A Small List

1. Rainy weather is good weather. A cool front has settled over our island, and the weather has been extraordinarily cool and rainy for weeks on end. I love it. I'm not in good company, though. Each trip into town, I invariably run into someone who moans and groans about how awful the summer is so far. I hold my tongue and make sympathic-sounding noises, but really, I want to say: "Ah, but don't you love how cool and green the mornings are? Look how much money we are saving on air-conditioning! Isn't it better to have this than a drought?"

I keep my silence because I could go on and on, enough to alarm my fellow islander. In fact, I am surprised myself at how much I love the weather. I especially love the strange feeling of mystery that comes along with the unseasonable foggy days. There is none of the melancholy that comes with the autumn fogs, no whisper of fading or death that the fall inevitably brings. Instead, there is just this pure, green, freshness in the fog, and it's exciting in some way, like something powerful and interesting and new is right around the corner.

I've also caught myself spending more time at the window, especially when it rains. My favorite thing to watch is the quick moving storm that drops rain so thickly that sometimes it looks like a curtain, and then, just as suddenly, it fades to an airy, lacy spray. On those afternoons, as soon as the sun smudges yellow against the clouds, the girls and I shout "Rainbow weather!" and run out into the yard to find one.

I have been walking in the mornings, and the air is heavy with the smell of honeysuckle and mimosa. The humid air doesn't discriminate about which scents it carries, and it's an olfactory map of our neighborhood. I like to imagine that if I close my eyes, I could tell by the faintly sick and musty smell of the turtles that I am near the pond to or by the wave of the smell of horses, that I am near the little rise in the road. On clear days, the water of the pond flashes blue and bright, and the leaves are silvery in the sun, and that is lovely too. But as I said, there is something special about the dense feel of the air and the light on a misty day. I think it makes me want to walk around in it more, and that can only be a good thing.

2. We are in a fix-it mode, as our house is about to celebrate its 4th birthday. It's clear that we need to attend to the little things projects now in small increments, or suffer the house needing more extensive work later on. Among our projects are cleaning out the garage, painting the outside trim on the doors and northern windows, cleaning the windows themselves, hanging blinds, repainting trim and doors inside, and repainting any areas that have excessive wear. The list keeps growing, but I must admit that doesn't detract from my happiness when I cross off an item I've completed.

The biggest and most intimidating is the painting. I might enjoy painting a canvas, but I am really poor at painting a wall, on which you are supposed to eliminate brushstrokes. I'm practicing and hoping to get better as we work our way around the house. My husband is much better at making it look neat, so he gets to do the second coats. It's slow work, and the rain makes me space out the steps--prep, tape, paint, paint again, touch up. In between each of these is the cleaning up, and the waiting for the paint to dry or the rain to stop or in some cases, both. It's paying off, though. The laundry room is done, and bright and happy in an orangey shade called Nasturtium (honestly, though I hate the vagueness of paint names, I love the names themselves. Regardless of how it actually looks on the wall, nasturtium has sweet ring to it, doesn't it?). I did the laundry room first because I spend enough time there, and it may as well be cheery and clean. Plus, it's a good testing ground. If I ruin it, I'm the only one who would really notice. I'm glad to say that it came out perfectly. Yay me. Now to get the stuff in there folded, ironed, and put away.

The front door was a more obvious place to begin, and we've been working on it in little phases. As of this morning, it's done! I just put the finishing touches on the front porch by polishing the aluminum threshold. I put away the polish, and felt the good gratification of a job well done when I stepped back and saw our red door and clean white trim. I think I'll keep walking back over there to give myself a mental "pep talk" when I feel like quitting...

3. In all of this, I have been writing in the lucid way that comes when you are writing in your head. The repetitive motions of moving the paint brush, wiping window sills, or pushing an iron are all equally monotonous, and in that, they are equally freeing. Ideas, phrases, and sometimes fully-fleshed out paragraphs come to me while I'm engaged in non-writing activities. And it is writing. I've always believed it so. When I was teaching, I even took the risk of telling my students that "writing in your head" counted. It does count, because even when it's in your head, it's clearly writing, differentiated from regular thinking because it's formed with expression and structure and-- and this is the the biggest difference--an inescapable desire to save it onto paper. Of course, when you're writing in your head, you are the only reader, but it's important to remember that the self is a worthy audience, perhaps the most valuable audience you have.

Now don't go imagining that I gave credit for "writing in your head" when I was teaching. As I would point out to my students, while writing in your head counts, writing counts even more once you put it into text and share it with someone. It was my hope that giving them permission to ponder and listen to their own writing voice would improve their confidence. I like to think it did. When I read my students' work, it was obvious to me which students allowed themselves the space to form their writing before they actually wrote it. Their writing was that much stronger, their "voice" that much clearer.

My voice is coming clearly to me these days, as I wind around the pond. I'm eager to share some of it with you in the next few weeks.

Whispering in my ear--Can you miss someone you never met?

A little background:

I have a thing for stories, as you might know. And as much as I like to read, I love to hear a story, too. My mom would read to me incessantly when I was little, and long after I knew how to read to myself, she continued to read aloud to me. She read, late at night and her head nodding with fatigue, through many series--Little House, the Bobbsey Twins, Nancy Drew. It must have been exhausting for her, after long long days at work.

But how I loved it! We shared the story together, discovering it, though in a way it also seemed almost to spring naturally from her as she spoke the words. I especially loved how her voice wrapped around the characters, made the pictures move in new ways, different from the way the pictures formed when I read to myself. Listening to those stories was pure pleasure.

I still love to hear a story. It's probably why I am an NPR addict, and I am usually a rapt listener to anyone willing telling me a narrative of their life, or even what happened to them that day. I love to hear it.

So it's not surprising that I have affection for audiobooks. I may have resisted the ipod for years past its introduction, but at the prospect of hearing podcasts of This American Life, and the Moth, and StoryCorps, well--I caved this winter, and now I'm often found wearing my earbuds, a story whispering into my ears.

The past few months I've been mining itunes for good audiobooks, and listening to a mixture of oldies and some new, more pulpy stuff. Heart of Darkness was amazing, real and thick and haunting in a way that, shamefully I admit, it wasn't before I heard it read to me. After Conrad, I wanted to go for something lighter, with the thought that it would be good to listen to while doing chores or exercising. My choice was James Patterson's Beach Road, which definitely falls into the pulpy junk pile, was disappointing and grungy.

So, in an attempt to find a middle ground, I stumbled across a mystery by Kate Wilhelm, a writer I'd never heard of before. Of course, I’ve since come to find out that she is prolific, talented, and lauded by many. I’m thrilled to know I will be able to explore her books for a long time to come.

For now, I am into Wilhelm’s books featuring character Barbara Holloway. Just as I did when I was a little girl, I still enjoy a series of stories. Mysteries are especially great in a series. While they can be cute and fun, a series can also leave lots of room for development of character and place. More importantly, they leave room for ambiguity and growth, and maybe that's why I like them so well. That, and the fact that my mom and I can exchange them between ourselves and have our own little book club.

Anyway, Kate Wilhelm's series about Barbara Holloway are like pearls on a string, each one smooth and well-constructed from the inside out, glowing. I started accidentally in the middle of the series, with The Unbidden Truth. Read by Anna Fields, it was engaging, lively, haunting. I was hooked.

I say hooked, and I mean it. As I listened, I was almost addicted to hearing what would happen next. In particular, I was drawn to this narrator, Anna Fields. Like my mother, her voice made the story move, wrapping itself into the plot and the characters so that it really did feel as though the story was being spun exactly as I was listening.

I was so taken with Anna Fields’s warm and mysterious voice and the way she gave life to Wilhelm's characters, that beyond finding other books in the series (which I did), I wanted to see what else she had given voice to.

A Google later, I learned that Anna Fields was the stagename for Kate Fleming. Like Kate Wilhelm, Kate Fleming was prolific, narrating over 200 books. And clearly, she was talented. She was asked to narrate the 9/11 Commission, and awarded honors from her peers. I also learned, with heartache, that she died in 2006, tragically trapped in her Seattle studio during a flash flood.

All of this background leads me to confess this:
In some strange way, for the past week or so, I've been feeling a certain loneliness knowing she is gone. I was puzzled over this melancholy, but I finally put a label to it: it's that I miss Kate Fleming. I know, I know--I didn’t know her at all, she is a disembodied voice in my head, and yet, I miss her. The intimacy of audio can foster that kind of connection, I suppose. I think of the way she could get inside a character, and get inside my head, and I know that the world has lost someone special.
Is it possible to miss someone you didn't know? Perhaps.
I suspect I have this lonely, loss-filled feeling about her for another reason. Because while her voice is firmly in my head, I have the sickening outside knowledge that at the same time she was making those detailed recordings, her fate was rushing toward her in a way she couldn’t know. She is stuck there in time, unknowing, but vibrant and powerful with stories each time I listen.

We are all like Kate Fleming, in a way. We are firmly in our own reality, with the voice in our own heads shaping and moving the story of our daily life forward. And it feels so permanent, like something recorded and tangible, something to be accessed again and again. But it’s not. For each of us rides on an unstoppable river--or that river flows toward us, I don't know. But I do know that the permanence of things is an illusion. Like anyone else, I shove that knowledge down each day to some hidden place so I can "get on with life." I only recognize the pull of the river again, if only for a moment, when I encounter beautiful and fleeting, something perfect and special. Something like a perfect whisper in my ears as I'm lulled into another storyland.

The Tale of Mr. Mouse, part 2

The Mr. Mouse story continues...here is the first part, if you missed it.

Anita was breathless from screaming. She caught her breath and looked furtively behind her toward the house. Had anyone seen her? Heard her? She was humiliated at such a reaction. First, because Martha would be disappointed in her--"Really, Anita. Such drah-ma." And also because, as unrealistic as it was, Anita felt responsible for keeping all of the house tidy and orderly, including these bins. It was a poor reflection on her as a housekeeper to have a mouse infestation. She vowed to herself to get rid of the problem before Martha found out about it. So Anita indulged her stubborn side by standing perfectly still on the path in front of the bin, her baking tray poised and ready to clobber any rodent making a run for it.

If her heart hadn't been pounding so hard in her ears, Anita might have heard the rushed breathing of Mr. Mouse as he struggled to gain composure. Calm, he thought. Calm. Smell the food, breathe the air.  If he could only lie down in his bed again, he promised, he would never, ever invade the humans' garbage again. Through the slats, he could just see the tips of Anita's sensible shoes on the path. His little heart beat mightily in his chest and he wondered if he would have the chance to keep that promise.

Anita stood still for 15 minutes while her adrenaline rush subsided. Deciding she didn't want another face-to-face confrontation with the furry creature--had it been a rat, God forbid?--she headed toward the house, tray swinging, her head down with determination.

As Anita retreated, Mr. Mouse felt relief and then profound exhaustion. It was nearing sunset, as far as he could tell, and his wobbly legs reminded him that he simply couldn't cross the yard again.  The garbage bin was to be his bed tonight, like it or not.  

He rustled around in the heap and pulled a few cupcake wrappers free.  Laying them underneath him as a relatively neat little mat, he gave into his wobbly legs and curled into a ball.  As he drifted to sleep, his thoughts ranged from images of Anita's square-toed shoes, to image of his baby sister swaddled in flannel, to oozing pools of pink frosting, to strange, squarish forms that floated in the sky and blotted out the sun.   He woke several hours later to the hollow sound of his old companion (but not friend), the short-eared owl, and he realized that he was hungry.  And for once, food was plentiful.  

Though the cupcakes had lost some of their appeal for having slid into the mess of other garbage, they were soft and fragrant and sticky.  His paws were still covered in icing, in fact, and there were bits of cake stuck to his left haunch.  A bath, he decided, would be a good start to his meal.  When he was done, he was clean, and now hungrier than ever.  Martha's cupcakes were legendary for a reason, and once he started, he couldn't stop himself.   His promise to leave human garbage alone notwithstanding, he dug into the remains of coffee cake, and cupcakes by the dozen, until his belly was so full he was certain he wouldn't fit through the slats to leave in the morning.   Exhausted and almost sick with sugar, he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep for the rest of the night.  

Anita, for her part, had been busy for hours in the night as well.  She had spent hours touring the grounds with dozens of mousetraps.  By the time she went to bed, she had armed almost every place conceivable:  the pantry, the basement, the attic, the garage, the stables, the greenhouse, the wine cellar, the root cellar, and the chicken coop.   All except the garbage bins.  She was embarrassed about it, but she was afraid to go out there in the dark, worried that that creature might run out from between the slats, perhaps across her foot this time.  It gave her the shivers just thinking about it.   That trap could wait for daylight.  She fell into a fitful sleep, full of strange dreams of a parade of cupcake floats and squealing rodents.   

On the blog, part 1

It's the week of my "Blog-o-versary," and I've got blogging on my mind. Okay, I've frequently got blogging on my mind anyway. Just ask my family. Ada routinely points out when something would be "good on the blog." And now I have people actually asking when I'm going to post, which I find oddly thrilling--as though someone has ordered a subscription to my "magazine."

Except this isn't a magazine. Or a diary. Or a gallery. Or a conventional conversation. Or an essay. I would like it to be all of those things, and it has shadows of each playing behind it.

What is this blog, anyway, and why am I so heady for writing it?

The first thing I can say for sure about it is that I am writing almost every day now, and that is the biggest boon of this blog. There were many periods of my life in which I wrote on a daily basis: As an undergraduate, I majored in English (quelle surprise!) and wrote papers constantly. For various other jobs I've had: I wrote ad copy for a publishing copy, and promotional materials and procedure for a university, and a human resources manual for a private company. In graduate school, I wrote countless papers on rhetoric, composition, education, and all sorts of topics related to these. And I started writing poetry. In earnest.
In between these times, I've written overly long letters to friends and intimidated them unintentionally by the length of my notes--a few people been apologetic that they can't write back at such length.
Even when I was teaching English, I wrote the assignments with my students--that is to say, I assigned myself the task of writing the same topics the students did--a very worthwhile exercise for determining if an assignment "worked" or "flopped." In the same vein, I wrote daily "feedback" for myself to recap the day's discussions, and to figure out if I was taking the class in the right direction. I also wrote massive letters of feedback for each student, and my assignments were written with the detail of a novella (quelle surprise, you say).

During that time, we also started the process for adoption Ada, and as part of it, I was asked to write a brief history of myself. You can imagine how shocked the social worker was to receive my 26-page, single-spaced piece. Brief it was not, but important for me to write, yes. And important that Ada have it one day for herself, to see me at that moment, on the brink of parenthood. The real audience for that history, as I pointed out to the social worker, was me. And future Ada.

I am verbose.

But for a few years, I was silent, at least in writing. My letters dwindled to postcards, my poems dried up. My essays and pontifications in writings....gone.


Some of my energy went to making art--sewing, painting, etc--but much of it went to folding clothes, cleaning bathrooms, morning sickness, and just life. I wasn't able to blend the writing and the doing.

Enter the blog.


As you know from this post alone, I continue to pour my heart out. From a rhetorical perspective, the blog is a perfect space for this type of writing. My friend La Belette Rouge wrote an amazing post today on writing her way through something without knowing her destination, and that is what my blog posts are so much of the time: writing through and creating a space.

Having a blog has allowed me to literally create a space (with images, spacing, color, photos, etc) in which I can pour my heart out and find out where I am in the world. In that regard, it's like a diary. But because of the audience of you, dear reader who has made it through this meandering, this writing has more of a shape. It is shaped like the space between me and you.


I am a generous and more selfless in real life. But on paper, I am a selfish writer, going on and on. I have never meant to intimidate with the length of the letters or the posts I write. I write and write to capture the play of words that run through my mind all the time, like insects beating against the night window. Like a lepidopterist, I pin the thoughts to the wall of the blog and examine them to see if they are light and lovely like butterflies or dark and insidious like moths. They are, invariably, both. And some fly away. And as with all collectors, it is really only me who is most pleased by my collection of words... I look back at what I've captured and I see myself.


If you have made it this far through this post, I thank you for sharing this odd and sometimes disturbing or tiresome collection. ...

Open Heart Letter 2: To Judy

As part of my open-heart project, here is another letter to someone I love.  I open my heart to her and to you.

Dear Aunt Judy,

My relationship with you begins in the void before I was born, through my mother.  The chemistry you found as roommates makes you more sisters than sisters.  And as my aunt, you prove once again that family is a choice, a construct.  

Your gentleness has been an ever-present influence in my life.  I may have taken for granted your presence when I was a trying teenager (and I admit it--I was!), but I see as a grown up how much your temperance and goodness affected me.   As you know, my household as a kid was one of extremes, without too much structure or boundaries.  That was a good and a bad thing.  What you and Tom brought to my life was a sense that normal things like meals and bedtimes are comforting.  That simple rituals of eating together and cleaning up the dishes together are pleasurable.   In my home now, we eat every breakfast and dinner together, we cook together, we clean together.  There is order and balance here, and I recognize the patterns from your home in mine.

Despite all the things we've shared together, there are countless things I haven't told you yet. Of course, I could never list them all, but here are a few:

Do you know what it meant to me that you, a young mother, busy with work and little kids, would make the long drive out for each and every show I was in?  I felt so very loved to know that when I stepped onto the stage, you would be in the audience, warm as the spotlight, clapping for the performance, regardless of how good or bad it was.   So many plays, so many events.  And you shared them all with me.  I don't know that I ever told you how much I appreciated it then, but I did. It was a real gift for me to know you and Tom were out there when the curtain went up.

Do you know that I think of you every time I make a bed?  That's funny, huh?  I remember making up a bed with you somewhere (maybe you were helping Mom out?), and you showed me how the top sheet faces right side down, so when you fold the cuff, it's neat and tidy, and the edging faces the right way.   I cannot lay a flat sheet on a bed without remembering that.

I know we don't chat on the phone all the time, but I do think of you almost every day.  So many things make me think of you--here are just a few things that bring you into my mind immediately: seeing fat little squirrels, like the ones you feed in your yard; the feel of a warm sunporch; any Celtic music, of any persuasion; any Schnauzer (how I miss Fritz and Ernie--what good dogs!); seven-layer salad with cheese and olives; any kind of object with an owl on it--I know you don't collect them anymore, but they remain stuck to you in my mind.

If I close my eyes, I'm right there at your table, eating a meal off the cool, thick Pfaltzcraft dinnerware and laughing at Tom's wry comments.   I'm back in the kitchen on Camp St, or I can feel the soft carpet of the staircase (with its landing that I loved!). And there, clear as day, is the backyard and its burgeoning garden, the sunporch, the bookcases and cabinets of photos and treasures. And what treasures abounded there.

The "new" house is as warm as the old. That weekend Ada and I spent with you was so fun--we are eager to do that again. Ada still talks about what happened with the whipped cream on the blueberry cake. I had chastised her when she went to wipe a dollop of whipped cream off the cake with her finger. And Tom joined in, saying, "No Ada! Don't do that! Do THIS!" and he proceeded to take a handful of it himself. Oh, how we laughed. Her eyes were glowing with love, seeing that a grownup could play like that.

This from Tom, who taught me that smart is funny and disagreement can be safe.  That love can share the same space with two very different political views.   Tom, you opened my mind to listening to differing opinions, to respecting dissent.   Without that, I would have missed out on so many wonderful relationships with people who share a good heart, though not my politics.

I have so many memories of birthdays and Christmases with you.   The longer visits, the weekends at your lovely homes linger in my mind.   All the big events in our lives, the weddings, the giant birthday celebrations (and birthday/anniversary celebrations), assembling wedding invitations and preparing showers and graduation parties and holidays. Washing dishes together after all of these, and lazy breakfasts after late nights, where Sara and Debbie and I had listened to you girls "cackling like hens" until the wee hours.

These are simple memories of family events, and everyone has them. I am glad that my memories of family events are of you.

As I said, while we are born into one family, I think we can also choose the people who make up our real family, our family of the heart.   You helped teach me that. And that ultimately freed my perceptions enough that I was open to the idea of adopting a child. In no small part, your commitment to me led me to understand how fully I could be a parent to a child who was not physically born to me. I can never thank you enough for that.

We choose our real family. I know that if I were given the choice, I would choose you, again and again.  Thank you so much for being all you are to me.  I love you.

love,

Kirie   

My first negative comment arrives

I have long been wishing for comments on this blog.  In the past few months, I've finally received some, and along with them, I've made treasured connections with other bloggers whom I respect and admire.  Yea for the comment feature!

But until this weekend, I hadn't personally experienced the bad side of putting oneself out there--the negative comments.   On Sunday morning, I found my first bad comment, posted on my post "Thoughts on the Inauguration, part 3."   Boo for the comment feature!

Clearly, this is not the kind of comment I've been wishing for.  I figured so few people see my blog that I wasn't really at risk for such a thing.  And, truth be told, it's not the most evil of comments. It's just self-serving and insulting, which I suppose are two qualities that make for a "negative comment."  

I read it with surprise and a bit of dismay--why target me?  Especially when this person found my blog on a quest to find out how to make a chipmunk costume, of all things! My second reaction, which followed quickly (and I admit to my childishness here) was "Bring it!"   I love a good debate.  Ask any of my former students about how I love to play with argument.    But, after a minute's thought, I abandoned the idea that a "debate" with anonymous would be a good or productive thing.  

I have, in my life, experienced more than my fair share of angry, judgmental, abusive language.  I know how hurtful words can be.   It took a great deal of work for me to distance myself from people who practice this kind of verbal abuse, and I guard this distance carefully.   Seeing that nasty comment brought back some icky memories for me, reminding me that "Yes, Kirie, there are still mean people in the world, despite the little bubble you've created for yourself.  And yes, mean people still suck."

I can't have it both ways, I know.  If I write about my thoughts, and I enable the comments (and wish for them!), then I am bound to get friendly ones and rude ones.  Thank goodness I've not experienced rude comments until now.   I think that if I receive comments like this in the future (and I'm bound to, right?), I'll be taking my actions on a case-by-case basis.  In this case, I did respond, if only to say my piece. You can see what I said here.  For the next nasty remark--perhaps just a delete.  Silence is a forceful weapon.

Now, my dear readers, how do you deal with the negative commenters on your blogs?  Or if you don't have a blog, how do you deal with the negative commenters in your life?  

Open Heart Letter 1: To Kim

Yesterday I wrote about my new project, the Open Heart Letters. I have been inspired to do this project, in large part, by the loss of my dear friend Kim, a woman with whom I had this in common--she wore her heart on her sleeve, too. She died in December--young, ravaged by disease, and leaving an amazing family.

Any wise person would insist that our society needs to learn how to accept death as a part of life. I think of Kim, and her grace and honesty as her own death approached, and I understand this now in a way that I did not before. While I am in great health now, I know also that I am here on loan, and by the same grace she was. What Kim taught me, in the way she lived before she was sick, and the way she remained herself afterwards, was to embrace and to be and to love. To cherish those many, many connections that make us feel life all the more deeply.  And writing these letters is a way for me to express that in some way.

I think it's only appropriate that my first open heart letter is to Kim. I was fortunate that I could actually send her a similar letter before she died--selfishly, I needed her to know how much I cared. I share this letter with you now, with love and gratitude for having known her:



Kim,
It seems to me that it’s the little things that make a friendship. Let me tell you about some of my memories of you and us. From the smallest to the most prominent, I have lots of important memories about our friendship:

From the moment I met you, I knew you were a kindred spirit. One of the first times we spent together was just after D. started teaching. It a late spring evening and you and your family came to see us. You were still living over an hour away, and I remember that by the end of the night I was wishing very much that you lived closer—(I eventually got my wish!!)
That night was especially beautiful—the dusk was mid-summer long, and the trees were throwing plum-colored shadows all over the yard and the pool. We lit some lanterns with candles and hung them around our back porch, and we all sat out on our deck—you had your feet in our pool.
Later, after dinner, we were in the screen porch, and I vividly remember little B. listening to us tell stories about ourselves as we got to know each other better. Her eyes drooped, and soon she was asleep on your lap. And you were so lovely—the candlelight lit up your face, and you glowed. I remember many times we spent at our pool as the years went on, but that first night is strongest in my memory.

A few years later, we were thrilled to learn you were moving to our town, and we were so happy! After that, we spent more time together, including one visit on Thanksgiving. Our screen porch was a closed-in room by then, and you were our first Thanksgiving guests to eat with us there. I felt so pleased that you had been able to join us. The kids were so excited that night they had a hard time eating!

Speaking of eating—I must tell you again how I much I love your cooking!! You have a real talent in the kitchen, and I will admit that at least one of my favorite things to cook is a down-right ripoff of something you served us at your home: Moroccan-style chicken with figs, olives, cumin, etc. Oh my. That was one of the best meals. Thank you for sharing that recipe!

I have another ridiculous confession: I think of you every time I fold clothes. Really. Do you remember all of those lovely clothes of B’s you gave me for Ada? We have been loving those clothes for years now. Ada has been “on the small side” forever, and so she was able to wear some of those outfits for two years (or three! Amazing!). Now Esme is starting to wear them, too. It was so generous of you to give those to us. But here is the funny thing: When you packed them so carefully, you folded them in a way that was new to me: arms across each other, then fold, and fold again. Each shirt looked like a neat little hug. Inspired! Here I had been folding wrong for years--lumping my clothes into folds that wouldn’t stay, and they would sort of slump and shrug themselves out of the closet shelves into heaps. So I copied your way, and now the clothes stay put. So silly. But every single time I fold my clothes I think of you. I’ve been wanting to tell you that ridiculous thing for years, and now there it is.

I would be remiss if I didn’t tell you how much we have loved the many gifts you’ve given us over the years. Almost every afternoon, Ada and Esme still wear the fairy wings you gave Ada many years ago. For Ada’s Christening, you gave her a beautiful book about the twelve gifts of birth—it’s one of my favorites. And all of the cards and notes you’ve sent me—it has meant so much to me. I don’t know if it’s always the case that one’s handwriting corresponds with the sound of one’s voice, but with you, it is undeniable. Your voice is sweet and distinctive, and your handwriting matches it perfectly. I swear I hear you talking when I read it!

When we had to move away, I was sad to leave all of our friends behind, and you were such a source of comfort to me. First, D helped us move a U-Haul truck of stuff up north. (Do you remember that crazy time? Our guys spent 8 hours driving to our rental house, 2 hours trying to get a key from the rental agent, and then 1 hour unloading the entire contents of the truck into the house itself. It was a wonder they made the plane to come home!) What a blessing his help was. And yours—A. was so little at the time, and B., and I was so grateful that you and D. could sacrifice that time to help us. Then when we moved, I was really lonely. Sometimes when you move, people fall out of your life—you probably know how this can happen. It’s hard to keep relationships going, and it’s a testament to you, Kim, that so many people stay in touch with you—you have lived so many places, and collected wonderful friendships everywhere along the way!
Anyway, when I moved, only a few people still called or wrote, and you were one of them. The conversations I’ve had with you over the years have been so honest and understanding—I’ve always been able to open my heart to you without fear of judgment, and it’s a true treasure. After I moved, I was so cheered by our phone conversations or your notes; they would stay in my mind for days. Thank you so much for being there for me.

I know I’ve said it so many times, but I wish I were there for you now. I would love to cook for you and D and the kids. I would take the kids to the park. I would hug you, and listen to you, and make you silly little things. I would try to pretend that this would all go away, and I would cry with you when it was clear it would not.

You are so strong, as is D. You are walking a path now that we will all walk one day, and you have taught me so very much about Grace and strength. I know you’ve had the gamut of emotions over the past year and a half, and I’m guessing that riding that emotional rollercoaster might sometimes rival the physical pain.
Your honesty and wry humor are a potent and uncommon combination, and I know you attract wonderful people to your circle—D. being the primary example, of course!—but also all of your friends who I’ve learned about since your illness.
I hope you can feel the strength and love and well-wishes we all try to send to you every day. The waves of love from here are strong and constant, and will continue to be no matter what. You really do always have my heart, my dear friend. I love you.


Kim left us on December 9, 2008. I think of her every day, with love and admiration.

Wearing my heart on my sleeve: An ongoing project

If you have read more than one or two posts here, you know as well as anyone in my face-to-face life this important fact about me: I wear my heart on my sleeve.

I fight it sometimes, I do. But I just can't help it. I put my whole self out there, into the world, just because I feel I have to. You'll not be surprised to learn that I do not have a poker face among my repertoire of facial expressions.

Being this way brings its complications. I'm overwhelming to some people with my puppy-like eagerness. Because I'm not good at pretending ennui, I probably lack a certain mystery; I don't do aloof. 

I love meeting new people and getting to know them. I think most people are interesting, and I love learning about new friends, getting to know the details of their life.   And equally so, I love connecting with people whom I've cared about in my past.   


For years I have been a little ashamed of this kind of enthusiasm.  But now, instead of working against it, I have decided to embrace opening my heart to people. I am wearing my heart on my sleeve, proudly.

Tomorrow I will post the first in a long series of posts I'm calling "Open Heart Letters." These are open notes to people in my life--both currently or from my past--who have made some sort of impression on me. For the people in my life now--well, I am writing these because it's so good to know that someone cares for you and thinks of you, isn't it?

And for those people I knew long ago-- I realize that many of them won't even see these "love letters" I feel compelled to write.  Regardless, I think it's a worthwhile exercise to reflect on the people I have known at formative times in my life, even those I knew for just a short while. They stay in my memory. From time to time my thoughts will land on such a person, and I am reminded how amazing the wide world is, filled with good people who make positive impressions on you just by crossing your path.

This is an ambitious project, and potentially endless--there are so many people I've admired and cared for over the years.  Some notes will be long letters, others distilled into a few lines or a poem.   I invite you to come along on the journey, and consider your own connections as we go...

Lines in my head, part 2 of a series

More lines to inspire, to haunt. These glow like embers in my mind.


"You touched
your belly to my hands
in the dry air and said
I am the cinnamon
peeler's wife. Smell me."
from "The Cinnamon Peeler," Michael Ondaatje, from The Cinnamon Peeler: Selected Poems


"The word spills from my tongue, not scientific: Genes,
folksy and proud, like they’re crops grown on family land."
from The Storialist
"Monday, October 6th, On the Street, Mr. Pinguet, Paris."

"The people I love the best
jump into work head first
without dallying in the shallows
and swim off with sure strokes almost out of sight.
They seem to become natives of that element,
the black sleek heads of seals
bouncing like half submerged balls."
from "To Be of Use," by Marge Piercy, from Circles on the Water

"Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old time is still a-flying :
And this same flower that smiles to-day
To-morrow will be dying."
from "To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time," Robert Herrick

"The sea is so beautiful,
she is so young and old.
I look at her and
I see the beauty
of the light of music."
from "You are Everything," REM, from the album Green

And, to serve a different sort of gluttony:

"Ink runs from the corners of my mouth.
There is no happiness like mine.
I have been eating poetry."
from "Eating Poetry," Mark Strand in Selected Poems

How do you do it?

Over the holidays, in conversations with friends and family, I've wandered into the topic of blogging several times.   It's not something I always confess to doing.  I say confess, because talking about it does feel like a confession of sorts--to see my blog is to see a side of me that's not immediately apparent in my day-to-day life.   

Slowly, though, I am revealing it to people in my real life. See the pretty cards MOO cards I made for calling cards? I've now included the URL to 3littlechickies, which is a big step.

My blog takes up a decent amount of my thinking time, and writing it is something I really love to do. After keeping my blog for almost two years, I'm more ready to talk about it in real life. Maybe I'm getting more comfortable with the merge between the me I present in writing and the me in person. That's not to say that I'm so very different; it's just that to look at me, you really wouldn't think that I had much to say.   That assumes that I do have something to say, and that's assuming that the way a person looks is always representative of what they think about--oh boy, this is getting complicated, and this is why I don't usually talk about it.    That is fodder for an entirely different post, isn't it?

What I'm talking about here is much simpler.  How do I go about blogging?   Here are a few of the questions I get.  I'll give a few answers here, answers that are attempts to be more articulate than my off-the-cuff responses I've given to family or friends in the past.

Question 1:

"No, really," I'm asked by a family member, "how do you find the time?  I don't know where you find the time to write anything, let alone take photos."

It's not surprising I get asked this. I make no secret about not having time to do the basic things, like finish folding the laundry, or vacuuming the carpets more than once or (if I'm really good!) twice a week.  So to do the blog, I don't find time to write. I sneak it or steal it.  For instance, this entry that you're now reading has taken me 9 visits to the computer, each fewer than 4 minutes long. Some of my visits are less than a minute long, actually. Before I'm ready to hit the publish button, I imagine I will have written for a total of 35 minutes or more, and then edited for 10. And all of this writing is literally done in bits and pieces, a sentence or two at a time, in the bits of time I can manage to carve out of the day.  The time deficit from all these stolen moments shows itself in piles of socks that need to be folded, and sometimes by the circles under my eyes from waking up too early.

Question 2:
"Where do you get ideas? I would have no idea what to write."

I have always loved writing, and in my head, I'm "writing" all the time. So coming up with ideas and developing them has never been a problem. These writing-thoughts are the basic starting ideas for the posts, and they come to me all the time. I put some of them into a little notebook, and some of them get axed by my "inner editor" to be fodder for something else, like an essay or a poem. My family is sweetly supportive of my blogging, too, so sometimes my topics come from them. For instance, Ada will give me a suggestion, like "Hey mom, this soup is so good, it should go on your blog! Go get your camera!" A cute endorsement like that will sometimes make me write a post immediately.

Question 3:
"Who are you writing this for?"
This is the biggest and most loaded question of all, and it's one I grapple with all the time. In fact, getting asked this question is probably why I haven't talked about the blog as much as I might have. It merits a few posts for a fully-developed answer, but I'll give the brief version here.

Coming from some relatives, asking "Who are you writing for?" is akin to asking "Is a blog like email?" Needless to say, this relative isn't going to be looking at my blog anytime soon. Neither is the person who is asking it with an inflection that says, "Who do you think you are? Why are you wasting your time with this?" These people aren't my audience.

But you are reading this, aren't you? I am writing for you. I am writing for myself, too. I'm writing for people who know me well in person and live far away, and I'm writing for people who haven't met me, but know me through my words. I'm writing it because I feel compelled to get some of my thought-writing into a space other than the one between my ears. I send this little snippet of myself into the ethers and hope to make a connection with someone else, even if it's only connecting with the me I'll be at some later date...

What I learned from failure: NaBloPoMo

Okay, I don't really feel as though I failed, but technically, I didn't complete the assignment.

Wow. Looking at what I just wrote, I recognize it as the kind of excuse I used to get when I was teaching freshman English. Excuses like this I usually met with a firm look, a gentle scolding, and not infrequently, an extension. I was always a proponent of learning from mistakes and accepting writing as a process, and so....I'm giving myself the same benefit of the doubt.

The bottom line: I didn't post every day for a month for National Blog Posting Month. And I'm okay with it. I was going to just let it slide by and make no comment about it, but I wanted to articulate what I got out of it anyway. I love the idea of writing every day, and my writing-teacher self clucks motherhen-like and reminds me that it's really the right way to write.

I joined NaBloPoMo because I thought it would light a fire under my rear to get me writing more frequently. A public commitment is exigence in itself, a great motivator and shaper of writing. I also joined for the community, and also because I don't have the wherewithal to attempt the other public writing experiment that takes place in November: National Novel Writing Month.

Honestly, I don't think I took it that seriously. I wasn't going to beat myself up if I missed a day or two, and I didn't feel like posting just anything to meet the requirement. Because of the temporal nature of blogging, I like to post entries that are reflective of what's happening in the now in my mind and in our home. Some days in November this year were so full of NOW that I literally did not have time to write. I do think I succeeded at the exercise in one important way: I found that because I was thinking about blogging every day, I gave myself the space to think like a writer every day, to shape and swim through my morass of ideas, and that made a difference for me in how I experienced the month.

So, writing daily or not, thank you to NaBloPoMo for the opportunity to give writing a bigger space in my life, whether it's the writing I'm putting online, or the kind that's just happening in my journal and my mind. I'll be participating again soon. And maybe next time I won't be asking teacher for an extension...

"I Love You This Much" Award--for me?

For me!  Awarded to me by my friend la belle Belette Rouge, this is the "I Love You This Much" award. 

What a sweet gesture. And I assure you the feelings are mutual, ma belle!  Thank you!!

If you haven't seen her blog, you should.  Aside from being a great writer and observer of life in general, she's got moxy and a sharp sense of humor--and an eye for fashion, too.  What's not to love?  

There are rules that come with awarding and receiving this. Here are they are:
Rules: Link to the person who started this award (That's GEnYZe).
Link to the person who "loves" you, in my case, it's La Belette Rouge.
Post the rules on your blog.
Tag 7 people at the end of your post and link to them.
Let each person know they have been "Loved" and leave a comment on their blog.

Okay, I like rules. Here are the blogs I tag:

1. The Storialist   The poems on this blog are so consistently amazing that I am addicted to it.  I remain in awe.  Storialist, I understand if you are unable to respond, as the format of your blog doesn't really allow for it, but know your work is loved...
2. BariJ.   This amazing girl is someone I am lucky enough to know in person.  We were childhood friends, and I can tell you she has always been a force of nature.   Her blog is worth watching.  So are her designs--from handbags to fabric to accessories.  I LOVE IT.   And you will too.   
3. Wordlovers Unite.  I recently discovered Irene's site and her poetry, and I'm so glad to recognize her as a talent and someone I read regularly.  
4. Mommycoddle.  Thoughtful and inspiring, this blog is honest and clear-eyed.  I enjoy every post.  Her art is beautiful, too.
5. Six and a Half Stitches.  A lovely blog, with great perspectives in both photos and what she has to say about the world and the domesticated life.
6. Posy Gets Cozy.  Alicia Paulson is a fine writer and artist, and her blog is one I love looking at.   She's so talented, and so sweet.  Her photos and ideas for the domestic life are wonderful.
7. La Belette Rouge.  I don't know if it's in the rules or not, but I'm reawarding this back to her.  I read all her posts, and I am consistently inspired, entertained, and moved by her writing.   Spend a few minutes reading her, and you'll agree with me.  

A few of these blogs have formats that don't really support badges or posts citing rules.  It matters not to me whether or not you link to the award or acknowledge it at all; what does matter is that I wanted to tell you how much I enjoy reading your blog.  Thank you for taking the time to share some of yourself online.  I know I'm not alone when I say I appreciate it!

Into the vortex

My parents are visiting us for an "early Thanksgiving" this week, and I have slipped into the proverbial rabbithole.   With my dad's presence, I seem to be teetering somewhere between adolescence and adulthood.    That's a topic that begs for more explanation at some point.  Suffice it to say that for now, I am reminding myself of the sacrifices that all parents make, the ways we often don't really know the inner movements of the thoughts of our family members.  To that, a poem:  Those Winter Sundays, by Robert Hayden.  I am a swooner for last lines, and the ending lines of this poem are lately mantras for me this week.  

Those Winter Sundays

Sundays too my father got up early

And put his clothes on in the blueback cold,

then with cracked hands that ached

from labor in the weekday weather made

banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.

I'd wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.

When the rooms were warm, he'd call,

and slowly I would rise and dress,

fearing the chronic angers of that house,

Speaking indifferently to him,

who had driven out the cold

and polished my good shoes as well.

What did I know, what did I know

of love's austere and lonely offices?

Robert Hayden, 1962

Tuesday treasure

I've been on a treasure hunt lately, looking to find the treasures I already have, but don't use.   Our house, I'm discovering, is full of treasure, but not the stuff pirates vie for.  Rather, the stuff I'm finding are the sorts of things that I would love to find in a catalog, or a little shop.  And guess what? It's already here.  

So this is part of the cutting back, making use of what you have, preparing for tough times...but really it's more about following our family's second rule, which is "be where you are."   

Like so many other people, I get spun up about all the great things that are out there that we could see, or get, or do.  The reality of it is that there is not time or money or energy for doing everything.  That's no big revelation, I know, but regardless of what I may know, what I've been practicing is different.  I do often ooh and ahh over all the great things I could get.   Sometimes I even do get a thing I "love," and then put it away for safekeeping, for later, for the right time.

I'm treasure hunting because I am starting to realize that the right time is really now, and that I have lots of great things or experiences that I'm putting off.  No longer.   I'm seeing the world with new eyes, I'm revising my take on the daily things around me, just a little.   I'm going to post more treasure Tuesdays in the future--I'm eager to see what I'll find, and how I'll use it.

In keeping with that, I've found a treasure for today:  my notebooks.  Some have been well loved, but many of these beauties are waiting for me to decide that what I have to say is good enough for their pages.  Look at this one:   

I bought it for the tree design; the quote was an afterthought.  Pretty telling, hmm.  Even more so, I haven't used it!!   Until now.  This book is going to be filled with words--imperfect, shifting, indulgent, irrelevant--so what.  This little treasure is mine, and this time is mine too.   So I'm staking my claim.

What treasure do you already have that you're not using?

Daily posting for National Blog Posting Month

I love my little blog.  I'm confessing it now.   It's a cheap (read:free) habit, it's a mini soapbox, and it's a great way to keep me motivated and on task with all the fun projects I take on.

So I'm committing to the daily posting contest called National Blog Posting Month, or nablopomo, for short.  Basically, I'm just going to post each day on this blog for a month.   It's a good way to keep me writing daily.  Who knows, maybe next year my ambition will lead me to join NaNoWriMo, the National Novel Writing Month, which is where you commit to write a novel--yes, a real novel of 50,000 words!--during the month of November.  I've wanted to do it for awhile, but it's too hard to eke out the time for now.

So, join me if you like, or just read along.  Ideas for posts?--I've got a few, but I'd like to hear yours, too.

Lines that haunt me, part 1 of a series

Halloween is over, but I've got hauntings on my mind. 

I'm not haunted by ghosts, though.  I'm haunted by words.   Coming from songs, poems, mentors, supporters, and the occasional enemy, certain phrases linger in my mind and visit me at unexpected times.  Sometimes they are malicious, but more often they are welcome friends.   Inciting me to action, rebuking my insecurities, reminding me of time's quick clock, these lines have a great influence on me.   If one were to look at all the lines that run on a loop through my thoughts, one might even be able to do a little head-shrinking on me.  

I was talking about this with a friend the other day, and she confessed to having a particular verse stuck in her head, too.  I imagine we all have sayings that rattle around in our minds, and I'm inviting you to share yours as well.   

Because I seem to have a little collection of these, I'm going to start a series of posts on this theme.  Here are a few of the lines currently coming to call on me lately.

"Rage, rage against the dying of the light."

from "Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night." Dylan Thomas

"Because the  Holy Ghost over the bent

World broods with warm breast, and ah! bright wings."

from "God's Grandeur," Gerard Manley Hopkins

"I hear the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think they will sing to me."

from "The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock," T.S. Eliot

"I would like to be the air

that inhabits you for a moment

only. I would like to be that unnoticed

and that necessary."

from "Variations on the Word Sleep," Margaret Atwood

"And as for the me that was then, well,

she 

is lost at the bottom of the oily lake,

waiting

(for now)

for a tide."

from "Doppelganger" 

"It's so easy to laugh; it's so easy to hate.

It takes strength to be gentle and kind."

from "I Know It's Over," The Smiths

"We think by feeling. What is there to know?

I hear my being dance from ear to ear.

I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow."

from "The Waking," Theodore Roethke

"Keep going, Kirie.  Keep going."  Alan Friedman, a mentor, and author of Hermaphrodeity

"Here is little faith and the turn of the wheel.

Here is the promise to unmask mountains

and see woodlight and this tender portion

of hands gathering love and dreams."

from "Liberation," Dana Thu

"....And yet sometimes

The wheel turns of its own weight, the rusty

Pump pumps over your sweating face the clear

Water, cold so cold! you cup your hands

And gulp from them the dailiness of life."

from "Well Water," Randall Jarrell.

Okay, now it's your turn.  What lines haunt you?