Saturday, March 16, 2019
With Big Thanks to Marilyn Arsem, who provided this phrase as a “spark”
Maybe I should lighten up; take myself less seriously, and also more seriously; sing, with no shame; learn how to bake; sit quietly, longer, first thing every day. Maybe I should read all the books I haven’t gotten to yet before I buy anything new; wear less black; have kinder thoughts about the people I do not think kindly of; fill a new blank notebook with drawings; plan a little vacation. Maybe I should say yes more often; say no more often; have my hearing checked; organize my junk drawer(s); vacuum the rug; live more in the present and less in the future; think big; embrace my contradictions
Maybe I should stop binge watching TV and curl up in bed with a new book. Maybe I should drastically cut down my sugar intake to lead to a healthier body; maybe I should not have been such a pain in the ass as a little kid in Flushing, Queens. Maybe I should become a vegetarian; stop answering 90% of the e-mails I receive; stop answering the telephone since it is hardly ever a real call from a real person who wants to talk to me; stop apologizing for taking afternoon naps.
Maybe I should go for one week without wearing any purple, including purple earrings. Maybe I should be more patient; not expect other people to share my enthusiasms; focus on one thing at a time; not feel guilty about anything; weed my sock drawer; eat a piece of fruit every day. Maybe I should express anger, disappointment, sorrow, fear — instead of pretending not to feel any of those things. Maybe I should stop talking to myself out loud; learn how to drive; sharpen all the knives in the kitchen
Maybe I should get one of those tile things that helps you find your phone when you lose it; believe what I feel more than what I see; be more willing to take risks and be fine no matter the results; stop listening to the news, stop questioning people’s sanity, stop waiting for a change I cannot effect. Maybe I should be satisfied with how I effect the world, not worrying so much about railing at the masses. Maybe I should get a little robot to keep track of my phone, my keys, my sneakers, my purse — just maybe
Maybe I should resume getting up at 4:30 a.m.; just drop everything; leave; stay. Maybe I should leave myself alone. Maybe I should leave teaching; hug my students; accept this ritual I do; not give up sugar; just let love not be a verb but a gracious noun with no edges. Maybe I should not doubt my efficacy; not feel the need to explain myself. Maybe I should just wake up as myself every day
Maybe I should forget about deadlines; be easier on myself; retire sooner; get rid of most of my books; hire someone to clean the entire house; start taking walks again. Maybe I should stop being so productive; listen more; plan a dinner party; run down the trail; walk backwards uphill; revel in snow, rain, clouds; start knitting again
Maybe I should love my older sister better and love my younger sister less; call my mother; become an activist; try again to play guitar; stop thinking about work when I am not at work. Maybe I should try walking a little farther today despite the pain; clean everything; declutter; get a dog. Maybe I should be braver, take a chance, fail, succeed
Maybe I should bake a cake today; drink less coffee and more tea; plan a trip; take up a different hobby each year; go to the movies more often; drink more champagne. Maybe I should stop remembering darker episodes of the past; read philosophy instead of poetry (but maybe not); experiment more with different intensities of chocolate; plant exotic vegetables this summer. Maybe I should plan my costume for Halloween right now
Maybe I should take a moment; breathe; cut myself some slack; speak up; stop overthinking. Maybe I should live in the moment; stop romanticizing memories; try again; stop asking for permission; stop pretending. Maybe I should listen; take ownership; go climbing; stop giving up my power; remember the good things. Maybe I should just get the tattoos.
Maybe I should stay quiet; help more; say that I care; grow up; start all over; grow more flowers. Maybe I should dare more; be less honest; cry; fly away; go with the flow; live more freely; stop listening to others. Maybe I should be fierce; be gentle; buy a dictionary; remember to water my one plant; take myself out for dinner and order anything/everything I desire
Maybe I should stop worrying about what I should do; forgive my sister; move to California; compost; move to New Orleans; learn how to play bridge; never cut my hair again. Maybe I should move to Mexico; say yes to the dress; pick up my camera again; go on a silent retreat; laugh more often. Maybe I should get my charts read at this point in my life; get in the car and keep driving; have people over for dinner more often; go to a sunny beach for a week or a decade; say “I love you” more often
Maybe I should quit my temporary job as a dishwasher; look harder for the croci coming up now since spring bulbs blooming fight depression; contact Ben and see if he wants me to drive tractor this spring; walk on a hiking trail I’ve never known before.
Maybe I should learn Spanish; work on weekends to catch up with everyone else; get comfortable with downhill skiing; get an air filter for my room, change the pillow, ditch the down comforter; sleep more. Maybe I should spend more time cleaning the house; read less news, more literature; volunteer on a campaign, make phone calls, give more money. Maybe I should replace all the plastic with glass — really, all of it.
Maybe I should stir the roux; soak the beans; get on down; punch the clock; give ‘em a break. Maybe I should choose a hobby and become devoted to it, whatever it is; keep fresh flowers in a vase on my desk; only write with purple ink; dust my collection of empty boxes; pat myself on the back more often (literally)
Maybe I should always put my wallet in the same place so I don’t end up leaving home without it; think twice before I speak; climb more flights of stairs; get another cat; knit a sweater or two in a lighter fiber; go through all the books that are piled up by the bed and see if I will ever read some of them. Maybe I should donate the books I won’t read to the library book sale
Maybe I should get a new pen that doesn’t smudge; make decisions about all the choices I’m stumbling over; plant my tomato seeds soon; take up sewing again; drag out the electronic keyboard and try to learn to play; never ever eat another jelly bean
Maybe I should move to India; go to the headstand clinic at Circus Culture; feed my cat canned food instead of dry; wash the salt off my shoes; wash the salt off my car (or maybe I should wait and do that in a few weeks). Maybe I should be less vulnerable at work and more vulnerable at home. Maybe I should have slept more last night; have packed a lunch; have chosen a different book to read today. Maybe I should do my taxes this weekend. Maybe I should have done my taxes last weekend
Maybe I should run away and start a new life; speak French; dye my hair pink. Maybe I should write down all the forbidden thoughts and pin them to my wall so they at least have a place to live; bring home every stray dog I see; make a winter bug, mouse, and squirrel sanctuary and anyone who shows up is welcome, as long as they know they have to leave when spring arrives. Maybe I should go out the front door, leaving it ajar, while I walk until I don’t want to walk anymore — maybe I will make it to an ocean
Maybe I should wash the dishes; walk all day in the woods; visit my old friends in Colorado; replace the light bulbs; finish the paper I started writing 21 years ago; plant an oak between the hickories. Maybe I should trust my intuition; shut off the computer every day at 4 p.m., refrain from gossiping; be more forgiving; write down my dreams; focus on one thing at a time.
Maybe I should start thinking of aches and pains as friendly reminders; travel more lightly; drink one less glass of wine, occasionally; take up painting; thank my lucky stars
Maybe I should try braiding my thin white hair into tiny little strands all over my head; see if I can locate that old friend I owe a big apology to; try to become a contestant on Jeopardy and hope the categories that day make actual sense to me; make big money by selling my junk on E-bay. Maybe I should sit down at the keyboard and work on a piece by J. S. Bach instead of just thinking about the joy that would bring me; work daily on developing my lip so I can have the chops to play the highest notes on my euphonium. Maybe I should look through my closet and pull out all the shirts and coats and jackets I have not worn for many years and take them to the Thrifty Shopper; take a load of books to the Friends of the Library even though I haven’t gotten around to reading them yet. Maybe I should learn the difference between significant family history and sentimental accumulation
Maybe I should move away to some remote place where the trees stand majestically tall and the sun is forever setting and I can be quiet — no words — no voice — just listening for all those who have suffered and want to tell and retell their stories. Maybe I should count backwards each time I have a birthday, and I will get younger and younger, not because I regret aging, but because I want to play with my child self again. Maybe I should go back into the dream I had last night and try to find my mother; she sounded sad, wanted me to come and be with her, but her voice trailed off into silence before she could tell me where she was
Maybe I should see everyone as Divine Mother, in need; choose with care, then abandon; give back a few of the million-minutes-wasted; see the lesson in each hour of my day. Maybe I should loosen the weight of the world from my shoulders; allow others to be who they are; break down and cry; stop trying a little harder; move in rhythm with the tune my heart is humming; say a little prayer for the ones I hate. Maybe I should rejoice and celebrate; give more than five hugs a day, everyday; mentor, with no malice or forethought; express, in response to inspiration. Maybe I should be very quick to love
Maybe I should get a new life; learn to make furniture; have a real garden again; move to another country; cut my hair. Maybe I should cook something new at least once a week, maybe twice; do something pleasurable at least once a day; take a class and really learn Chinese; give away everything that I have accumulated; move to a new house; get another cat; change my name
Maybe I should plan a surprise getaway for our family for this weekend, just the three of us. Maybe I should pull up Google Maps and randomly pick a location and that is where we will go, whether it turns out to be Budapest, Idaho, or even Owego. Maybe I should pretend I’m a ghost while walking down the street and if someone smiles at me I will put on a concerned face, lean toward them, and whisper “you can see me?” Maybe I should tell my friend Peaches that her earrings remind me of sparkly little peacocks and that I appreciate their twinkle
Maybe I should take a train across America by myself; learn to ice skate; organize a high school reunion; learn German and go to Germany. Maybe I should go into a trance and visit with my mother — I miss her. Maybe I should throw away (recycle) everything in the basement instead of sorting through it all; watch every movie at Regal Cinema this weekend; buy a new wardrobe (but first buy a lottery ticket); play more dance music while I cook. Maybe I should buy a whole new set of Smart Wool socks to replace all of mine which seem to have worn out at once; rent an apartment in Manhattan and get over being scared of large city living; get a reading list of fabulous books from four different people
Maybe I should be quiet sometimes; celebrate every minute when there is nothing hurting in me; call my parents more often; look for a book whose cover I don’t like and read it. Maybe I should try to find all my pair-less socks and make puppets out of them for the children to play with; stop obsessing about using my time well; redefine success in my head; stop telling my kids “I’ll be right there, hold on.” Maybe I should collect more seed pods of trees since I find them so enchanting. Maybe I should decide to grow in new directions, towards ideas or the shimmering light on the surface of the open sea
Maybe I should put together an art installation; make everything I do an artistic endeavor; sing from the rooftops; live big and full for as long as I can; keep painting my fingernails blue; keep the excitement going despite everything. Maybe I should calm myself down; not be so grandiose; take things a bit slower
Maybe I should use perfume again; let my hair grow long again; do all the mending that has piled up for two years; start using a fountain pen again, with some outlandish color of ink; try planting more tulip and daffodil bulbs. Maybe I should get serious about organizing my photos; learn how to live in a smaller space; face the fact that I don't really need all the clothes that hang in my closet; finally get around to finishing that quilt I started in 1980; set up that small portable greenhouse on my back porch so I can grow basil year-round; find a way to enjoy the grayness of an Ithaca winter. Maybe I should express gratitude every day; try watercolor painting again; give away even more books; send more snail mail and fewer emails; try to keep a diary for the last 20 years of my life; give up on my plan to read War and Peace and settle for having read Anna Karenina
Maybe I should take a more vocal stand for the rights of others; apologize more often; apologize less. Maybe I should dye my hair pink or purple or blue; pull out that old ukulele and re-learn those lost chords; polish my tap shoes; sing at the top of my lungs outside of the shower. Maybe I should hold the hand of my sweetheart more frequently; remember to breathe deeply several times a day; stop wearing shoes and let my toes breathe, too. Maybe I should simply toss out those four boxes of papers labeled "to file.” Maybe I should or maybe I shouldn’t
Marty Blue Waters
Mary Louise Church
Saskya van Nouhuys
Sunday, February 24, 2019
With its one tall and narrow window facing North, this kitchen always has cold light. Through the ample maple crowns beyond the window, flickering patches of light create their shadow-play on the low countertops and on the mint-green cabinetry that only reaches halfway up the wall. White stone walls, white porcelain sink. One long crack in the wall that runs from the corner above the cabinets all the way to the adjacent wall above the door. The worn hardwood floor is covered by a threadbare oriental runner. On the wall next to the entrance hangs a heavy chestnut panel that once chimed calls to the housekeeper. Its oxidized metal bookplates hold paper slips entitled Living Room, Parlour, and Dining Room, all in faded Cormier typeface. An eternity has passed since its little bulbs last lit up, summoning servant to servee (that word seems archaic now; when spoken it draws the corners of your lips far back, too far for comfort). Time stands still here in the faint smell of wall plaster, dust, and floor wax. War-time tea tins repurposed for flour and sugar, plain or adorned with embossed figures of smiling women with red lips and white teeth, aligned neatly on open shelves. This is the kitchen in my father's childhood home.
- Aino Waller
In the summer I live without a kitchen, just a counter with a hot plate and a small fridge underneath it. In the morning food is prepared and eaten with a view of the lake and sounds of morning; ducks, orioles, and lapping water. Hot cocoa and cold cereal are served up in metal camp cups and bowls. All dishes and silverware are washed outside in cold water, with hopes that the sun has taken off the biting edge. When you live and cook mostly outdoors tasks take on a different meaning. Food is limited, but it tastes sweeter, and the fresh open air takes the place of vitamins. Before breakfast a swim in cold water tingles every nerve and prepares me for my day. After all, breakfast is the most important meal of the day.
- Barbara Anger
It is a kitchen in flux, without a remodel. Everything in continual motion — around the island, which holds the sink — perhaps, to accommodate its many guests, or to include the cook. Washing the dishes becomes a family event. 100-plus-year-old cook stove still put to work. Winter warmer. Leavener box. Cast iron becomes a fixture. How many times have I heard them say, "This year we'll be moving that old giant out — how many of us will it take?" Homemade pizzas. Late night snacks. Giggling girls. A kitchen of chaos. A kitchen of calm. A kitchen built on love. With rounded corners, like loaves of bread. Warmth. Warmth. Warmth. Pottery through glass panes. Screen door slamming. Hand-woven rug with resting pup, ears poised in hopes of falling casualties during meal prep — the only eager member on the cleanup crew. The clock on the wall runs fast, then behind — we lose all sense of time.
- Heather Boob
The year Charlie died I had gone to France for the summer and left without a place to come back to. “Who knows maybe I won’t come back." But then Charlie was diagnosed and I came back. Someone found me a little apartment on East Hill with a sad little kitchen. It was long and narrow in an apartment squeezed out of a nothing house like an appendage. The kitchen was so narrow, probably the owner could have been sued for body bias if the wrong size person showed up to rent it. I was desperate and also the right size. Now I get a great deal of therapy in the kitchen. But I have no memory of cooking anything in that kitchen. It was not made for cooking, for inhabiting. The following summer, a year later, I left for France to bring Charlie’s ashes to Plum Village. My life was more messy than ever and bigger than any kitchen therapy could address. It really didn’t matter, the weirdness of the kitchen. Everything was weird, somehow. I couldn’t find the door out. So I got on a plane and ended up in France. I know my mess both followed me and was left behind, like the long tail of a bird in a dream, a tail as long as the journey. I heard of the mold and infestation of ants, alone, from the garbage can I failed to bring out to the curb before I left.
- Jayne Demakos
We remodeled our house seventeen years ago — all for a Thanksgiving dinner. For more than thirty years, Nancy and I hosted a large "Thanksgiving Weekend" for her family and mine, and for the many found-family members who had become central to our life over the years. To host 20 or 25 people and to prepare an elaborate meal, or meals — as, over time, Thursday dinner grew to be a Friday dinner, a Saturday dinner, and a Sunday brunch — required a larger dining room and something significantly more than our galley-style kitchen. And so, a complete remodel of our home, an eight-month construction project, was underway. Walls were moved, new I-beams and doorways added, plaster completely torn out and replaced, floors refinished, and tiles and bathrooms and new windows installed. The kitchen itself received the most attention. Design and layout took hours of configuration and reconfiguration on the pad of graph paper I used to plan the new space. Where was the sink to go? Was the refrigerator in the recommended place forming the fridge-cooktop-sink triangle? Where would the two ovens that were considered essential to the design fit? It was hours and hours of planning, talking with a professional designer and our builder, and making endless choices of cabinet finishes, tile textures, and countertop colors. Finally, after weeks and months of planning, all of the details came together and, in the end, we had nearly the kitchen we wanted. I say nearly because — while most of the details were right, the finishes gleaming, and the function well thought-through — this larger kitchen . . . was only two-feet longer and one-foot wider than the one it replaced.
- Jim Mazza
I had just turned seven when we moved to Sasebo, Japan. Our private rental kitchen had one small window looking out into the vacant lot next door. Electricity, cycling off every other day, powered only a few light bulbs. In winter, we used smelly, dangerous kerosene lanterns and heaters, lit only as long as needed. My pregnant mother kept one heater in her bedroom to dress, then carried it to the kitchen to prepare breakfast. We rescheduled our American Thanksgiving dinner as we had electricity on Wednesdays and could use the stove Father bought. A wooden icebox stood in one corner of the kitchen. Blocks of ice delivered twice a week kept food cool. An old man carried a block from his handcart to our icebox using iron tongs. We rescued chunks of ice dropped on the floor immediately to suck on hot summer days. Food waiting to be cooked got stored in the ice box, no leftovers. Mother put all our leftover food in a box outside the front door. Homeless people came by to eat the food every night. They knew our routine as well as I did.
- Joann Grisetti
I sauté the onions and garlic, glance out my wide windows occasionally, at walnut, maple, douglas fir trees, winter skies, and chickadees at the feeder. Then, in a heart-beat, I’m back in Mother’s kitchen of long ago with its stone sink, small window, narrow view of bleak hop-fields half-obscured by blooming winter jasmine. Here, today, I have counters to work on, a fridge, stainless sinks; she had a scrubbed table, cold “safe” or larder, a small stove, a flagstone floor that was hard to clean, and a stone “copper” for washing sheets. I work in the quiet of my house but in a distant background I hear Mother singing Somewhere Over the Rainbow, and am content.
- Joanna M. Weston
One kitchen was not enough for my Italian-American grandparents. In their modest three-bedroom ranch house on 60th Street in Niagara Falls, they needed more than a single stove to cook a proper Sunday dinner. So, my grandfather set up a range across from the washing machine in the basement. On Sundays when I was a child, I would walk into the main entrance to their house around 4 p.m. to join my aunts and cousins for a dish of macaroni. I could hear my grandmother stirring the sauce in the upstairs kitchen, to my left, and my grandfather swearing in Italian as he tried to fit all of the gnocchi into a vat of boiling water in the basement. My grandfather, now 95, still lives in the same house. But after my aunt died of breast cancer in 2008, and then my grandmother died of Alzheimer’s in 2012, we stopped going to his house for Sunday dinners. The basement kitchen fell out of use. There is still a cooking range across from the washing machine, but the large vat that used to boil gnocchi no longer sits on it. It has moved to my parents’ house, who now use it in their own basement kitchen, where they boil pasta for my grandfather and whoever else wants to join them on Sunday afternoons.
- Julie M. Lind
Probably our last kitchen. And so we let loose. No cabinets, no doors, all open shelves. Everything on display. A museum of broken things. My mother's ashes in two small beautiful etched silver urns on the top shelf. Only the odd and unusual essentials in plain view. The blown glass tiny vases from Florence. My computer on the counter, waking up. My mother's family portrait over the stove when she was five. My grandmother in Alexandria sipping tea a hundred years ago. It keeps getting better and better. First thing in the morning, almost twenty years after the renovation, I throw or give something unnecessary away, and add something new and precious to the mix. Souvenirs. A dessert tray of pink stones from Santa Fe. A finger-shaped stone from the Finger Lakes. The painted tile from Puerto Rico that reads "Do Not Disturb / Poet at Work."
- Kath Abela Wilson
It might have been a canyon, that dirt road running between our houses. Our kitchen window looked at yours across the divide. Daily, I saw you sweeping yellow dust off your porch. As from a little weather house, your tiny figure emerged mechanically sweeping, then re-entered, the door closing behind you. You came and went about your Baptist life, we about our Catholic. You to prayer meeting, your empty purse on your arm, for fashion’s sake; I to Mass, mother’s lace hanky bobby-pinned to my hair. It wasn’t said aloud, but the exquisite litmus of the young recorded it — you were the Other Grandmother. I have only a handful of memories of you, clinking together like the few coins given a child for the collection basket. Among them, one gleams most brightly: My bike had thrown me on that very dirt road between our houses. I presented myself, bleeding knees, chin, and palms, on your front porch. You opened wide the door, your arms, and took me inside your warm kitchen, that place of my father’s memories —ketchup sandwiches, spoonfuls of sweet condensed milk, endless grace at table. You lifted me to the drainboard by the sink and poured peroxide on my wounds, murmuring words of love. With bent yet gentle fingers you loosened embedded stones and grit. You smiled your sweet baptist smile and with your apron, wiped away my catholic tears.
- Kathleen Kramer
Thirty years ago, my husband, toddler, and I had four days to find a house in Tallahassee, as Tom had just gotten his dream job there. We hired a rental agent to show us around. I knew for sure I wanted a big kitchen (“big enough to dance in”) with lots of light. Nothing we saw fit that description. One afternoon our realtor dropped us off at the motel, and my husband went for a run. He came back grinning. “There’s a for-sale-by-owner, right on the city park,” he declared. We took our little girl and raced over. It was a darling bungalow set high on a ridge, facing the park. Once inside, we saw huge windows in every room. When we walked into the kitchen it was love at first sight. The room was indeed large enough to dance in, with big windows, a bench with padded cushions where our table would fit perfectly, and a big double sink. All these many years I have made meals in this kitchen, had my morning coffee, written in my journal on the same table where my daughter always did her homework. This well-lived-in room has truly fulfilled its promise.
- Katya Sabaroff Taylor
I have read that the kitchens of Ireland have couches so that people can hang out and keep the cook company. What a warmhearted custom this is. I also remember Joyce Carol Oates's novel Them where she writes about how people living in poverty were forever hashing things out at their kitchen tables. My great-aunt Florence's kitchen was like that; people rarely went into her living room, but sat around gossiping with her as she circulated endlessly around her kitchen and her mother's antique coal-burning cookstove. My own mother was more of a don't-cramp-my-style cook, and so were all my friends' mothers. In my ex-husband's mother's house, though, you could poke around in her cupboards and refrigerator, and that was among the few things you could do that she wouldn't yell at you for. Who has influenced me the most? Well, I welcome people coming in to listen to NPR with me, and am thrilled when I can get someone else to help me chop vegetables: I must be more of an Aunt Florence. Sometimes, too, a radio story is so good that I'd like to make the whole family come in and listen. So I am damn near Irish, as well.
- Laurie Petersen
We often said that you could live for years on the food in my mother’s pantry. It was a big walk-in space, with shelves from floor to ceiling, stocked with supplies: cans of soups, all sorts of tomatoes (whole, plum, diced, crushed), hominy, hominy, hominy; boxes of broth, every shape of pasta, brownie, cake, muffin mix; bags of flour and sugar, bins of onions and potatoes; jars of jam, applesauce, condiments; bottles of vanilla (the good kind from Madagascar), olive oil, vinegars; multiples of plastic wrap, wax paper, parchment paper. Towering overhead on the top shelf was the 64-cup coffeemaker with spigot whose brew had driven people home from dinner parties in the 60s and 70s, a tureen or two, a dutch oven, and other random pieces of cookware too big for the kitchen cabinets. The last time I was with my mother in her kitchen, we took a tour of the pantry together. She shuffled to the door, pulled on the light, looked around, up and down. “Where did all this come from?” she asked. I tried to think of the last time she had made a meal, walked into the pantry to get ingredients. It was less than a year, but in her mind long ago. She wondered at the abundance, the forethought of whoever had gathered all that food, made all those meals. “What shall we make?” I asked. “I can’t even start,” she said. And we laughed together.
- Marian Rogers
My mother was an excellent cook. When I was a kid growing up in western Kansas, I enjoyed watching her pull a dinner together -- especially if fried chicken was on the menu. She did everything with ease and expertise. But when she got into her '80s, she became a real sucker for kitchen gadgets. For example, she saw a TV commercial for "the amazing Salad Shooter," and was immediately hooked. The idea of being able to chop up a giant bowl of salad just by cranking a handle was really exciting to her. She called up and ordered one for herself. When the Salad Shooter arrived in the mail, she found the instructions very hard to follow and got terribly frustrated that making a big salad with this small white plastic machine wasn't quite as easy as the TV ad had promised. When she realized she needed to chop all the vegetables into smaller sizes so they could fit into the small round feeding hole, she threw up her hands and said "Well I might just as well finish all the chopping myself if I'm going to go to all that trouble first." So the Salad Shooter sat idle on her kitchen counter for many months, getting in the way and constantly taunting her with its grandiose promise of simplicity. Finally, she gave it away to Good Will and stopped expecting any magic from it at all. Every now and then, another gadget was advertised as being a miraculous time saver in the kitchen. Mom would cave in once in a while and put her order in. But, eventually, she always returned to the old fashioned ways and cooked up a storm of deliciousness all by herself from start to finish. Some things just can't be improved upon!
- Marty Blue Waters
It was a small kitchen, the one from my childhood. It had a miniature, shuttered window used to pass food into the dining room for Easter and Christmas dinner. If I was sure that my father was not around, I would take a risk and climb up on the counter, slide through the small opening on my belly and slide head first down onto the china cabinet. Jumping down to the floor I would hold my breath so I could hear danger approaching. With barely enough time to conjure a story of being chased by pirates or avoiding the snapping jaws of imaginary crocodiles I would run back through the pantry and fly up onto the counter to close the small doors, hiding the evidence of my crime. The light blue enameled kitchen table was usually pushed up against the windowed wall to make room for the crowd of six that marched through each day. Meals were served there unless my father joined us and then my mother would pull the table, with solemn ceremony, into the middle of the room to create a place of honor. There was a low, round infant chair, not high at all, against the other wall. It was a space that had held each of us as we entered the family and before we could sit alone in a chair at the table. My sister Becky was the baby but soon there would be two more, the twins that my mother was carrying inside her. The tiny kitchen was where I could almost always find my mother. She would be on her hands and knees, scrubbing the floor after a full day of teaching first graders, even though a perfectly good mop sat in the kitchen pantry. But usually I would find her with her back to the door, standing over the stove in deep concentration, attempting to create a meal for six, and most importantly to please my father (or to not displease him). I watched. I stood by silently but was never invited to participate. It was too important a task to share and my mother was too tired and too behind in her chores to see me there beside her. I understood as only the oldest can.
- Mary Jane Richmond
Our kitchen occupies the northwest quadrant of our house, its two half-walls open to the rainforest and main entrance to the north, and overlooking the garden and nursery to the west. We begin and end each day here, attuning ourselves to the world around us. This kitchen is our natural refuge; a welcoming space at the heart of the house, with a bench and small table for guests and helpers along its eastern side. It is also a living organism, an alchemical kitchen where the fire with which we cook and the spring water we drink enter into experiments together with the fruits of the fields, the people present, and whatever creative inspiration comes to hand, to produce pleasurable and nourishing feasts. It's an environment where "inside" and "outside" co-exist peacefully: tiny bell-like fungi and slick algae cycle through their lives on the moist sides of our wooden sink; hummingbirds whizz past our heads; night lights attract spiraling clouds of moths; toads hunt insects and leave wet tongue-prints on the kitchen floor. It is a magical kitchen, filled with the transformative wonder of life in the tropics, and I love it with all my heart.
- Mimi Foyle
My mother is washing my hair in the kitchen sink, why, I don’t know, but maybe just because it’s a treat. I am nine years old. This is our new house, much larger than our old house, with six doors leading to the outside deep in the woods, a long drive from anywhere. I am leaning over the counter, my head tipped over the porcelain lip. My mother uses the sink sprayer to rinse the suds from my hair and I squeeze my eyes shut. Water bubbles in my ears and I can taste the soap even though I am squeezing my mouth shut as tight as my eyes. Over the sink is a window looking out through a small porch where my mother has hung a bird feeder. She keeps it full of sunflower seeds tight in their little black and white jackets. The birds LOVE the seeds and my mother identifies them for me. Chickadees — black and white like the seeds. Blood-red cardinals and their olive-colored mates. Big blue jays looking very intelligent and knocking a lot of seeds on the ground. Nuthatches — also black and white — hanging upside down from the feeder. Snowbirds — more black and white birds! — who are only there in winter. She says if I stand very, very still, the chickadees will land in my open hand and take a seed. It’s true — and yes, they are light as a feather.
- Patti Witten
I love kitchens because they remind me of my mother. If my mother were a dancer, the kitchen would have been her stage. Her body built and defined over countless years by the exercise of feeding her family. Her body gracefully moving to the rhythm of the dwindling daylight as she mixed dough and chopped greens. Her hands floating through flour like clouds along the sky, her fingers like a soft rain sprinkling salt and pepper and just the right amount of vinegar into heated pots that sat on the burners of our old, worn-down stove. We, her children, her exuberant audience, eagerly waiting for biscuits to emerge from the oven and the collards and black-eyed peas to simmer down. And while we waited, in the interval of her performance, she would wash her hands and pull the laundry in through the window, the large kitchen window all dressed in yellow curtains, the same window that allowed the setting sun to illuminate her culinary talents. Back then, my mother's cooking was more than utilitarian, it was a way of giving of herself, a way of giving us more than we had, because we had very little. My mother was a woman from another place and time — she was born in 1911, abjectly poor. She was born in a place and time where brilliance was measured by the degree that one knew how to provide for their family, and like a great magician, she turned a scant amount of ingredients into something that nourished us completely. For her, her strength as a parent was shown by making sure her children did not go hungry, and had a roof over their heads. She was from another time — an amazing woman who once told us that no matter how little you have, you always have something to give. Yes, a woman from a time wherein your resolve was shown by your ability to simply survive, not just out in the larger world, but within the walls of your home and the warmth of your kitchen.
- Peaches Gillette
Lately I feel clumsier than I used to be. I came home and while searching for something in the fridge I bumped the door and a plastic jar of iced coffee fell and spilled on the floor. A slowly spreading cold, dark liquid seeped across the grout lines of the large beige tiles and expanded like a shallow layer of viscous mud, spreading under the refrigerator and soaking the edge of a light green scarf hanging over the back of a chair, turning it the color of old, dark wood. I dashed to grab a handful of dish towels from the drawer and threw them into the pile of muddy liquid, even the stiff one from Hawaii with the fuchsia and orange flowers that my mother-in-law brought me that I never use; even the very soft white one that is only to be used on the gleaming stainless steel of the refrigerator and not meant for mopping the floor, as it may become entwined with tiny specks of grit that can later scratch the surface.
- Phoebe Jenson
It is true that the kitchen in my home is about to be completely transformed. It’s been a long start-and-stop process of planning, considering, selecting, and learning. I’ve learned more than anyone really wants to, I’m sure, about the edges of countertops or differences in the ways cabinet doors can be built. It’s almost time to pack up our kitchen stuff to make way for the demo team. Time also to get rid of unwanted or unneeded items. I also want to be mindful of energy to purge from this old kitchen. I didn’t get off on the best foot with it when we moved in 11 ½ years ago. I had loved my old house. Almost every direction I looked in, in that house, I found something to smile about. I have not felt this way much about our current house, especially not the kitchen. I will pack our belongings, and get rid of annoyance about the food being in the too-low cupboard with bad shelving. I will also toss out resentments over all things related to these four walls. I will let go of feeling crowded. Or burdened. And I will look for other things to let go of that I don’t realize are there yet. There will be abundant space, and light, and room for new possibility, and a sense of joy and welcome.
- Stacey Murphy
I am in love. No, I am in lust! Kitchen lust! In House Beautiful, there are photographs of gorgeous kitchens. You know the ones: “Country Serenity,” with the requisite, exquisite collection of jadeite, blue and white ironstone, or vintage canisters that peep from behind sparkling glass doors in the white-painted custom-built wooden cabinets. A sea-green granite counter gleams, the appliances are state of the art, the white floor is artfully accented with an area rug whose tones pick up the colors of the cabinets’ contents and the sea-green granite. The “City Chic” kitchen sports immaculate white dinnerware on pristine glass open shelves. The walls are deep, saturated purple, blue, or blazing scarlet. The granite counters are white, the floor is reclaimed wood from an 18th century Parisian mansion, of course. What is wrong with these pictures? Where are the photos of our granddaughter, one for each of her 21 years, stuck to the fridge? Where’s the tiny, ancient TV perched on a small ledge for my husband’s morning dose of news? Why no favorite mug, chipped, waiting on the Formica counter? And where did they put my step-stool? Would I dare cook in any one of those kitchen? Perhaps, but I’d make such a mess! On second thought, my lust has evaporated. The affair is over.
- Sue Norvell
See this photo of me in the kitchen with Teo. It is our first night home from the hospital, the third night of his life. I don’t know what I am warming up in the microwave, can’t remember what I ended up eating. In my face, see the softness, but the new edge, too. This is the face of somebody’s mama. See the pride: I grew him. I pushed him out. See the way he belongs. See the way the wrap I’m using to carry him is tied all wrong, though I practiced and practiced with a stuffed bunny while still pregnant. See how I don’t know it. See how I look like I know what I’m doing. See the way you just can’t know what’s to come. See me standing in the kitchen on Albany Street, believing I can fathom what it means to really love somebody.
- Summer Killian
My grandmother’s kitchen, in Parchman, Mississippi, had a tiny pantry tucked away in a corner of the room. My grandfather had put in ceiling to floor shelves as well as a pull out counter for extra prep space. The shelves held colorful, beautiful jars of jams, jellies, canned vegetables, and jars of pickled everything. By everything, I mean not just pickles from cucumbers but things like peaches with cinnamon and cloves floating with the peaches, bright pickled corn relish, and green beans. There were big bins in the pantry holding flour, sugar, and cornmeal. She often went to the pantry, pulled out the counter and an enormous blue bowl (that my brother now has after I gave it to him in a sentimental moment) and she began making buttermilk biscuits. She never measured anything but simply spooned flour, baking powder, and salt into the bowl. She added butter or lard, crumbling it all together with her fingers, and then she added buttermilk that had been delivered that morning. Some of the milk she set aside to be churned into butter. She had a glass jar churn with a crank handle and all of us grandchildren clamored to be the one to turn the handle until — magically — butter appeared. She poured off the milk, scooped out the butter, and patted it into a stoneware dish that imprinted a design of a wheat stalk onto the top of the butter as it chilled.
- Susan Annah Currie
It was a long ago July and I was 12 years old. After several relentless days in the car, my mother, brother, and I had traveled the last 12 miles by boat to install ourselves in a turn-of-the-century summer cottage on the Georgian Bay. My father would join us from our year-round home in Texas on the 1st of August. The dwelling was large and sprawling. The kitchen boasted a four-burner wood-burning stove, a pump handle fixed to the wall just inside the back door for pumping water straight out of the lake, an enamel dishpan, a kettle for heating water, and several drawers of utensils and tea towels. An electric light hung from a high rafter and a string was pulled to turn it on and off. There was a large window made of screening only, covered on the outside by a heavy wooden shutter. The second morning we were there, having breakfasted on bacon, I’m sure—there was always bacon—my mother decided to find out just what was in those drawers under the window. The first one she opened held a collection of ironed and folded tea towels at the front. But it was a deep drawer and she kept pulling it out as I watched. All of a sudden she screamed and snatched the drawer out, dashing it to the floor. My mother jumped up on a chair. I jumped up on another chair, as a clutch of tiny naked baby mice writhed and wriggled on the green linoleum floor. We looked at each other from our perches atop the chairs, my mum and I. And I laughed at her, and she laughed at me, and we stood there for the longest time just laughing atop our perches before we descended warily to the floor. I’m not sure what happened next, but I believe my mother used a broom to sweep the entire mess out the door. By the end of August, I had learned to bake a rather excellent cherry pie in the oven of the wood-burning stove.
- Susan Lesser
My Italian grandmother was certainly mistress of the kitchen wherever she went. I remember visiting her in Manhattan when I was very little. While she waited for us at the top of the steep staircase to her apartment, my nose filled with the scents of oregano and garlic emanating from above. I'd look up, up, up to see her beaming face as I climbed each step. She'd laden the table in the cramped dining room with many of her specialities: spaghetti with meat balls, braciola, eggplant parmigiana (my favorite), sausage, and various fresh breads. When Grandma moved to New Jersey to be closer to family, she brought her kitchen with her. I remember eating her inimitable thick-crust pizza piping hot from the oven. Once when I was running late to a babysitting job, I put a wedge of veal parmigiana between two slices of her bread, wrapped it in foil and stuffed it into my purse to savor later. I've never quite figured out the exact combination of spices she used. She loved to add bay leaves to all of her sauces as they simmered on the stove. But I'm sure there was something more.
- Theresa A. Cancro
I love my camping kitchen — enclosed in a big blue rubbermaid container heavy enough to sway the closet shelf, didn’t bring it in from the jeep until almost Christmas. Grills aluminum and cast iron, pot holders and a towel, detergent and sponge in a dish tub, kindling twigs and newspaper, a long lighter, matches and food gloves in a plastic bag, a small first-aid kit, paper plates, towels, and cups, sharp knives and a few utensils for fire and food (also a few plastic utensils in case of guests, you never know), a thin “cutting board” like a placemat, one checkered tablecloth and a nice blackened pot and lid. There’s a box with salt, pepper, sugar and terrible instant expresso that tastes great when I am relaxing at a picnic table near my tent, morning campfire almost ready for a bit of sirloin — first grilled last night — and bread that will toast with black stripes.
His kitchen should have been a dead give-away that our upcoming marriage would not work in the end. Granted, there were high end appliances, copper pots, and Le Creuset cookware. But there were also Flamingo pink cabinets. What man paints his kitchen cabinets bright pink? Blinded by love and the view of the Pacific ocean from the kitchen window, I took this palette choice as a sign of his rejection of our culture's restrictive social gender constructs. Here’s a man in touch with his feminine side, right? Curiously he spent little time in the kitchen, choosing to eat out whenever he could. His work as a gourmand and wine promoter required that he appeared frequently at restaurants and winery dinners. When he did entertain at home, which was rare, he hired a chef. Over time I came to realize that the kitchen’s pink cabinets were one of many signs of his narcissistic personality disorder. It was in the kitchen that his cruelty and subtle abusive behavior showed up for the first time. It was in the kitchen that one day I realized our marriage was in trouble.
- Yvette Rubio
Many years ago I lived in London, in a bed-sitter not far from Hampstead Heath. It was a small room with a narrow bed, an over-stuffed chair, and a large clothes cabinet that tilted slightly to the left. There was a bathroom down the hall, and I had access to the back garden, but there was no kitchen — just an electric kettle for boiling water. I drank a lot of tea. I was a Bronx girl doing my best to appear English. Most evenings, on my way home from my job as a library assistant, I’d stop and buy a small bunch of anemones from a woman who called me “Love.” Then I’d pick up a spinach tart for supper, or some bread and cheese. As often as possible I’d eat out with friends, in one cheap restaurant or another. Sometimes a kind co-worker invited me to her flat for a home-cooked meal. I never asked anyone to visit me in my room. Except once. A friend was visiting from the States, spending a week in a posh West End hotel. We went together to museums and parks, saw a play, heard a concert. It seemed only right that I would have her over for a meal. I boiled water in the kettle and made us tea. I picked up Cornish pasties from the local pub. For dessert I made a little concoction with plain yogurt, a handful of cashews, and a few currants. My friend was polite. “Lovely, lovely,” she said, “everything is so lovely.” She was also trying to be English. Later, after she returned to America, she sent me a blue aerogram. “Get the hell out of that room,” she wrote. “Find someplace with a kitchen. Grow up already.” I crumpled the thin blue paper and tossed it in the waste basket. I was perfectly content in my bed-sitter. I didn’t want to cook, anyway. What did I need with a kitchen?
- Zee Zahava
Tuesday, January 1, 2019
For the second year in a row I asked some people I know to share their hopes and dreams for the new year. Here are some of their responses. Perhaps you will feel inspired to ask yourself the question: what are YOU looking forward to in 2019?
doing the First Day hike on January 1; baking scones; working on creative projects every single day; hearing the first robin in my yard; getting better at hawk identification; riding my bike at least once every month of 2019; learning to weave; remembering morning meditation every day walking through the Cornell campus during quiet break times; organizing my art and sewing supplies; lighting candles more often; sitting outdoors in the moonlight; enjoying the freedom of not needing to wear a coat or to carry a bag, just leaving the house and walking; keeping a nature journal; looking for butterflies; blowing bubbles; creating things at Art Hive events; attending outdoor concerts; dancing more often; seeing the first summer fireflies; reading poetry; learning to recognize more constellations; remembering the importance of kindness
seeing two of our daughters graduate; learning new things in basketball; learning the song “Si jamais j'oublie" (if I ever forget) and singing it with our youngest daughter; dancing at the GrassRoots Festival of Music and Dance in July; going to the Dances of Universal Peace weekend; walking, and walking some more; camping in Hector Forest; reading poetry, lots of poetry; kayaking on the lake when it's really smooth and quiet; working a little less; learning how to submit a poem for publication; going on a (possible) a trip to Nepal; dealing with my fear of heights if I do go to Nepal; dealing with some other fears while I’m at it; telling at least ten people at work that I love them; singing with friends from my high school days; making a bonfire and singing into the night until it's later than I imagined; holding hands with my sweetie and talking and laughing together
going sailing again, and hearing waves whisper past the hull; lots of reading: Julian of Norwich’s meditations, and Theresa of Avila’s too, as well as Emerson’s essays; getting my easel out and painting my dreams again; I believe that my one and only kidney will start functioning properly this year; I intend to write and write and write … poetry of course
learning how to make puff pastry, and incorporating it into 3 out of every 7 meals I cook
bumping along the highway of life in the stagecoach of time, sometimes grateful for a destination, sometimes longing to just get off and lie in a field, gaze up at the sky, listen to the horses snort and paw the dirt, grateful too
hearing new sounds; following a different routine; traveling further and discovering more; sitting in silence; cleaning out my closet; using my new day-planner; grabbing ahold of positivity and saying farewell to negativity; staring across the table at someone I could fall in love with; getting a new pair of glasses; getting a new tattoo, an ode to women's rage; reading books by bell hooks; using social media less; going on a real vacation; writing and sending more letters; creating boundaries and sticking to them; singing ABBA's classic hit "Mamma Mia" at karaoke and not caring that I can't actually sing; running two miles on the treadmill, running one mile outside; sharing what makes me happy with people who make me happy
going on a writing retreat with my friend Lilace; experiencing the next snow and the next and the next; organizing my study and then writing in it; trying a new recipe or two; seeing my son Matt who is back from the Philippines; meeting my daughter-in-law from the Philippines; teaching Tai Chi; seeing “Brigadoon” in Niagara-on-the Lake; getting to know a new writer friend; going on adventures; writing some Saturday with Zee and others; reading Michelle Obama's “Becoming”
visiting my dear friend in Kansas; knitting up that mountain of yarn that now sits in the corner; seeing my oldest grandchild settled and happy; no longer having to see that huge dead willow tree by our stream; getting a chance to write with a group again; reading to the Pre-K class where my youngest great-grandson will be a student; participating with others who are exploring the history of their roots; reorganizing the huge pile of books I'm planning to read
a handsome man with oodles of money (an esteemed publisher!) will fall insanely in love with me; there will be mounds of friends knocking my door down, with invitations galore
opening nine more boxes (out of ten) — my mother's things — she left us three years ago and I am still finding treasures in the first box, but it is so hard to look; visiting England, a country I have never been to, and then going on to see friends who live in a thatched cottage in Nordfriesland; having an 18 course dinner party to celebrate the publication of my book of 18 poems; more writing, yoga, walking, museums, gardens, tai chi, music, dancing, singing, and smiling; creating an atmosphere of as much peace as possible, with quiet moments and new perspectives
laughing with my brother; picking fresh blueberries; floating down a river; writing with friends; being part of a play reading; giving and receiving hugs; making funny faces with my dog; dancing in the kitchen; breathing in some joy; reading some good novels; swimming in the lake
visiting a Colombian beach I haven’t seen in 45 years; figuring out how to use my new watercolor pen, which requires deciphering the instructions which are written in the form of Chinese characters; writing and recording two new songs; finding just the right botanical name for my friend’s grand-daughter; enjoying at least six months without a single medical appointment; reviewing my archives to salvage three good stories from my life; writing countless 700-word stories with my pen-pal in Florida; digitizing and publishing our family cookbook with my grandmother’s dessert recipes; calling my best friend every day just to check in and appreciate her; teaching my grandson to write haiku in Spanish
stretching my body and my mind; locating the still point, again and again; staying active: walks on the beach, walks on the road, walks in the woods, keeping my body moving; reading non-fiction; doing volunteer work at an animal rescue shelter someplace in the tropics; cooking large group dinners for friends and family; worrying less; if not easy times then at least easy laughter
keeping on writing; seeing the crocus and snowdrops come up; no deer eating my garden, especially not the tomatoes; lightening up; seeing Indiana University Women's Basketball team continuing to do well; hoping that our independent bookstore will stay open; more cloudless nights, so I can see the moon enjoying another poetry series on PBS; experiencing a good night's sleep; keeping my hearing
walking every day and eating a healthier diet; returning to my Tai Chi and meditation practices; learning how to make essential oil candles; practicing the piano for half an hour, five days a week; bringing fresh flowers to the table once a week, or whenever they need changing; watching the new-born alligators and checking their progress until they can climb up on their mother’s back; observing otters, wood storks, egrets, and all the other shorebirds; spending time doing nothing; hugging trees, and sitting with my back against them; reading some of the many books that are stacked on my nightstand; setting aside one day each week for writing, with no distractions from the telephone or the computer; writing one haiku a day, but not expecting perfection, not even close; watching sun set every night
figuring out the joys of being an “old old” person; reading all the way through my file of the 40 annual letters sent to friends in all the years between 1978 and 2019; eating slowly and fully tasting the foods I put in my mouth; seeking and finding ways to share my relative comfort and abundance with others in desperate circumstances e.g., the starving children of Yemen and their stricken parents; creating an essay for my seven young adult grandchildren about “What I Wish I Had Known at Your Age”; keeping the clothing I own that helps to make me feel ready for whatever might happen — for example, keeping extra blue jeans and sturdy night gowns; stopping myself from thinking of memories as things and times that I have lost — I want to think of them as times that I can experience again whenever I feel so inclined because they are still quite vivid in my memory
listing/documenting/photographing many of my beloved objects (paintings, furniture, scarves, pillows, lamps) so that my family and friends, and I, will remember their genesis and emotional value; tracing the careers of my doctoral advisees, mostly women, and feeling proud; thinking often of the beautiful places I have seen — such as the island of Eigg off the west coast of Scotland, the Summer Palace at Beijing, the small village of Dolna Krupa in Slovakia, the old-growth forest of Heart’s Content, NYC crowds at Christmas, Trim’s Corners in Pennsylvania, the Oregon coast, etc.; being proud of my fortitude as I turn off the TV news and actually meditate in the resulting quiet; remembering to get a haircut before I feel totally uncared for; getting my CD player repaired or replaced so I can again hear the music I have long loved without the recent gurgles and skips that are so bad; rereading, and rereading, and rereading, yet again, many of the writings that I love — written by me and by others
holding my love of truth (and my adventurous lover's hand) as I choose decisively and deliciously into dare; visiting my kid in New York City because love calls me there, though some inner ghost of my old parched, loveless self would resist and whine (pain-in-the-ass of getting there, dizzying buzz of being there); re-friending the big night sky, mind-blowingly charged with stars and powdered starlight, even though that opening requires exiting my cozy in-town world — but how would it not be worth it to weave back into my sight and soul those silver-gold threads of a firmament so grand I cannot fathom how I lost it from view
drinking coffee in a Paris Café and eating a croissant; becoming more fluent in French and being able to speak to people without putting my foot in my mouth by saying the wrong thing; returning to Ithaca in mid-April and dusting off my binoculars for birding season; hoping to find an exotic bird as I did two years ago when I found the elusive “yellow breasted chat” that had not been seen in Ithaca for 14 years; taking life slow, deepening my meditation practice, and experiencing gratitude every day
a year of transformation, healing, and new growth; pruning back my hours at work and creating space and time and fresh air to be me again; decluttering and downsizing my home; slow cooking steaming pots of day-long soup; tracing my family roots; starting a book about coping with climate change; reading “Braiding Sweetgrass” as a weekly meditation; learning to work with animal spirit guide oracle cards that were gifted to me; writing more, writing more, writing more
taking long walks without the fear of falling; hunkering down in the quiet of winter and enjoying the sweet slow days of the season; going to the Women’s March in January; being able to use 2 hands after my wrist heals; watching myself heal, more and more each day; doing my physical therapy exercises; being able to drive again; going to Mexico where the sun shines in February; creating a new performance piece and performing it; getting back to Zumba; gaining a new perspective on life, with gratitude and joy whenever possible; returning to Maine in September; swimming in the warm pool; lowering my expectations; dreaming of a life that’s fair for all
writing — a lot; reading — a lot; having real snow, and at least one of those impossibly bright blue cold days that follows a real snow; getting off my blood pressure medication; accepting the invitation to visit, from my nephew who lives on a houseboat in Washington, the only state besides Alaska I’ve not set foot in; trusting my tears; no longer owning a car — yay Carshare and Lime Bikes; eating more spinach (really!); getting in the lake (not Cayuga) naked; sitting in that curved place in the gorge where the phoebe lives and waiting until he sings; smelling Spring, smelling Fall; learning how to stream WSKG; when tempted to use Amazon, remembering the people who work like frantic ants in the windowless warehouses; believing what I feel during yoga; simplify, simplify, simplify
letting go; being more daring; living where my feet are; being a nicer person; creating better relationships with my family and spending more time with them; being more compassionate and tolerant; losing some weight; watching more sunsets and appreciating the day they represented; connecting more with friends; traveling more; maybe, just maybe, actively searching for new love; worrying less about things I cannot change
acquainting myself with my body; shepherding wayward thoughts; enjoying cups of tea; having respectful dealings with food; accepting all that enters through the gate, as ally and friend; experiencing a renaissance of health; feeling gratefulness in all things
lying on my back, floating on water, the sun warming me; celebrating a 25th anniversary with my beloved; sharing long meals and conversation and laughter with dear friends; cooking with Zee; slipping the boat away from the dock and onto the lake; returning to Venice to sit along the Misericordia Canal, with my writing notebook, a pen, and a glass of red wine; cuddling with the grandkids; caring for my 88-year-old mother, so that her final years are filled with comfort and laughter and joy; spending a part of each day reflecting on the gratitude I feel for being alive; sitting, stretching, breathing; planning the first public exhibit of my photographs; lying in bed, just after sunset, as summer breezes fill the room and crickets and cicadas orchestrate my dreams; standing naked in front of the mirror and learning to accept/appreciate/love the curves and gray hair — and the history they contain
integrating spiritual lessons into my daily life; being authentic; letting true intimacy come into my life; recognizing my needs and not being afraid to put them out there, even if they are rejected, because I can love myself; living a life that is free because I have learned to forgive; being grateful that I have reached this place in my life that feels true; being open to the magic of everyday living; being open to love without expectation; having magical moments with the magical womyn in my life; getting to know and trust someone new in my life and being honest about who I am and what I need, with no expectations; accepting that I do not have to be anything more than who I am; having sex with authenticity, and knowing for the first time what that means
perfecting “Wave Like Clouds” in Tai Chi; singing "Fly Me to the Moon" with my 92-year-old mother; forming more snow angels; substituting chocolate for anti-depressants; learning how to say “I Love You” in 10 languages; celebrating my wrinkles as roadmaps to a happy long life; inviting the Muses into my writing room for a cup of peppermint tea with honey; remembering that each day is a Holyday; lighting candles and saying aloud the names of the lost; welcoming the 13 wild turkeys who visit our yard every morning for cracked corn and birdseed; planting sunflowers in the backyard so it will look like Grandpa's garden; empowering my voice so I can use it like Aretha's: with RESPECT; walking lightly and leaving soft footprints on the earth; unwrapping the only present I have, knowing each minute is a gift; beginning and ending each day with “Thank You”
picking up a brush and having an adventure with color; biking for miles and miles and miles; building a better bird house with my grandson; creating a pool with cascading water beneath my window; continuing my once a year tradition of body surfing in the Atlantic; reading 50 books and being able to remember every one; planting zinnias in the corner garden come spring so they will provide a festive colorful party in the summer for all the passersby
taking a long, hot, bubbly bath on New Year's day to wash away all my negative thoughts; taking short day trips with my husband to unusual places we've never heard of before; planting an above-ground vegetable garden that will give me juicy tomatoes, snappy carrots, okra, maybe even a few peppers (none nibbled on by yard rabbits); reviving my miniature rose plants in late spring; writing new forms of poetry and prose I've wanted to experiment with; continuing my study of Spanish using old and new techniques and resources, like books, CDs, online sessions, and occasional real-time classes; writing entries in my personal memoir notebook
sending more hand written letters through the U.S. Post Office; losing that same 10 pounds once again; finishing the Sunday New York Times crossword puzzle in 2 hours; being better at remembering people’s names
listening to a new TED talk every day (or at least once a week); spending more time by myself, with myself; keeping regular hours: consistency with waking up and going to sleep; accepting myself — my weaknesses and my strengths; listening more carefully when others talk; shutting off my computer every afternoon at 4 p.m. and spending the evening/night reading; sending postcards to friends whenever I feel like it, not waiting for there to be a special occasion or even for there to be something vital to share
finding a job that I love and look forward to each day; writing alone and also with my writing friends; publishing something/anything that I’ve written; only eating food that I enjoy with the purpose of nourishment and pleasure; holding my husband’s hand so he knows I'm here beside him; honoring my sorrow and grief with grace and kindness; maintaining strong loving boundaries with everyone — for my sake and theirs; owning only what is mine to own; allowing the past to be in the past so that I can move through the world without dragging what doesn’t work into each precious moment
walking more in nature for my well-being, walking in the city to remind me that I'm part of something bigger, and walking at the gym so I won't fall, again, on the ice; playing everyday with my dogs and letting their sweet acceptance remind me of the light in the dark; smiling and laughing and playing and running and being with my grandson; appreciating my daughter’s thoughtful navigation of life; moving my body so that it can continue to carry me in the world with more ease and comfort as I go further into my 6th decade; siting in meditation and gratitude for this precious life; being in quiet understanding of the certainty of change
being less judgmental; dancing with my grandchildren; having special times with my husband; holding dear the love of my children; helping my mom and dad and brothers; listening and truly hearing others; losing the weight I've let on, and if I don't, still being okay with that; going to Italy!; inspiring all my 5th grade students, especially the reluctant ones; learning to knit; finishing a quilt with my mom; meditating more; running in another half marathon (maybe); helping others in recovery; watching for miracles of all kinds, especially the ones that seem ordinary — like a smile, or a letter, or any just-the-right-thing at any just-the-right-time
I am looking forward to hot summer days with the kids at the Stewart Park splash pad; the feeling of time starting over again; a really big February or March snowstorm that takes us by surprise and shuts down the town for a day or so; planting the first seedlings and maybe keeping some alive; the magic of the strawberries out back, growing again without any effort at all on my part, which is a true miracle for a mother of toddlers; placing another tiny pin in the map of National Parks; and of course: Ithaca Festival Parade
THANK YOU to all these contributors:
Ian Mickey Shapiro
Kath Abela Wilson
Mary Jane Richmond
Mary Louise Church
Theresa A. Cancro
Saturday, November 3, 2018
I swatted a little bug, killed it, and felt no remorse; visited a plant that used to be mine but now it lives on the windowsill down the hall from me and I greeted it by name (Serena) as I walked by; I lost my black vest and didn’t even realize it until someone found it for me and today I wore it again — there is a pin on it in the shape of a typewriter, with these words by Sylvia Plath: I am I am I am.
I went for a walk, counted my steps, and when I reached 1,000 I turned around and walked back home; received a book as a gift from a friend and it was exactly the book that I most wanted to read today (“Almost Everything: Notes on Hope,” by Anne Lamott); found a poem about rain on this rainy day and copied it out to send to my sister.
I was up in the night but was able to rearrange my day so things would be okay, but I kept thinking about my friend who is still in pain which is why I was up in the night.
I woke up and tried to reframe my anxiety into excitement before getting out of bed; wearing my nightgown (black cotton with a map of Canada across the front) I fed Marmaduke the Cat, sat on the porch with strong Vietnamese coffee and a cigarette, admired the bougainvillea, sprinkled fish food in the little lotus pond, and e-mailed two neglected friends.
I spent 3 hours lesson planning for a 2-hour class because I know that if I'm not excited, the students won't be either — this lesson plan includes watching Mr. Bean go shopping; I made lunch of scrambled eggs with green onions, bread, kimchee, sliced tomatoes, and cucumbers; washed dishes and soaked all the window plants in recycled pond water in the kitchen sink; boiled water to run through a filter because there are too many toxins in Vietnam's tap water.
I walked for an hour under a hot sun to the grocery store across a bridge in another district, past the lush plant stores with cacti, exotic fruit trees, and huge clay jars; took a cab home; made three trips up six flights of stairs — exhausted — soon I will make vegetable, fish ball, and rice soup; will sleep soundly and gratefully tonight, I’m sure.
I woke in darkness and leaned in towards light and warmth; reflected on the way time slows to an elegant crawl when considering the needs and feelings of others; had the realization that the Muse of Poetry assures me of great wonder and delight, if I choose to follow her; remembered that today is All Saints’ Day, the ushering in of a season of replenishment, renewal, and revival.
I found an old mouse nest while cleaning a forgotten closet, filled with tiny seeds that must have been his store for the winter, so I suspect he must not have survived; I am in the process of writing a new murder mystery but I haven’t written anything in a few weeks and even though I know where I want it to go nothing opened up for me today.
I tried to figure out how a night creature was able to eat the “arms” of the reading glasses that I carved into this year's Halloween pumpkin; tried not to eat all the tootsie rolls and cherry starbursts left from Halloween candy but I was not successful. I walked through our backyard in knee-high boots to see how soggy the ground had become and found a single red yarrow blossom and three tiny pink rosebuds on the rose bush.
I tried to count the trees with yellow, orange, and red leaves falling while walking the dog around the block, but kept forgetting the count as squirrels appeared as if waiting to be chased; found old black and white family photos from the 1950s, with scalloped edges; began reading a new espionage novel; made an inventory of possibilities for preparing a delicious dinner and a cake for dessert; imagined alternative worlds with more than four seasons.
I stood in the closet for five full minutes trying to decide what I could wear that would be warm enough but not too warm, appropriate for me to teach in, something I had not worn in the last week, and that did not need to be ironed; I kissed my sweetheart three times in a row because once is just never enough.
I taught myself (after I Googled it) how to insert several text boxes into a document, put text in each text box, and draw connector lines connecting the boxes with the text; I met with three graduate students with the intention of discussing their individual research projects, and wound up talking about all the different ways stress manifests itself and the creative approaches we use to manage it; spent 30 minutes on the Expresso bike, chasing dragons.
I spent the afternoon sitting at the piano, trying to replicate Fats Waller playing “Ain’t Misbehavin’” but those big, juicy bass chords were just a tad too large for my aging hands, though there was a time not so long ago when I could reach them.
I dug my fingers into butter and sugar, blended the mixture, and worked in the flour, because it’s shortbread season; stared out the window — leaves fading to yellow and gold — and pondered my next birthday; read World War I poetry and the house listened; replaced two ink cartridges, printed bookmarks, and began work on another book. I walked through mist, glimpsed juncos and a distant crow, and sang “It’s a Lovely Day Today.”
I tried to be a patient patient and it helped; I found out that my heart is still mostly fine; I noticed that every new person now reminds me of at least one person I've known before.
I woke up and realized, before I opened my eyes, that the cold I’d been fighting for three days had finally won; listened to Mozart’s Requiem on the car radio and when I remembered it was The Day of the Dead I thought about my dead friends and family members and even the pets that I’d been missing recently, and I hummed their names to the music. I got up from my chair and my bad knee screamed and I cursed a blue streak, at least that’s what I said an hour later, but then I wondered what exactly is a blue streak? I received a text message inviting me to a school assembly to hear my granddaughter, who is in kindergarten, recite all the helping verbs in front of the whole school because, as her mother is happy to remind me, it is my fault that they both know them.
I went to Walmart to find the smallest turkey for Thanksgiving; ran into my husband's ex at the library; clipped and bathed the dog; tried to stay positive while feeling surrounded by constant negativity, but unfortunately I failed.
I walked among shimmering tall buildings on a street in China, it was not a dream; found Georgia O'Keeffe at the Shanghai Museum; was surprised Edward Hopper had his own room in the museum, in a show of American art; ate okonomiyaki (cabbage pancake) a favorite Japanese dish at a restaurant in Shanghai. I did tai chi in our hotel room, the breath and smoothness cleared my head for inspiration; collected poems and talked about kindness with poets from all over the world.
I wished my old friend a happy 75th birthday; I cried in my writing group when I read what I wrote; I yelled at a friend for something she said, then apologized profusely; spilled butternut squash soup on my pants at lunch. I got home from work and discovered there was a chipmunk in the house.
I turned the calendar page and welcomed November; swept the front porch and re-arranged flower pots; trimmed the butterfly bush in the hush of almost-rain and for the first time in several months there were no butterflies at all; painted with a new watercolor brush. I read about the Buddhist Goddess Marishiten who is one of the 20 Celestials; thought about how time passes, one loaf of bread after another.
I woke while it was still dark and before moving a muscle I was hopeful that the migraine was gone, but then I felt it there, everywhere, as my body shifted just a few millimeters with my first, deeper, awake breath. I heard my bicycle brakes screech as I rode down the hill, with a light refreshing rain on my face. I took my daughter to a labyrinth of parking lots to practice driving, she parked and un-parked the car, negotiated a stop sign, and figured out how to use the blinker. I went home and cooked dinner and after we ate we walked down to the store in the rain to buy bread for tomorrow.
I noticed that the commuter rush had begun: our feeder swarmed with the usual crowd, chickadees, titmice, nuthatches (both kinds), the cardinal pair, and the surprise of a bouncy, pushy Carolina wren. I folded laundry; sorted through accumulated newspapers and junk mail; ate a good lunch from leftovers, with no Halloween candy for dessert because we got rid of the extras to avoid temptation. I settled in with a book after lunch and woke an hour later from an unplanned nap; dinner was leftover soup from last night, even better tonight, along with the season's first batch of cornbread — hot, with butter melting on it.
I woke up and remembered it was All Saints Day, and thought of the line by Elizabeth Barrett Browning — “I love thee with a love I seemed to lose with my lost saints” — which made me think of my mother. I knelt by my bed to fetch a sock that had fallen underneath and glanced out the window at the falling leaves — when the wind was still, they spiraled quietly down and when the wind was strong, they danced. I had tea in my spotted-hen mug and cinnamon toast, remembering Aunt Honey who let me put as much sugar and cinnamon on the bread as I wanted. I drove to Trumansburg for a haircut. I liked my haircut and I like my haircutter, who always gives me a hug. I went to dinner with my dear one, at the Glenwood Pines, where I saw my former boss, and received another great hug.
I woke up to the sweet sounds of a Haydn keyboard concerto accompanying a jackhammer quartet as it consumed the sidewalk across the street; made friends with a tortoiseshell cat who has a reputation for attacking people’s feet, but she was very calm and curled up on my lap and let me scratch gently behind her ears and under her sensitive chin. I sent a “welcome home” message to my dear cousin in California who just returned from Paris, a trip she took to honor her beloved mother who recently died.
I watched a pro football game with the TV on mute, while listening to the soundtrack from the movie “Brassed Off,” followed by Cecilia Bartoli singing from “An Italian Songbook,” so it was a very good game, but I don’t remember who won. I thought about my complicated sense of time and saw a happy little metronome slowly marching along an endless road, accompanied by leaping gazelles projecting themselves as visiting visions from my past and future lives.
I found yoga asanas to do in the morning that did not hurt my knee; went to lunch and ate the biggest piece of coconut cake I've ever had; covered my basil planters, now empty of basil, which the squirrels have been using as a place to store their winter walnut snacks; contemplated vacuuming the house, but read a mystery book instead. I made a mistake in my calendar book and missed a doctor's appointment; made myself put down the mystery book and vacuum; helped clear out the refrigerator by eating left-overs. I looked out at the wet, leaf-covered walkway, and thought: yes, fall is here; as I lay in my bed, waiting to fall asleep, I listened to the rain dripping off the leaves and falling from the downspout into the rain barrel.
I read a comment in a book of essays about short story writing, about how the focus is often on the beginning and ending sentences, and I remembered what a terrible time I had in 9th grade English, trying to come up with an opening sentence for each Monday morning's in-class essay.
I relished my favorite breakfast: hash-browned yuca with scrambled eggs, even though I forgot to put the cheese in; tried to fit the new harness onto the dog, who managed to bite the harness into uselessness within ten minutes; discovered tiny red tomatoes when I was weeding the trail to the guest house; split some kindling and hard and softer wood for our cookstove; pulled two ticks from behind the dog’s right floppy ear.
I asked a class of college students if one month of hearing poetry recited out loud every class day had helped them follow the reading they went to afterward, and they lied and said yes. I took a picture of a stunning group of fall trees — red, green, yellow, orange — and wished they had been somewhere other than at the Wendy’s parking lot. I visited with my mother, reminded her who I was, and helped to put her to bed.
I found a haiku on a scrap of paper that started with “a ladybird” and finished with “sun” and then I wrote a new haiku, this time about my tabby cat; put a few drops of frankincense in the oil burner and just breathed deeply for a moment or two. I listened to the rain, walked in the rain, ran in the rain, tasted the rain, and wrote about the rain.
I couldn't be bothered folding my legs into a full lotus; decided the bump on my head is probably just a bump (from practicing the headstand) rather than a brain tumor; tried to ignore all my anxieties; decided I did not want to go to the party I was not invited to; decided I want to sing more and so I did, while my cat watched with suspicion and perhaps a hint of pity.
Thank you to all the contributors:
C. Robin Janning
Ian Mickey Shapiro
Joanna M. Weston
Kath Abela Wilson
Marty Blue Waters
Nancy A. Dafoe
Saskya van Nouhuys
Susan Annah Currie
Thursday, June 21, 2018
Tim's Ford Lake, Winchester, Tennessee
by Barbara Tate
At sundown white herons glide along the shoreline and join in the quiet that settles for the evening over Tim's Ford Lake in Tennessee.
In my apartment I'm surrounded by the things that make me happy. One room is filled with books which are first editions, collected over the years. Portraits of ancestors hang over a fireplace mantel and an ancient L. C. Smith typewriter occupies a corner of the room, collecting dust. In the living room there is a large antique cherry coffee table with a massive marble top that rests in front of the couch where I work on my writing and Bible study. Directly across the room there's a large floor-to-ceiling bookcase that holds publications, anthologies, and magazines that contain my work, created over the past 50 years. I like to look at these things and know that I have tried my best.
My muse often sits by side, my little fuzzy buddy named CH Primrose Hillwood Gala. Retired from the show ring, this little poodle watches contentedly as big birds skim the edge of the lake.
Front Porch, NE Georgia, USA
by C. Robin Janning
Season after season, the front porch is the watching heart of our home.
Spirit-lifting freedom can be found on the front porch along with solitude, welcome, and security — as contradictory and complimentary as flowers in spring and summer, followed by dormant brown grass in fall and winter.
On the front porch, glance left for clematis and a mountain view; glance right for the garden chair and pots (too many, maybe) of flowers and small shrubs. Look straight ahead to watch the sunrise, and later look up to glimpse the moon and Venus — surely they must be waiting for our notice! In winter, shut your eyes and breathe in a scent that is reminiscent of sandalwood (although surely it isn’t) floating uphill from a neighbor’s fireplace.
I wish the front porch ran along the entire length of the house. As it is, it is rather small — too small for even a small chair. But then again, it is the perfect perch at the end of a curving sidewalk, to watch and wonder and wave to a passing neighbor.
25 Picton Road, Milford Haven, Pembrokeshire UK
by Christina Martin
At the back of the house the nasturtiums are trying hard to invade the pathway. There are quite a few of these lighting up the patio and competing with the squash plants for flowers. My bench by the old brick wall has a nice thick rag rug on it with old Indian cushions depicting the gods — this is where I sit and listen to the blackbird and watch the many sparrows pecking up my offerings . . . the seagulls bully everyone. Every half hour I hear the rumble of the bus sounds in the background.
So I will just put my feet up, thank you, and enjoy the sunshine as we don't usually get that many days of it here by the coast where we are beaten by the westerly winds from the Atlantic and Irish Sea. Everything has to be tied down and I just hope that the elephant-ear leaves on the squashes don't rip!
The light sky is inviting and I will make a nice cup of tea and take it out in a minute. I see that my climbing roses have multiplied; soon the back wall will be smothered in a white cloud.
The sea is amazonite today.
Waukesha, Wisconsin, USA
by Jo Balistreri
As I look out my study window, the rain continues. The trees and shrubbery in the court struggle against the wind. The homes are neat, one level, and they’re all painted in the same neutral shade with burgundy shutters and doors. We live at the top of the cul-de-sac. Most of us have planted our own flowers, and in the sun everything looks well-kept and cheerful. We live in Turnberry Preserve, a condo community. This is home now.
We moved here two years ago from a big home. Time to downsize. You’re getting older, your husband is not well. For us, it was the wrong advice. We went from an inside/outside house where nature was always with us, to the deadness of contained living. There is a modicum of energy. Once inside, the condo is a fortress. Most of the windows are placed too high. To sit by a window with a full view, there is only the deck sliding door. The kitchen, in the middle of the space that contains living room, dining room, two bedrooms, full bath, entrance and laundry exit, boasts a granite countertop on three sides. That’s right — only one way to enter/exit. We get our steps in and eventually, step by step, we adjust. We change things, make it ours as much as possible. This is our home.
The Book Room, Shawnigan Lake, British Columbia
by Joanna M. Weston
Squirrels chase through the trees outside my window, in contrast to my elderly black cat asleep on her mat to my left, beside the computer. Her back rests against dictionaries, thesauri, encyclopaedias, ring-binders.
She snores. This is the norm at eight o’clock in the morning, with the printer clunking away on my right. I have two large windows with maples, walnut, alder, Douglas fir, and cedar ranged outside. An occasional chickadee, junco, or pileated woodpecker, will peer in at me briefly. Deer have sometimes stopped and
caught my eye, then, incurious, return to grazing. There’s a daybed in one corner of the room, useful for visitors. And shelves of books, anthologies of poetry, art books, craft books, grammar and reference books, a row of detective stories, travel books, and computer self-help books. It’s called “The Book Room” because I write books here.
Sheffield Road, Enfield, New York
by Julie Lind
One of the three cherry trees in our yard might fall. You can’t see its base from the house. It emerges subtly, branches weaving into the white and blue pines that surround it.
Last night, after our two children were asleep, my husband, in-laws, and I watched it from the circle of chairs we had set up for dinner.
“What is that big tree?” asked Seth, my brother-in-law.
“It’s a cherry,” my husband replied. “It may come down soon, it’s old.”
I looked closer, studied the branches, saw how they melted towards the neighbor's yard. I could imagine the cherries, purple-red, exhaling their sweet breath into the sky.
The cherry has been on this land we call ours much longer than our house, which was originally built in the 1950s. My husband tore down the second floor when I was pregnant with our daughter, two years ago. We needed more space, he said. We were going up higher. The second floor is now framed, the top cathedraling into the silver maple to the east, the sugar maple to the south.
Someday, when our children sleep in their bedrooms, they will smell maple water from their windows.
All of the trees, maples and cherries, larches and pines, are audible from our current bedroom window, beneath which all four of us now sleep. Every morning, when I wake up, I hear the branches outside, rustling into birdsong, and I open my eyes into the home that they share with us.
Renovation, third floor Catalina condo, Pasadena, California
by Kath Abela Wilson
When I moved into his condo in 2000 he’d lived here since 1980. We found ourselves, after being friends for years, a real couple, after my former husband's illness and death. Rick had helped me through it. Now we had to decide where to live. Rick was a Caltech math professor. The condo is practically on campus. High ceilings, top floor, arched windows. Walking distance to everything. We decided to stay. He knew what needed changing. More light, skylights, bookshelves, color. It wasn’t a dream house, but a "bubble" as my daughter called it, away from the ordinary world. We moved out for a year. It wasn't done. I washed dishes in the bathtub for weeks. I mixed cement with my tears and stone collection, building a fireplace. It will never be done but it’s everything we ever wanted. Multipurpose wonder. Museum, meeting place, guest home for international friends. I remember I asking my friend Rick, years before life changed, the important question: “Is the Huntington (one of the great gardens of the world) walking distance from here?” He said, “Well, for you it is.” Now he walks too. We travel the world together, laughing. We live happily ever after.
237 Stonehaven Circle, near Newfield, New York
by Kathy Kramer
Our house sits on a hillside, its back protected from north winds by a thick stand of trees. Its face, glass from floor to ceiling, looks south over an open valley with a line of maples marching diagonally, left to right, down the hill.
In our living area on the 2nd floor, I claim my space where I can sit in a worn recliner and gaze out, as from the prow of a ship. This morning’s breakfast there was my daughter-in-law’s homemade chocolate granola in the small yellow bowl given to me by a high school friend 50 years ago.
On the deck outside, painted driftwood gray, various potted plants substitute for the vast gardens of years past — one tomato plant, one cuke, some basil, chives, and several pots of the ubiquitous wave petunias, dark blue and fragrant as spice cake.
At night, when the house is quiet, I turn out all the lights and sit again in the old recliner. The glass face of the house is filled entirely with sky — sometimes moody with clouds, sometimes studded with stars.
If I open the sliding doors to the deck, it seems I can hear the gentle breathing of the plants, growing, as my children did, in their sleep.
Called to Jefferson County, New York State
by Laurie Petersen
In the house where my mother asked me to move back with husband and kids since it was too big for my parents alone — the same house my parents later moved from because they didn’t want to live with us anymore — in that house I took care of my parents when they returned because they could no longer stay by themselves.
This big, solid-built former high school has stood here on bedrock for one hundred sixty years in a small town that is much less important now that in an hour, cars can take you a former day’s horseback journey away. I never really chose this place, but maybe this place chose me so I would look deeply at it, give it a voice, write it. As every square foot of the earth has a voice, but sometimes no one will listen.
I have lived almost half my life in a house that is barely mine, and by now I love it the way you love a great-aunt for whom you can do nothing right, who cries and stays up nights when something bad happens to you.
I think this house and I are like that for each other.
Rio Guaycuyacu, NW Pichincha Province, Ecuador
by Mimi Foyle
Awaking inside our mosquito net, I listen to the living sounds layered one upon another all around me. Sharp insect whine, sporadic peeping of frogs, the soft chortling of owls’ conversation from nearby trees;
the varied voices of water. Water defines these lowlands forests of northwestern Ecuador where I live, a symphony of flora and fauna, diversity of color, shape and texture. In contrast to my childhood home in Los Angeles, the interface between self and nature here is my skin, and perceptions come principally through the senses. I love our wooden house with no doors, few walls, and glassless windows. We track
approaching storms by the sound of rain pattering on the leaves, thundering on the tin roof, and then slowing to evaporate into mists — the hallelujah chorus of life coming out into the sun afterwards. We can watch hummingbirds in the hibiscus hedge from the dining room table, or as they try to feed on the gold fringe of our red lampshade. The scents of soil, flowers, leaves, fungi, blood, fruit, death and rain carry much of what we need to know, and our family-by-affinity supplies the rest. If home is where the heart is,
Skedholm, Åland, Finland
by Saskya van Nouhuys
Before we lived here, before anyone did, when there wasn’t a house, there was flat granite that sloped down toward the sea. At the edge it became a cliff. At the bottom was a cluster of stones, perfect for a viper to sun itself after a swim.
It is still perfect down there for the viper to sun, and it does. Above the stones is a small deck. When we moved in I wondered if kids had built it. It had an unplanned look, like a nautical tree house. In spite of that we still have it. We built stairs down to the water from it, and a floating dock, connected to the stairs by a gangplank. At first we removed the stairs each autumn because the locals told us they would be crushed by the sea ice. But we got lazy and left them and they are fine. We still pull up the gangplank and let the dock drift, attached by a heavy anchor to the seafloor. The water freezes around the dock. In the spring we retrieve it, covered in bird shit that I wash off with buckets of sea water while the terns circle, scolding me.
Main Street, Dryden, New York
by Susanna Drbal
There is a red door. I always wanted a red door.
The living room is large and long; it once was a garage, I suspect. The tiled floor is uneven, and rarely clean, however hard I try.
In my first-floor home, I was able to move my grandfather’s piano in, finally. It still needs to be tuned.
Cat evidence is everywhere: frayed upholstery, squeaky toys. There are clumps of hair in all the corners, at all times.
Out the back door, over the deck, sprawls an enormous pine tree, shedding needles and dripping tar. The glass-topped wrought iron table suffers.
My plants, after months of neglect and gloom indoors, now endure months of sun and more neglect. They continue to live.
In the kitchen, the refrigerator hums and the cats mew, begging to be fed. There are magnets on the refrigerator shaped like the state of Ohio, a plate of sushi, an owl. There are photos of children, now years older.
There are books in the tiny hallway, across from the painting of the sad clown. There are books in the bedroom. There are books beside my bed. There’s my teddy.
Waking Again, Slaterville Road
by Tom Clausen
Yet again, the gift, waking up from one dream to another! As I emerge from sleep I recognize the landscape of the bedroom. Yes, it all looks happily familiar and reassures me that the reality of this constant in my life is resuming right where and how I expected it should. Squirrel, my dear cat, is in his place at the foot of the bed keeping an eye on me, ready in case it is time for a treat. I keep a container with catnip crunchy treats on the headboard of our bed. He is always ready. I look around and am pleased with how I have “decorated” my side of the bedroom even though some might think it overly cluttered. On the wall above the bed is a lovely Maine coastal watercolor painting by my haiku friend, Ruth Yarrow. In the headboard just beyond my pillows is a line-up of my favorite poetry books by my favorite poet, Mary Oliver. Three calendars allow me to confirm it is a new day and remind myself what day, date, and month it is. After Squirrel has had a few of his treats, I get out of bed and enter this dream-come-true; another day, always now!
My Home in Ithaca, New York
by Yvonne Fisher
My green house with white shutters is in the Fall Creek neighborhood. There is a red door and right next to it is a Mezuzah that I hung up for protection. My house is right near Gimme Coffee where everybody goes to sit and drink lattes. My front porch has a ficus tree, and pink peonies in a green vase, and a table and chairs. I sit and watch people pass by. Some are walking their dogs. Some say hi.
Inside my house is a feeling of calm and sweet charm. The house was built in 1860 and is just big enough. The living room is where I draw pictures, write stories, use my computer at the old desk from A's father. The dining room has a big yellow couch from A's mother. I have beautiful rugs from Afghanistan. One of them has the image of two camels woven into it. I have a sculpture of a baby Buddha sleeping on an elephant. On the mantel is a photo of a sea turtle from Hawaii. There is a framed photo of my mother and my Auntie Grete that my brother, Michael, took. My dining table was lent to me by two friends. It has extra leaves to make it bigger for when I have many people over, which is only on Passover or Hanukah, or when friends are visiting from out of town, or for informal memorial services for friends who have died: Larry or Sunny or Tony or Sal.
Upstairs are two bedrooms and a bathroom with two steps going down into it.
My house has everything I need. It makes me feel safe and happy and grateful. This is my home and I love it.