Softness

There is a certain softness in slow living. It is as if grains of sand have worn down the edges of the day. I look out into my yard from my recuperation sofa and I see the white pine I planted a few years back...its needles sweeping the breeze, so soft you could use them for bedding. Just imagine the dreams that would come your way, wrapped in that piney fragrance.

Even these spruce cones have a softness to them.

The sedum and the Queen Anne's lace are in full bloom with cottony clouds of pink and white offering good things to the bees. Even the raindrops, which have appeared just as I begin to write, have no urgency.

And who is enjoying these softened days most of all?  My dogs! Curled at my feet and on the sofa next to me, they remind me of a favorite poem Mary Oliver wrote in honor of her pet, Percy. She's written many. This one ends,

"And next to me,
tucked down his curly head
and, sweet as a flower, slept."

Softness is about yielding to whatever harshness or sharpness there might be. It is about giving way so that better things may happen. It is about turning the other cheek. About whispers that speak louder than shouts.

During these days of recovery, I have to constantly remind myself that I chose this. That I knew going in that I'd experience a down time...a period of inactivity and softness so that I may soon be able again walk down to Quarton pond, to ride my bicycle into town. Remember?

Tempo and the Honey Bee

A bumblebee visits the anemones in my front yard.

If there is one thing Nature excels at, it is keeping tempo. Maintaining a rhythm. A steady and predictable beat. The tides, the phases of the moon, the whispers of wind, the cycles of night into day all maintain an ebb and flow that we can count on.

Furthermore, the tempo is sustainable. Nature knows when to exert energy and when to hold off, so that its efforts are efficient.

This bumble bee is beginning the afternoon's forage so his pollen buckets are still empty

Another example so evident in late summer are the bumblebees. This time of year they are almost manic in their search for nectar.  "Busy as bees," you might say. Their hips are so laden with pollen I don't know how they can stay airborne and yet they continue darting from bloom to bloom, as if they will never find another one.

Until the temperature drops. Then they are paralyzed in time, as if some invisible force has pressed them in place. I find them on these cool, late summer mornings still perched on a flower petal, but motionless.

This anemone bud has opened just enough to allow room for a bee to poke inside.

It is difficult for me to stay still, too. Having just had my right hip replaced, I am even more aware of the manic pace I usually keep during the summer months when the long days entice me to add multiple activities to my calendar.

Now it is as if a giant hand has landed on my shoulder and forced me to the sofa where I lay while my hip heals. With my shadow, Maxi, constantly at my side, I try to avoid thinking of what I should be doing.

Because I can't.

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Sometimes You Just Have to Wait

Dreams are a strange phenomenon. The sub-conscious. The mind, released of the substance of daily living, roams freely...deeply...and conjures; unafraid to explore depths we'd never even approach in full consciousness.

So what do they mean? Oh, I won't even go there. Too many volumes have been written already by much more capable authors.

A praying mantis on the side of our house. A baby, I think, that hatched from an egg sac my daughter gave me.

My point here is, do we pursue those thoughts actively when we do awaken? Do we face the fears that found their way to the surface? To that, I say yes. At least to the extent that we are sanely able. So, should a dream release anxieties, we owe it to ourselves to try to soothe those fears. To investigate. Who knows what good might come of it? What distance a relationship might travel, spurred forward by the sub-conscious?

And, what about daytime dreams? A hope that a tidbit from my subconscious might somehow find its way into print? My way of spurring it forward?

It has been a long time since I've done that. Put some thoughts down on cyber-paper. But, for some reason, it is time. Who knows what good might come of it?

About Squirrels and Napping

I walk on a bright, crackling Fall afternoon with two of my little dogs because the sun is so alive its rays virtually bounce off the vivid leaves of sugar maples, linden and box elder trees. Even the Oaks, so often dressed in drab taupes and greys this time of year, are decked in crimson and gold for this year-end party. The purple and white asters, too, are dancing with life as though summer were just beginning to make its appearance. This is a visual score that gifts my eyes with a most melodic symphony. Playing right along are the bumblebees, with their yellow and black shrugs, and the squirrels whose tails flick frantically as they gather and bury while Nature inMichigan still permits such activiy.

It won't be long now before Nature takes its well-deserved nap. It knows far better than most of us that all work and no rest is bad for the spirit, not to mention the body.

My own tendencies are to let this time of year weigh too heavily on me. I don't like winter. I don't like the restrictions it puts on my walks and bike rides. But, as I age, I have come to appreciate the luxury of rest. Nights of uninterrupted rest are hard to come by. I think part of my problem is that, in looking ahead to Winter --the season of white death and silence--I get impatient. Spring, the time of joyous rebirth, is way too far away to offer me any comfort.

When my daughters were young, bedtime always presented a series of challenges. None of them ever wanted to end the day. It was as if morning was so far away it could never be counted on arriving at all. To ask them to put a book down or a game away of to turn off the television was a request cloaked in meanness. Like many mothers I would bargain to bring the night on more gently with a bedtime story.

Many aspects of life can be improved with just a little rest. Relationships, careers, mealtime to name a few. Even exercise is more effective, I've heard, if we let our muscles rest between vigorous workouts.

So, instead of looking into the future and becoming depressed because it is too far off, I need to remind myself to enjoy the present for the good things it offers. I need to be more like a squirrel. Pack up some nourishment to carry my soul through the dark months...I have shelves loaded with good stuff I've yet to read; and, when Spring does finally arrive, know that enjoying it will be that much more refreshing and wonderful.

A Fitting Finish to Summer

Yes, four months since my last post. A very long span of time in some respects but really just a flash. Time comes and goes in flashes now and if I've learned anything over the years it is that the period between the flashes is what is important. So I meandered around the pond on a stellar Fall afternoon and allowed what I could see, smell and hear to take over the moment. To comfort me as my thoughts could not.

A maple tree as majestic as any at its most glorious moment. A gilded robe that it would soon let go. The flash at sunset.

A Red Squrrek and an Eastern Fox Squirrel are more worried about us than each other.

Ah! The beauty of a long camera lens. Neither the painted turtles nor the Wood Duck had any concerns about our presence.

I love these ducks!

How could this setting not bring comfort to a soul?

A box elder (I believe) on fire!

Can you spot the pair of female wood ducks in this lily pad flotsam?

So majestic.

And so proud...he's literally beating his chest! I don't think the turtles give a hoot.

Taking a regal bath.

These guys really do blend in with their backgrounds.

Our resident Blue Heron on the lookout from his favorite perch

A Grey Squirrel...yes grey...the result of melanistic genes. He's certain my dogs and I are going to steal his nut.

Female Wood Duck with her pretty white eyes.

Lily pads in the clouds.

And he's still bathing!

Bird Nests and other Spring Musings

Spring arrived here in March. Then, with a vengeance, Winter came back as if admonishing Spring for daring to tread on its sacred ground. My apple tree never blossomed this spring. It's quite probable my cherry never will again. My plum, it appears, is just patiently waiting for next year. And, my wisteria nearly gave up but is nosing its way through the tangle of my arbor with fragile, grey-green leaves. On the other hand, my peach tree blessed me with so many baby peaches it couldn't hold on to them all. Go figure.

But, beyond these discoveries of new life thwarted are two that have warmed my heart for the past month. A pair of cardinals built a nest in the vine that shades my dog run--before the vine even sprouted leaves which meant their little home was in full view of anyone with even minimal vision. I chuckled as I watched the mother sit on her eggs, face into the corner of our chimney, and wondered whether she felt safe because she couldn't see me even though I could see her.

Two weeks ago a fledgling appeared at the top of the trellis that supports this vine.  All afternoon both parents would stop by with food for the baby and in between visits he (or her) would sit patiently waiting. Trusting that they were not far away.

We have cats in our neighborhood. Lots of cats. And a hawk. I wanted to move the fledgeling to a safer place. One not quite so visible. But had to trust that nature has its own way of doing these things. Then, for a week I did not see the fledgeling again. Ach! I forced myself not to consider what might have happened. Then, sitting at my writing desk which faces the dog run I saw a brown bird perched on its picket fence. It was the baby, again taking food from its parents. Happy day for me! He's big enough now and strong enough to dodge those pesky cats and possibly even the hawk.

The other discovery came yesterday. I noticed a robin pecking away at the debris in our gutter. I thought maybe it was foraging for a tasty tidbit but actually it was finding just the perfect twig or two for a nest. The nest, I soon discovered, is wedged in the revitalized tendrils of my wisteria.

Spring and Winter can fight amongst themselves for supremacy of the seasons but guess what? The cycle of life is stronger then them both.

Unfinished Desires by Gail Godwin

There is a lot to absorb, even in the first few pages, of Unfinished Desires by Gail Godwin. Set ultimately in 2007, it tells the story of several women whose lives first connect at Mount St. Gabriel's, a Catholic boarding school for Girls in the mountains of South Carolina.

The novel opens with some women who graduated from the school in the 1960's as they surround their beloved (and now nearly blind) headmistress, Mother Suzanne Ravenal The women have convinced Mother to write her memoir about the school which closed in 1972 and which was Mother's home for over sixty years.  This is the last we hear of those women, which confused me, as the story then twists around a series of unfortunate memories of 1952 that preclude Mother Ravenal's one-year leave of absence from the school. Memories which creep towards, then retreat from, this year of the so-called disaster.

When Mother Ravenal is finally able to bring herself to face the pain of that year, she comes to a kind of peace with herself and with a much earlier pain that, like some festering thorn under her skin, she'd never fully understood.

I grew up in the Catholic "school system." I attended a private Catholic high school for girls run by nuns, so I get that part of the story. Of course I was a teenager as well so I get that. And I get a passionate attraction to a best friend. I just don't think these elements were put together in the most efficient manner. Too many side trips and side characters to step over along the way.

The story is well-written and does a sensitive and insightful treatment of adolescence--its clumsiness, its passions and its cruelties--as well as the origins of these frailities. But it requires so much focus to keep tabs of the dozens of characters, the multiple points of views and the revolving time frames. It ends, not with Mother Ravenal but with the three ninth grade students who were at the eye of the storm that led to Mother's abrupt leave from the school. I can't say the ending totally satisfied me. Not that I think a novel necessarily must adhere to a single character's story but that it needs to leave me with a sense that the characters have all reached a point of closure with each other. Too many of them did not.

Defending Jacob :A Review

Defending Jacob by William Landay is a real page turner! Faced with one of the worst possible scenarios...that their only child, Jacob, has been accused of murdering his bullying classmate...Andy and Laurie Barber struggle with losing not just all their friends but his career as district prosecuting attorney and hers as the ultimate suburban mom.

While Jacob is the titled character it is Andy whose story Landay tells. A man who, on the surface is a brilliant and successful prosecutor, is revealed to be quite vulnerable underneath. He struggles, not only with his son's guilt but also his own guilt over having possibly passed on to his son the "murder gene." The incident forces to the forefront a not-so-wonderful past that Andy has managed to conceal; a past which, in combination with Jacob's trial, threatens Andy's storybook marriage.

Defending Jacob is a crime thriller written with lyrical language not normally found in such fast-paced novels. It gives sensitive treatment to a close family not accustomed to being looked at under the microscopes of their upscale neighbors and friends. It gives a wrenching look inside a man who has lived a lie and been tortured by it. And, it gives an almost unbelievable and certainly horrific solution to the problem.

What Defending Jacob does not give us is much of a view inside the minds and hearts of Jacob or Laurie. It's a difficult task given the first person point of view which makes me think third person might have been more effective. My only other nit is that much of the narrative is repeated at one time or another throughout the story because of the frequent interjection of transcripts from the actual trial.

On the whole, however, it was a well-written, gripping story. I look forward to reading Landay's next work.

Learning To Swim by Sara J. Henry : A Review

     Since Sara J. Henry just won this years Mary Higgins Clark award at the Edgars for her debut novel, Learning To Swim, I thought I better turn in my review. This story plunges you into the icy waters of Lake Champlain right along with its heroine, Troy Chance, who is quite certain she sees a young child being tossed overboard from a ferry and jumps from the boat she's in to rescue this victim.
     Not only did she see a child but the child was tied so tightly into a sweatshirt that he had no chance of survival had Troy not made the daring leap.
     I liked the character, Troy Chance; the way Henry portrays her. Troy is more comfortable with guys (good since all the tenants in her boarding house are guys), loves a good meal and is skeptical of authority...all traits I can relate to! She is brave but also naive, she is physically strong but weak when it comes to abandoned children.
     Yes, there are parts of the story that are a bit far-fetched but they are definitely not impossible; and yes the ending is a bit contrived but it is a mystery written in an era where both belief and skepticism are routinely suspended.
     Most importantly this was a well-written novel with a great plot and a boatload of interesting characters. And, judging from how the story ended I would suspect there might be a few more mysteries for Troy Chance to solve before she is finished. I hope so, anyway!

The Truth About Delilah Blue : A Review

The truth about Delilah Blue is that it changes. It changes because even Delilah doesn’t know who she is. Her divorced and estranged parents have used Delilah to create their own identities because even these adults in Tish Cohen’s latest novel have no clue who they are.

A story loaded with identity issues, The Truth About Delilah Blue, weaves back and forth between the points of view of Delilah (renamed Lila Mack for most of the novel), and her father, Victor, who is Lila's caretaker and who is slipping into early onset Alzheimer's.

Lila believes Elizabeth, Victor's ex-wife and Lila's mother, abandoned her. Midway through the novel Lila learns the truth. That Victor actually kidnapped her to save Lila from an irresponsible mother. That he took her from Toronto to Los Angeles and changed their names to hide Lila from the authorities. So Lila's father isn't who she thought he was either.

I liked this story because of the issues it presents. Neither parent is portrayed as perfect. Far from it. But neither is portrayed as evil either. Instead Lila learns that both parents loved her very much and did what they thought was best. In the end Lila learns that she is not the unwanted daughter of her artist mother nor the victim of her law-breaking and eccentric father but Delilah Blue, a young girl struggling to grow beyond the hurts of her past to find who she really is.

I also liked the easy going style of Tish Cohen's writing as well as her descriptions of the settings and the characters. Only two things actually bothered me. The ending, which I thought was confusing and abrupt. And the art professor of the class where Lila worked as a model who I thought was a bit inconsistent. Or maybe it was just that he was the one character I didn't like!

Finally, I liked Slash, the ever present, urbanized coyote that seemed to relate to Lila better than any human. As a passionate lover of animals I found this thread weaving through Cohen's novel a warm and significant element.

Night Swim by Jessica Keener: a Review

Scanning the shelves of a library or a bookstore one might think coming of age is only a male experience. Of course it is not and in Night Swim Jessica Keener sensitively tells the story of a young girl unable to live with or without her mother. It is a beautiful story that I plan to recommend to my new book club.

Born into a wealthy Jewish family in the suburbs of Boston, Sarah Kunitz struggles in high school with a mother who solves most of her troubles with alcohol and pills and a father who is more obsessed with his students at a local university than his daughter and three sons.

Set in the 1970s, the novel uses music as the force that ties Sarah with her older brother, Peter. When her beautiful voice is discovered by her music teacher, music also becomes a force that gives Sarah a much needed sense of worth.

It is not enough, however, to bring her closer to her mother, something Sarah wants desperately; something she continues to attempt even after her mother is gone by caring for her precious rose garden.

I have a friend who has suffered chronic bouts of depression for decades and I know, first hand, how debilitating it is for both the adult and their children. Keener does a masterful job of portraying this terrible condition in all its sadness and ugliness.

It is long after her mother's death in a car accident and long after several broken relationships, one resulting in an abortion, that Sarah comes to a place where she can stand on her own.

A poignant portrayal of a time and place that focuses, not on the notorious issues of the day--the Vietnam War, drugs, hippies and peace marches--, but on the more mundane issues within the walls of suburban households that is forced to move forward despite their personal problems. Keener's portrayal of  how Sarah, as well as her three brothers, each deal with their pain is both beautiful and sensitive.

The Daffodils Waited

Ach! It's spring. Goldfinches are the color of the forsythia...a sure sign. The bumble bees are making me guilty. They don't like 50 degree weather any more than I but they are out there buzzing through the quince blossoms, soaking in the glorious nectar. The sun shines. That is the draw and, though the season arrived early this year--nearly two weeks early--the blooms have remained hearty due to the cool nights.

Already I am planning ahead to the picket fence I'll put up for the puppies, the landscape additions to the side yard where our privacy has been compromised. Not a hedge of arborvitae as is so often the case in this suburban neighborhood, but a medley of pines and berry bushes for the birds to nibble all winter.

The cardinals are seeking their nesting places, the chickadees and goldfinch are scratching at the feeders which are in desperate need of re-filling and the robins are busy listening at the earth for signs of plump earthworms to pluck out.

I love it!

Pelicans in the Fast Food Line

There must have been several large schools of fish off the Florida Gulf Coast at the Delnor-Wiggins State Park this morning because there were several dozen brown pelicans getting breakfast there. I also saw two snowy egrets tiptoeing through the shallows seeking smaller fish and high above an osprey was on the lookout for her mate who had evidently promised her a prized morsel or two.

It occurred to me how much time animals and fowl spend each day just seeking nourishment. How far we have come from the need to put most of our energy into hunting, farming, fishing or milking cows.What a mistake that has been. Such healthy entertainment we have denied ourselves.

The Mighty Osprey

       The ospreys, still endangered but not nearly as rare as they once were, are coming back. They are majestic fisher birds with wingspans just 10 inches shorter than the bald eagle and bodies not quite as bulky. They build massive nests from sticks that they return to each year and put on additions so that they might comfortably cushion a child if that child so desired.

There is a pair that have nested at Delnor-Wiggins State Park in Naples, FL for several years. Three years ago their nest, complete with fledglings, was blown apart in a violent storm. Such are the
ways of nature. Everyone hoped they would rebuild but they did not. the next year a new nest appeared at the top of a tree whose canopy might have been destroyed in a similar storm leaving the perfect, almost flat, platform in a wide open space that these marvelous raptors prefer. Ospreys are amazing in their ability to soar, spot and dive for
the fish they hunt.  Because they are not as adept at turns as other raptors, they need these wide open areas. You won't normally find their nests deep within the limbs of trees as you might a hawk's or an eagle's. And, because their most common enemies (after man and the automobile) are scavengers such as raccoons who might climb and raid their nests, they like to be up high.

For the few weeks I've walked this part of the park the ospreys have taken turns sitting on the eggs and hunting for fish--the only food they eat. Today, one of them was sitting high on the edge of the nest. Of course I did not have my camera with me. But it appears the eggs have hatched which means mama and papa will be busier than ever keeping the fledgelings fed.

Many ospreys are terrific travellers. During migration they can log up to 160,000 miles in a lifetime. One osprey strapped with a tracking transmitter traveled from Martha's Vineyards to French Guiana, South America, in less than two weeks!


As mighty as these birds appear, they are actually quite fragile. The DDT years nearly wiped them out. A conservation success story, the ospreys' numbers began to climb back as soon as the DDT ban was initiated. Now, unfortunately, because ospreys often pick up fishing line and soda-can straps as well as twigs to add to their nests, this beach trash has become a deadly hazard for fledglings that get caught up in them.

Like many raptors, osprey eggs do not hatch all at once but over a period of several days. That means the first born is much stronger than the last and, when food is scarce, have a much better chance of surviving.

When I think about all the other threats our natural world has been subjected to...our lust for an easier, faster, asphalt-laden and chemical-driven life...I wonder if we will learn in time which "improvements" might eradicate other species...and if we do, will we be as lucky as we were with the osprey to enjoy their rebound.

Elmore Leonard and Peter on Raylan, Justified and Voices of the Dead

   I had the privilege of hearing a talk recently given by Peter and Elmore Leonard at our local library. Elmore is the best selling author of a gazillion western and thriller novels...many on the New York Times bestseller list. He is also a screenwriter and many of his works are box office hits with starring roles by actors like Paul Newman, George Clooney, Charles Bronson and Burt Reynolds to name just a few. Elmore's latest endeavor is as executive producer of the FX Network's latest hit series, JUSTIFIED.

       Peter Leonard, Elmore's son, has now broken from a successful advertising career (like father, like son) to try his hand at writing. His fourth work, VOICES OF THE DEAD, is coming out this month and he says it is, finally, his own voice speaking as opposed to a "knock-off" of his father's. I am certain Elmore is a difficult act to follow but Peter seems quite capable of holding his own. 

What I enjoyed about the evening was watching Elmore (even his son calls him Elmore). He is as interesting and demonstrative as many of his memorable characters. When Elmore speaks, he uses his hands to make his points...not unlike the cock of a dog's ears. I also liked the casual, conversational tone of the evening...as if we in the audience were all sitting around a large  table in the Leonards' home. They had no script, no index cards and no platform. Peter had some questions jotted on a piece of paper and  he referred to them when conversation slowed but , for the most part father and son discussed their craft.  

What I enjoyed about the evening was watching Elmore (even his son calls him Elmore). He is as interesting and demonstrative as many of his memorable characters. When Elmore speaks, he uses his hands to make his points...not unlike the cock of a dog's ears. I also liked the casual, conversational tone of the evening...as if we in the audience were all sitting around a large  table in the Leonards' home. They had no script, no index cards and no platform. Peter had some questions jotted on a piece of paper and  he referred to them when conversation slowed but , for the most part father and son discussed their craft. 

Elmore was born in New Orleans but  his father, who was a site locator for General motors, moved his family to Detroit in 1934. Elmore has been here ever since.  Peter, of course, was born and raised in our fair city. Both men have been good to our beleaguered town. Not only casting Detroit as the setting for most of his stories but also giving their time to our little community just north of Detroit. This talk was one of just three Elmore is giving to promote his latest and 46th work, RAYLAN. He really does not need to promote his books--they are now grabbed up by his hungry fans as soon as they hit the shelves. And Peter is well on his way to being just as loved and admired.

So, they talked about writing. About how disciplined a writer must be. Both writers honed their crafts while working day jobs with advertising agencies. This meant they adopted a routine of waking at dawn and writing for two or three hours before leaving for work. Then they would come home and be the family men they both were. (Interesting side note: in my other life as a professional florist, I designed the bridal flowers for Elmore's daughter. So my first encounter with the famous author was at the front door to his home when I dropped off the bouquets. I doubt he remembers! )  

Peter pointed out that Elmore said he was not a fan of recurring characters but, with Raylan, that has changed. This is Elmore's third title starring the lawman.
"It's kind of nice," Peter said. "You know the guy now."
"And," Elmore said. "I can get him to talk without much trouble. That's so important."
He said he even likes his bad guys because he can get them to talk. One of Elmore's outstanding successes is the dialogue he interjects into his stories. With little else in the way of describing a character, Elmore's readers have a crystal clear image of every person in his stories...all because of the dialogue.

They also talked about the names they give their characters and how important that is to the success of the story. That they find their names in any number of unexpected places. Raylan, for instance, was the same name as a man introduced to Elmore at a luncheon in Arizona. Peter talked about what it was like to be an author whose father was a famous writer. The good part, he said, was that he could always get the best advice on writing issues at the dinner table. The hardest part was developing his own voice.

The pair touched briefly on Elmore's treatise, THE 10 RULES OF WRITING. I've read it. It's skinny and as sparsely written as Elmore's fiction but packs more heat than many larger texts on the topic.

Out of curiosity I watched Justified last night. I am actually recording the series. I'm not much of a TV viewer. Never seem to find shows that hold my attention for their duration but Justified is good.
When it was over I went to bed and pulled out the book I'm currently reading. Reading, I have found, is a much better way to go to sleep.

 You can hear this entire program on our library's website: http://vimeo.com/35425452