How We Lived: Thursday, November 1, 2018, a Collective List About a Day

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:

Barbara Tate
C. Robin Janning
Caroline Skanne
Chris McNamara
Ian Mickey Shapiro
Jennifer VanAlstine
Jim Mazza
Joanna M. Weston
Kath Abela Wilson
Kathy Kramer
Laurie Petersen
Marty Blue Waters
Mimi Foyle
Nancy A. Dafoe
Nancy Osborn
Rob Sullivan
Saskya van Nouhuys
Sue Norvell
Susan Annah Currie
Timothy Weber
Victoria Jordan
Yvonne Fisher
Zee Zahava