my life for these few weeks of vacation” (p 22). Since I was on vacation when I read that I had to smile because it happens to me, too.
“…social life is exhausting; one is wearing a mask” (p 32). Very true! Couldn’t have said it better myself.
“And since our communication seems more important to us than our chores, the chores are done without thinking” (p 100).

I read this in an afternoon. Gulls cried overhead, sea air salted my skin, waves crashed in the distance. It was the perfect setting for Gift from the Sea.

BookLust Twist: From the chapter called “Journals and Letters: We Are All Voyeurs at Heart” (p 130). I swear on everything holy I did NOT have More Book Lust with me when I wrote this review. I was still home without any of my Pearl books. So, I was incredibly surprised to read these words from Pearl, “Some of us still reread them yearly to remind ourselves of what’s important in this frantic world” (p 131). Pearl is referring to everything written by Lindbergh, but I had the exact same thought specifically about Gift from the Sea. Gift from the Sea is also in Book Lust in the chapter, “100 Good Reads, Decade by Decade” (p 175).

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.

Autobiography of a Face

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AutobiographyGrealy, Lucy. Autobiography of a Face.New York: HarperCollins, 2003.

I had all the right conditions to finish this book in two days – traveling, vacationing, but most of all, fascination. I couldn’t put it down. On the surface Autobiography of a Face is the tragic story of one woman’s struggle with cancer and journey through recovery. Only her struggle isn’t as an adult. She is a child. Confronting Ewing’s sarcoma at age nine Lucy battles through radiation therapy and chemotherapy. Her tone can only be described as matter of fact as she recounts the loneliness and pain after countless surgeries to correct the deformity of losing a third of her jaw. Deeper than that, Autobiography is about rising above the cruelty of others, shaking off the superficial prejudices of what supposedly makes a face beautiful. Lucy is defiant and remarkably stoic in her recollections of childhood taunts, adult avoidance, and across the board lack of social acceptance.
Critics call this book the vehicle with which to free oneself from self loathing and fears of rejection. It is a message to stop wallowing in self pity and live with dignity – no matter what. It’s also a call to be human and have real emotions as Lucy admits, “and as much as I wanted to love everybody in school and waft esoterically into the ether when someone called me ugly, I was plagued with petty desires and secret, evil hates” (p 181).

My favorite quote: “speaking seemed like something one could grow tired of” (p 77).

Lucy’s story ends with her getting published, finding friendships and getting on with her life. Yet, there is a darkness to it all. She is criticized for not telling the whole truth. There is mystery surrounding her untimely death in 2002. Her story leaves you asking what happened and wanting more. What the book doesn’t tell you is that her multiple surgeries led to an addiction to pain meds and subsequently, heroin. She died of an overdose at the age of 39. There is more drama after death, but I’ll leave that for you to figure out.

BookLust Twist: From More Book Lust and the chapter “Other People’s Shoes” (p 181). I can’t even begin to imagine being in Lucy’s shoes.

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.

Laughing in the Mirror

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Someone wrote me the sweetest email about this silly little blog. He said he admired the way I “attacked the love and your life.” Because I was in the middle of something I read it as, “I admire the way you attack the love of your life.” It made me want to rush home and check the mini-blinds. That’s me, rushing to conclusions. Instead, I realized English wasn’t his first language, so I reread it and had a good laugh. He said the only thing missing was the “100 things about me” post and dared me to create one. Actually dared me! I was tempted to dig up the one from MySpace but refrained simply because I’m not that person anymore.  I now can go to a party and not feel like the naked wallflower with zits, vericose veins, hangnails and split ends. I now can pick up the phone and talk to Germany. I now can walk by a dog without breaking into a cold sweat. I can step over an anthill without screaming bloody murder.  
So, G – thank you. Thank you for letting me look at myself. It was fun. So, here you go. Instead of looking in the mirror and sizing up the image with a critical eye, I laughed my way through 100 things.

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.