Going to Carolina in My Mind

My great aunt Pearl is the last sibling of seven left. Her brother Jack died this week at the age of 89.

I never met Pearl or her brother in person. They are down South, and my mom hasn’t visited since she was a young woman. I have talked to Pearl on the phone, and it made me tear up. She has the same thick honey in her voice that my grandmother had.

Mom was surprised at her reaction to Jack’s death. After all, it had been decades since she’d seen him, and she mostly talked to his wife. But she found herself crying, and crying again.

We talked about the deep roots of childhood. Mom spent summers down South, and she still talks excitedly about the long train ride from New York, the wrap around porch at her grandmother’s house, and all the family around her. It was a good change for an only child.

As a writer, I always give such weight to words. But words are not what I remember of others. I was six when Daddy died, but I still hear his baritone voice and feel his rough whiskers. With my grandmother, Pearl’s sister, it is her drawl and the softness of her blue cardigan that comes to me.

I wrote a book before I was a mother, and it was filled with my big plans on what I would say to my child. It only occurred to me later that there would be a long interval before any verbal insights could be conveyed. The wonderful surprise of motherhood is the same wonderful surprise that I have when I remember loved ones long gone. Touch, sound, and smell are rich and wordless. I love Gavin’s husky morning voice. I still smell his hair at every opportunity. I am always being climbed on, kneaded, tugged, and yes, kissed and hugged. I know the climbing and the kisses won’t last, but I hope this physical bridge we are always crossing will infuse into his developing spirit.

The best thing about words is how they give us a glimpse into nearly indefinable moments. It makes me want to read Thomas Wolfe again. He wrote excessively, saturated with sensual memories. My breath caught as I read his description of a train ride, I think in Look Homeward, Angel. I pictured my mom on those summertime rides down South, drinking in all those textures and tastes.

As my mother grieves for her own mother’s dwindling family, there is some sweetness that remains in memory. Just recently she passed on two of my great grandmother’s hand-sewn quilts. They have been, and will be, treasured. I like to fall asleep under their solid weight, thinking about North Carolina.

Strange Brew

I saw a strange film last night. Florence Griswold museum served Indian food and international beers, and then showed an art film.

I am a word girl, and Baraka is a film without words. So right away I was unsettled.

Baraka started with images of beauty in unidentified locales. Vast mountains, cascades of water, desert plains - larger-than-life images took turns rapid fire on the screen. Later there was a long sequence portraying large mobs of people at work, at church, at the mall. The action sped up at a dizzying pace until the people looked like scurrying, mindless ants. Mildly disturbing, but nothing compared with the assaulting images that followed. The rough assembly line of newborn chicks at a poultry factory was the worst, closely followed by a too-close-up cremation ceremony at the River Ganges.

If the criterion for art is that it makes you think, then I have to admit this film is art. I don't think I would like the artist if I met him - his scenes of cruelty and strangeness far outweighed those of compassion and joy. But his film made me think about what I am drawn to, about what makes life worthy for me, despite the cruel aspects that I can not always avoid seeing.

I found that I lit up whenever I spotted an animal, and even more when I saw the light in other people's eyes. I found solid solace in the colors of the earth. The flight of a bird, though no longer new to my eyes, still feels like a miracle.

I would like the film better if there was one moment where people were showing love for each other. I think about my own ordinary days, and what sticks with me is a quick laugh with Tom, a call from my family, or comforting Gavin in the middle of the night. The thought of people who have none of this is one of the thoughts that makes me saddest, sad enough to consider a way to reach out beyond my family circle. This is a sobering and weighty thought that I sometimes want to push away.

During the creation of this blog I bathed Gavin, had breakfast with him, learned "fish" in sign language (courtesy of a PBS show),and wished again for more uninterrupted time. Then I thought again. When I try to love my child and write my heart at the same time, I am coming at love from two different angles. The place where the angles intersect is a holy place for me.

Getting in Gear

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Usually I have my blog finished before Gavin wakes. But he rose before dawn today, ready for action. He sits behind me in his father’s office chair, “writing” notes with an orange highlighter and stuffing envelopes with sticker-laden scribbles. Even the hole puncher is starting to bore him, so I know my time is short.

I finally cracked the spine of the 2006 Writer’s Market today. I got the large paperback for Christmas, and spotted its unopened blue and brown cover under pine needles every time I watered the tree. It is not like me to wait this long.

The book holds simultaneous hope and dread for me. New markets and new ideas have me drooling with anticipation, but as I drool I secretly question whether any of them may be a good fit.

I am an optimist at heart, and always return to the struggle. But lately I have been whiny: why does it have to be so much work? Has anyone else noticed that the very word submission is a downer? I see myself kneeling, groveling before the writing powers that be. As I kneel, hoping to be knighted, I know that the editorial sword may not dub me worthy. This is not a criticism of my own writing. It is just a fact that the odds are stacked, made to lean away from writers by the very weight of our hope and persistence.

There is a line in Moby Dick: “Oh Time, Strength, Cash and Patience”, and I chuckled when I saw a writing website (now defunct?) with this motto. Anyone reading this blog knows that I struggle with time. For cash I have my day job. That leaves strength and patience.

Even more difficult than the actual stressors is the need to switch gears, or maybe to run on many gears. I so admire the premise of Writing on the Run, an encouragement to “Write Any Time, Any Place”. I worked with a scientist who could do that. He wrote novel chapters on his lunch hours.

Try as I might, I can not see myself switching from enlarged prostates (my latest scintillating project) to musings on the nature of existence in the space of a half hour. Maybe, however, I can mark up my list of markets and submissions, which has suffered from neglect in the past few weeks. Or I can edit a piece from home—just a matter of reading and slashing while I chew my sandwich. Maybe, while prostate data is spinning off my printer, I can jot an idea or two in the margins of my creative world. My wheels are turning already. It feels good to have the gears in motion.

Time, Time, Time (Look What It’s Done to Me)

I am a victim of brain drain this week. I started a new job and even my subconscious has been busy catching up. I dreamed I was sorting words into piles, and editing with an oversized red pen.

Underused synapses were awakened in the midst of the expected “new girl” confusion. I relished researching and writing under deadline on skin disorders, my first assigned writing topic (not everybody’s dream job, I know). My last job, writing much drier documents for the FDA, seemed to help me pare down my words. I hope this new gig will transfer my love for research into my creative life, too. Research reminds me of getting into a pool. It feels cold, and you are not really sure you want to go in. But then you get into it, and are so glad to be immersed.

What a dweeb! Likening research to a swimming pool, getting excited when a new journal supplement comes via FedEx. Oh well. This is who I am.

The major perk of this new job is the reduced commute. I was driving almost 30 miles one way, and now it is 3. What a joy! On top of that the work day starts later. More time in the morning and right away I want to fill it. It is burning a hole in my pocket, like the Nordstrom’s gift certificate I got for Christmas.

My new coworker grunted, “Oh yeah, I gained more time too but now I just sleep later and later”. Maybe I am doomed to do the same, but right now I am still excited about my “found hour”. There is the New Year’s resolution to get fit, and maybe I can finally stay ahead of that mountain of clutter.

But wait—would it be so bad to enjoy more relaxed mornings, without any new accomplishments? I struggle with this. Time is such a hot commodity, and mornings are my high energy time, so what a waste not to squeeze more in! As I write this I hear my self-imposed pressure, a sense of urgency I would rather not admit.

Maybe I can compromise. Something like Monday and Friday mornings I soak up the extra time, Tuesday and Thursdays I exercise, Wednesdays (since they are my least favorite day anyway) can be reserved for household drudgery. I still hear some strain in this, and feel sad that even my new time must be meted out, put on a ration program.

I don’t have to decide today. It is Saturday, and a trip to the Niantic Book Barn is in store. The Barn’s old buildings groan and lean with the weight of their dusty literature. There are free cookies for Gavin, and I can sell the books I have used up (only to acquire more. Do I sense a pattern here?). Life is good.