Migratory Birds
On the list serve,
a birder posts the sighting
of a yellow-headed
female blackbird
the same one, he says,
sighted last week.
How did he know it was the same?
This is a fact not in evidence
false on its face,
ipso facto and BOOM,
you might as well
be in the room, domineering
as in the old days -
shades up, not down
take the truck, not the car
click through the channels
never watch one show -
Why ask if you don’t
intend to listen?
Then the assertion,
1277 double-crested
cormorants in flocks
of 30 to 60. Was the passenger
pigeon flying too?
Wednesday, October 8, 2014
Sunday, May 25, 2014
Managing life or living it?
I’ve always been a list-maker of tasks I have to do. When life grows busy, the list is a way to have control over what threatens to become chaos. While I was teaching, I would have multiple lists: a “to-do” list for each of my five classes; a list of household tasks that needed accomplishing; and eventually, a list of needs to take care of for my parents. I found great satisfaction in crossing items off these lists, but an equal amount of angst in the items I didn’t finish and didn’t cross off. Like Toad in the the book Frog and Toad Together, I would even add and cross off something on a list that I had completed but which wasn’t originally on the list, just to make myself feel more” accomplishful,” a word often used in my family.
Sometimes lists hung around for a long, long time, with one persnickety item that I just couldn’t get done. I would not transfer that item to a new list, because it signified some degree of incompetence or procrastination that I didn’t want to acknowledge. I realize I come by this list-making honestly from my father, who carried a small spiral notebook in his shirt pocket with lists of things to do. His lists, and mine, helped to organize our lives and were necessary stays against confusion and lack of control.
I still make lists, and love the satisfaction of doing all the things that I’ve set out to do and crossing off items one by one. But I have also realized that there is a certain tyranny in a list that constrains life and may even prevent the pursuit of a more spontaneous, creative life. Who, for example, would write down “watch the birds” on a to-do list? Or “become absorbed in a good book and read all day?” Or “decide to write a blog post?” Because I don’t write things like these on lists, when I end up doing them, I feel guilty, somehow, that they weren’t “on the list” of things to do that day. I’m guessing there are others who experience this same feeling, because when I posted on facebook the other day that I had accomplished very little but had read a lot, more people “liked” that post than just about anything else I have ever posted.
So in talking to myself about my life as a retired person, and trying to be more present in the moment, I have decided to stop thinking of my lists as “to-do lists” and to start thinking of them as simply a list of “possibilities” for the day. In a way, this actually helps me to feel less overwhelmed by any of the many “to-dos” that a single individual needs to carry out in order to keep some semblance of order inside and outside the house. It also frees me up to do whatever I feel like doing in the moment, without feeling hugely guilty about other things on the list which are going undone.
In the story “The List,” Toad is paralyzed when his list blows away and he can’t remember what else was on his list of things to do. I don’t want to be that person (that Toad?) I will still be the person who makes a list for the day, but whether I choose to do one thing or no thing from that list, at the end of the day, I will be grateful for the way that life unfolds, offering surprises and accomplishments, things I can cross off and things that I can’t.
Sometimes lists hung around for a long, long time, with one persnickety item that I just couldn’t get done. I would not transfer that item to a new list, because it signified some degree of incompetence or procrastination that I didn’t want to acknowledge. I realize I come by this list-making honestly from my father, who carried a small spiral notebook in his shirt pocket with lists of things to do. His lists, and mine, helped to organize our lives and were necessary stays against confusion and lack of control.
I still make lists, and love the satisfaction of doing all the things that I’ve set out to do and crossing off items one by one. But I have also realized that there is a certain tyranny in a list that constrains life and may even prevent the pursuit of a more spontaneous, creative life. Who, for example, would write down “watch the birds” on a to-do list? Or “become absorbed in a good book and read all day?” Or “decide to write a blog post?” Because I don’t write things like these on lists, when I end up doing them, I feel guilty, somehow, that they weren’t “on the list” of things to do that day. I’m guessing there are others who experience this same feeling, because when I posted on facebook the other day that I had accomplished very little but had read a lot, more people “liked” that post than just about anything else I have ever posted.
So in talking to myself about my life as a retired person, and trying to be more present in the moment, I have decided to stop thinking of my lists as “to-do lists” and to start thinking of them as simply a list of “possibilities” for the day. In a way, this actually helps me to feel less overwhelmed by any of the many “to-dos” that a single individual needs to carry out in order to keep some semblance of order inside and outside the house. It also frees me up to do whatever I feel like doing in the moment, without feeling hugely guilty about other things on the list which are going undone.
In the story “The List,” Toad is paralyzed when his list blows away and he can’t remember what else was on his list of things to do. I don’t want to be that person (that Toad?) I will still be the person who makes a list for the day, but whether I choose to do one thing or no thing from that list, at the end of the day, I will be grateful for the way that life unfolds, offering surprises and accomplishments, things I can cross off and things that I can’t.
Tuesday, March 18, 2014
Holding on to Winter
I have been my usual vociferous self when lamenting this long, cold, snowy winter. Today, it seems as if Spring really is coming. The signs are everywhere: receding snowbanks, snow that has lost it's gleam and looks shopworn, the emerging brown of dead grass overlaid with a tangle of whip-size willow branches pruned by the wind. I should be feeling a sense of glorious anticipation. Instead, I find myself wondering if I'm really ready for Spring.
Am I ready to trade the hours I have indoors to write and think, edit and imagine for the work of raking, cleaning out flower beds and cutting back last year's dead foliage? Am I ready for the achy muscles, the quandaries over what to plant, where and when? Today, I seem caught between two seasons, not exactly wanting winter to go on, or God forbid, the arrival of more snow, but not yet ready to fully embrace all that comes with the change of seasons.
Am I ready to trade the hours I have indoors to write and think, edit and imagine for the work of raking, cleaning out flower beds and cutting back last year's dead foliage? Am I ready for the achy muscles, the quandaries over what to plant, where and when? Today, I seem caught between two seasons, not exactly wanting winter to go on, or God forbid, the arrival of more snow, but not yet ready to fully embrace all that comes with the change of seasons.
Sunday, February 23, 2014
The Apple Doesn't Fall Far From The Tree, or Does It?
An article in today's NY Times titled "Your Ancestors, Your Fate," offered an interesting analysis of how our social mobility hasn't changed much over time, and that our overall chances of success can be predicted from as far back as our great, great, great grandparents. Hmmmm. I'm definitely beginning to see that as I delve into the two centuries of family letters I have. I would, however, like to be in the same room with the author of this study and go into much more depth than he was able to in the article, as I have many questions about his methodology and just exactly what he means when he talks about "elite" names, and using registries of doctors and lawyers to draw his conclusions.
Actually, though, it caused me to think about some recent discoveries I made from a box of "stuff" I found at Christmas time when I pulled the boxes of decorations out of the storage area. I thought it was a box of my junque as it had some framed photographs from my life on the top, along with the Super 8 movie camera. Surprise! Below the first layer it turned out to be a box of my father's memorabilia. I have no memory of this box or when it came into my possession, nor had I ever looked into it.
When I first looked at it about 3 weeks ago, I really almost threw up my hands in despair. It needs major sorting, some pitching out, and some saving of stuff. Two things I found that intrigued me were a report card from Dartmouth, where I always assumed he had done very well academically (but realize now that I don't believe we ever talked about that)and discovered a rather average report - grades of C, even. I also found two letters from the President of Dartmouth, Ernest Hopkins written to dad and one letter from dad to Pres. Hopkins after he had graduated. They seemed to have a fairly close relationship, and I surmise that is because dad was President of the Inter-Fraternity Council, and probably had a lot of dealings with the administration. There apparently were some deaths at Dartmouth that year, and I haven't discovered what caused them, but part of the correspondence has to do with prevention of same, going forward.
The other day, I walked past the box again, and grabbed a handful of photographs, a small photo album and found two more discoveries. A rubber band held 4 letters together written by dad to his parents. Three of them were written while he was "courting" my mother, and for the first time I get to see dad's perspective on her family and how he felt he had found "the right girl." The other letter in the packet was written after my oldest brother Rob was born, and he describes in some detail the lead-up to mom going to the hospital. Each time I find something pertaining to my dad, I realize how little I knew him and how much I wish I had known of the existence of these letters during his lifetime and could have talked to him about them.
The other discovery was a small red leather diary which I first assumed was a small address book. It turned out to belong to my brother Rob, and was kept in 1951, the year we left Manchester, VT and moved to California. He was 12 at the time. There was a small wooden pencil stuck in the spine which said Charles Letts & Co. London. The space for entries was only about 5 tiny lines, but I read through all of them. (Many pages were blank).
I was quite surprised that he actually mentioned me in one entry, and it was something I had completely forgotten about: August 9, 1951 ". . . Kay started Baton twirling." We moved to California on August 26th, according to his diary, so my baton twirling lessons were short-lived. I do remember someone (dad?) had made me a baton out of a large-sized dowel and it had something like the rubber end of a cane at one end. Later, in California, I think, I had a real baton with a shiny silver shaft and I can remember practicing twirling it, but I was never destined for glory as a twirler in a marching band. Probably not in the genes I inherited from my great, great, great, grandmothers.
Actually, though, it caused me to think about some recent discoveries I made from a box of "stuff" I found at Christmas time when I pulled the boxes of decorations out of the storage area. I thought it was a box of my junque as it had some framed photographs from my life on the top, along with the Super 8 movie camera. Surprise! Below the first layer it turned out to be a box of my father's memorabilia. I have no memory of this box or when it came into my possession, nor had I ever looked into it.
When I first looked at it about 3 weeks ago, I really almost threw up my hands in despair. It needs major sorting, some pitching out, and some saving of stuff. Two things I found that intrigued me were a report card from Dartmouth, where I always assumed he had done very well academically (but realize now that I don't believe we ever talked about that)and discovered a rather average report - grades of C, even. I also found two letters from the President of Dartmouth, Ernest Hopkins written to dad and one letter from dad to Pres. Hopkins after he had graduated. They seemed to have a fairly close relationship, and I surmise that is because dad was President of the Inter-Fraternity Council, and probably had a lot of dealings with the administration. There apparently were some deaths at Dartmouth that year, and I haven't discovered what caused them, but part of the correspondence has to do with prevention of same, going forward.
The other day, I walked past the box again, and grabbed a handful of photographs, a small photo album and found two more discoveries. A rubber band held 4 letters together written by dad to his parents. Three of them were written while he was "courting" my mother, and for the first time I get to see dad's perspective on her family and how he felt he had found "the right girl." The other letter in the packet was written after my oldest brother Rob was born, and he describes in some detail the lead-up to mom going to the hospital. Each time I find something pertaining to my dad, I realize how little I knew him and how much I wish I had known of the existence of these letters during his lifetime and could have talked to him about them.
The other discovery was a small red leather diary which I first assumed was a small address book. It turned out to belong to my brother Rob, and was kept in 1951, the year we left Manchester, VT and moved to California. He was 12 at the time. There was a small wooden pencil stuck in the spine which said Charles Letts & Co. London. The space for entries was only about 5 tiny lines, but I read through all of them. (Many pages were blank).
I was quite surprised that he actually mentioned me in one entry, and it was something I had completely forgotten about: August 9, 1951 ". . . Kay started Baton twirling." We moved to California on August 26th, according to his diary, so my baton twirling lessons were short-lived. I do remember someone (dad?) had made me a baton out of a large-sized dowel and it had something like the rubber end of a cane at one end. Later, in California, I think, I had a real baton with a shiny silver shaft and I can remember practicing twirling it, but I was never destined for glory as a twirler in a marching band. Probably not in the genes I inherited from my great, great, great, grandmothers.
Monday, February 17, 2014
The Universe of the Back Yard
As another storm approaches, this is a set of scenes I will see again tomorrow, or possibly the next day, depending on the timing of the storm.
Snowscapes
Wind banked snow against the house
blew crystals into ripples
across the back yard,
each a thin shadow,
as if winter fairies
had etched the landscape.
Look away, look back,
squirrel tracks stamp,
circle the bird feeders
make spokes to forsythia,
clothesline post, willow tree,
a white on white mandala
the birds will fill
with black-oil sunflower,
yellow seed corn, peanut shells.
Snowscapes
Wind banked snow against the house
blew crystals into ripples
across the back yard,
each a thin shadow,
as if winter fairies
had etched the landscape.
Look away, look back,
squirrel tracks stamp,
circle the bird feeders
make spokes to forsythia,
clothesline post, willow tree,
a white on white mandala
the birds will fill
with black-oil sunflower,
yellow seed corn, peanut shells.
Friday, February 14, 2014
Drama in the back yard
As is my habit when I arrive in the morning kitchen, I check the temperature (a balmy 62 inside and 33 outside) and then put the shade up on the big window over the sink. I scan the back yard for birds, tracks, snow depth (about 3 feet) and anything unusual.
Today, some movement just on the far side of the forsythia bushes down on the snow caught my eye. Grabbing my trusty binoculars, I could see a mouse-like critter apparently chasing its tail around and around. It had a tail like a mouse, but was rounder than I think a mouse is and didn’t seem to have quite such an elongated face as I picture on a mouse.
The behavior continued as I watched, and I saw a small red squirrel run along the boundary line and a larger gray squirrel venture out of a tree and up into the forsythia and then to the top of the clothesline post where it seemed to watch the small critter below and then dart down and over to the base of the bird feeders in case there were any seeds on the ground.
Was the little guy trying to stay warm? Was it trying to find its home? Was it rabid? I’ll never know. It continued its frantic skittering on the ice-glazed snow, leaving a yellow stain on the territory it traversed, finally coming to rest on its side, about a foot from where it started. If I had been 10 minutes later coming downstairs, I would have missed this drama. I heard Pete Seeger singing:
“To every thing, turn, turn, turn/ there is a season, turn, turn turn,/and a time for every purpose, under Heaven.”
Today, some movement just on the far side of the forsythia bushes down on the snow caught my eye. Grabbing my trusty binoculars, I could see a mouse-like critter apparently chasing its tail around and around. It had a tail like a mouse, but was rounder than I think a mouse is and didn’t seem to have quite such an elongated face as I picture on a mouse.
The behavior continued as I watched, and I saw a small red squirrel run along the boundary line and a larger gray squirrel venture out of a tree and up into the forsythia and then to the top of the clothesline post where it seemed to watch the small critter below and then dart down and over to the base of the bird feeders in case there were any seeds on the ground.
Was the little guy trying to stay warm? Was it trying to find its home? Was it rabid? I’ll never know. It continued its frantic skittering on the ice-glazed snow, leaving a yellow stain on the territory it traversed, finally coming to rest on its side, about a foot from where it started. If I had been 10 minutes later coming downstairs, I would have missed this drama. I heard Pete Seeger singing:
“To every thing, turn, turn, turn/ there is a season, turn, turn turn,/and a time for every purpose, under Heaven.”
Saturday, February 8, 2014
Good friends, good times
I mentioned in an earlier post my love of all things fabric-related, and I think it's clear also how much I love being outdoors. Today combined the best of all worlds for me, and I wish I had photos to illustrate. Some things, though, can't be photographed easily. Start with friendship. I am spending the weekend with my college roommate and her husband on beautiful Lake Kanasatka in Moultonborough, NH. How do you photograph 49 years of friendship??? Certainly plenty of photos exist of us over the years, but the intangibles are what I'm talking about. The ability to talk about anything and everything; the shared history; the love of sewing, quilting and fabrics; the knowledge that whatever difficult situation you may be in, the other person is there to support you - these are things that can't be photographed.
Had I thought about it in advance, though, I could have photographed our cross-country skiing on the lake this afternoon, past makeshift bob houses (i.e. tents) and "open air" fishing by folks participating in the Lake Winnipesaukee Fishing Derby (but on Lake Kanasatka) and I could have photographed our trip to Keepsake Quilting this afternoon, where, for once, I was the person buying and not the person watching. But maybe it's a good thing that I wasn't busy trying to photograph all of this, I was just enjoying it, being present in these moments of activities I love with people I love. Enough said!
Had I thought about it in advance, though, I could have photographed our cross-country skiing on the lake this afternoon, past makeshift bob houses (i.e. tents) and "open air" fishing by folks participating in the Lake Winnipesaukee Fishing Derby (but on Lake Kanasatka) and I could have photographed our trip to Keepsake Quilting this afternoon, where, for once, I was the person buying and not the person watching. But maybe it's a good thing that I wasn't busy trying to photograph all of this, I was just enjoying it, being present in these moments of activities I love with people I love. Enough said!
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