Breathing Again

In the past few weeks we've had severe storms that have, in the span of five minutes, swooped in and toppled large trees in our yard . 


One minute, sky clear, then suddenly a quick darkening and heavy air, followed by rain and gail force winds. The last storm ripped through a narrow swatch of land, downing trees and outing the power in our neighborhood. Not a mile away, the sun was shining, everything untouched. 


We lived with the mess for a good ten days, unable to find the time to devote to cutting and clearing the broken trees. It was a big project...


But Saturday morning, Michael was up and moving, chainsaw in hand; we began the work. It couldn't have been hotter but the effort was worth it. 


Two truck loads later in Big Blue, 


and the yard was breathing again. 


"It feels so good to have that done," I said last night.
"It had to be done," Michael said.
"But it feels like more than trees were cleaned up. It feels like blocks were removed. I just feel a whole lot better. I can breathe."


All to say that sometimes the best thing to do, when we don't know what to do, is to tackle what's right in front of us. Sweep the kitchen floor, throw in a load of wash, make the bed, walk the dog, or lift heavy pieces of trees, load in big blue truck, and haul away.


When in doubt, make space.

A Very Good Place To Start

I stayed in bed this morning, resting. This stuffy head has sucked the chi right out of me. But by 10:30, I knew I had to move. I showered, pulled on my old work pants and grabbed my big girl rake to clean out the small patch of garden by the back door. The air felt good blowing around my head. 


Next, broom therapy on the back steps ~ 


The surprise was landing in the kitchen. It wasn't planned. I was home alone. Read, write, rest. But I opened a drawer instead...


Teri says, "Want to change your day? Clean out a junk drawer."


I cleaned out three 


...and peeled old contact paper off of shelves. Unexpected joy ran through me, sticky paper lifting up in my hands. A Live from the Met opera streamed out of Mom's red radio on the kitchen counter, spurring me on. Kinda dramatica, eh?


If I hesitated over tossing something, I heard her, 


be ruthless, darling. get rid of it.


If I was a giant, I'd turn the house upside down, empty it out, then turn it right side up and stand in the open space. ah.


A junk drawer is a very good place to start.

Displaced Writer/Space Wanted

Why is it that when I try to do something, say writing, Claire decides it's time for a conversation? How come, said daughter, doesn't go to her father with news of her scratchy throat? He can practice his saxophone for two hours straight without one interruption; I sit down to write for twenty minutes and you'd think I had left the family for another life far, far away. Tuscany, anyone?

Okay, so I've moved to the living room and Michael walks in, like right now, and says so sweetly, "Remember this shirt, honey?" and turns to show me two green handprints on the back of his white t-shirt, with child-like drawings of saxophones on the front; a Claire masterpiece from some years back. Am I upset with my kid and husband for wanting to engage in conversation with me? Not at all, except when I'm writing.

Recently, Dad moved into our guest room, which for many years has been my writing room, or as I fondly refer to it, my studio apartment. All my stuff is up there; files, books, notes stuck to my bulletin board, big sheets of paper taped to the closet door for me to write on. Am I feeling put out? Displaced feels more like it. It's time to re-arrange and find a new writing space for myself.

I'm a writer. For better or for worse, this is what I do. But when I say, I'm writing. I'll be with you in a little bit, my family doesn't always get it. It's not their fault. I can be wishy-washy; I need to be clearer. Stating what I need without feeling like I'm being not nice is a daily practice. Can you say, co-dependent?

It's not about the room, although believe me, I'm going to find a new one. But for now, the dining room table has been working out fine. It's more about being willing to value my work and claim my space. Ding ding ding.

I was going to write about my fourth grade teacher, Mrs. Aiosa, and her glossy black hair and the way the tiny white flakes of dandruff stuck to her dark clothes. I was going to write about her smile, the gap between her two front teeth, the way she taught us French, writing long white sentences in her elegant cursive on the blackboard.

I'll start here, then write what I remember.