FOCUS

The small dog loves to jump on the sofa to build a nest with the blankets and pillows. She nudges, tugs, and drags until everything is in place. She spins round and round, inspecting and getting comfortable before she plops down and dozes. A few licks and yawns are interspersed throughout the construction. Exhausting work, but she never relents until everything is just so.

Then the nap begins. She never shows her dreams.

AUTUMN LUNCH

Took myself out to lunch, and sat on a patio. I never eat outdoor meals during the summer, but today I was wearing a sweater.

Today, it was fall.

It rained leaves, and they tickled. Some landed on my poached eggs, on my potatoes, on my biscuit. Some stuck in my hair. Others snuck into my purse.

Looking skyward with something like hope, or curiosity, or perhaps shock, all I saw was blue and gold. I smelled the cold. 

I stopped holding my breath. 

I wasn't thinking. I was only breathing. 

NOT YET

Waiting not-so-patiently for an inaudible click to alert me that I've reached the finale of these blues.

End credits, I'm ready for you to roll. 

What helps: snuggly dogs, scratch-made meals, a soft flannel shirt, crisp late summer mornings.

What hinders: bangs hanging in my eyes, piled-up laundry, quiet sitting, a clenched jaw.

Waiting, mulling, moping-- not how one recovers from a slump. But if one isn't doing these things, one has to think of something active to do. Then the going. Then the doing. 

It all begins with the mustering of some oomph. 

Vicious cycle, I'm seriously considering calling your bluff.

After a nap. Or nine.

FOURTEEN THINGS I DID

1. Marveled at the Treasures of Tutankhamun at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

2. Whooped as Liberace flew across the stage at Radio City Music Hall. 

3. Caught a striped bass while fishing alongside the Statue of Liberty.

4. Discovered my first air hand dryer in the ladies room next to the Lincoln Monument. 

5. Rode a bike with a basket around and around Ocracoke Island. 

6. Climbed a lighthouse in Nebraska. 

7. Snacked on grasshoppers in Mexico. 

8. Winced and laughed as a goat sneezed on me in Colorado. 

9. Deeply inhaled and fell in love with the smell of pinon in New Mexico. 

10. Stuck my head under Niagara Falls. 

11. Buried parts of myself in New Jersey. 

12. Pushed a boy in a swing for two hours straight in Maine. 

13. Sped away from my mother, then received a ticket for it in Texas. 

14. Pondered how it all began in Louisiana.

NOVICE/EXPERT

Investigate something deeply, become an expert.

View it from an angle.

Reverse.

Acquire all the knowledge you can; become disheartened by the vastness of your undertaking.

On a Tuesday morning, tumble what you have learned, round and round.

On your roof, hold up your jumbled thoughts, backlit by the sun.

Look through them.

* * *

You have to create a problem.

A work of art is a problem you create, a problem you solve.

Before you define your question, your answer presents itself. A split second, ungraspable.

Once you articulate what needs to be solved, the answer is lost.

Someday a new solution might emerge.

* * *

I resisted a play. The play was smart; I was exhilarated. I fell in love with the drama, then hated myself. Another person's creativity never brings me pure pleasure.

I don't write plays. I doubt I ever will. But I am jealous of playwrights.

During the play, I felt a new kind of possibility, a hiccup.

* * * 

Not easy, not now, perhaps not soon, but with more work than I can imagine...maybe.

A NOTEBOOK AS SMALL AS AN IPHONE

My nearest, dearest and most consistent companion is my iPhone.

For the past two years, we've been inseparable. As long as we're together, I'm never bored. I can always read news, check email, search for answers, take photos, listen to music, play games, text, tweet, find directions, discover endlessly fascinating "stuff" and make phone calls. (I make and take phone calls slightly more often than I churn butter.)

Amazing!  

My iPhone has also stolen me from former pastimes:

Observing what's around me, watching strangers' faces, tucking paperbacks and notebooks into large purses, wondering where some bauble can be purchased, discovering how to get to a particular intersection, deciding what the most delicious option is at the new kebab place, or remembering who played the bad guy in that movie I loved when I was ten. 

My iPhone didn't actually steal me from anything; I gave myself away. 

Leafing through my old notebooks was a bit of a shock: when did I scribble all of these observations, phrases, half-ideas? 

All the time. 

My busy little brain always needs to be doing something; it used to make me write, it now demands I go "online." 

It's a question of harnessing that excess energy. 

What if I find a notebook as small as an iPhone, and carry it all the places I take and use my iPhone? Will anything change?

Perhaps an experiment worth considering...

"MANIFESTO"

Twelve years ago, I wrote a "manifesto" entitled "Why I Write Poetry."

I had to -- it was an assignment.

While I would no longer write something so presumptuously-titled, I'm pleasantly shocked at how coherent, thoughtful and honest I was. Also sad that something for which I had such passion now means so little; poetry has no significant place in my current life.

I wrote: "My poems are substitutes for letters I will never send." 

In the mad throes of unrequited love, I had no one with whom I could share my longing. Poetry was an alternate universe in which I could wallow -- history re-imagined, re-written, re-kissed.

My poems let me insist "We danced to the Bee Gees, you walked me to the corner, you looked me in the eyes and said you wanted to buy me eggs." 

I pretended to care about Pound, and Eliot, and Williams.

What I wanted? To never forget your lips. 

ERASURES

Perhaps the erased matters more than the written.

In writing, the real work is the taking away, the boiling down, the reduction.

There is the trying on of words, the twirling around, the viewing from all angles. Possibilities cast off.

The hope: what is most honest, most accurate, most satisfying, remains.

First thoughts removed, edited.

Barely grey impulses stay, and the fear:

The reader sees past your words. "But here, here, you rubbed something out..."

EPIPHANIES

Found a little something under the sofa this morning. Without dustbunnies, I might not have epiphanies, which are often associated with commonplace events. Therefore, it seems reasonable, when I'm gathering puffs of dog hair, for a voice to succinctly inform me: "it will be okay."

It was a very matter-of-fact voice.

A flood of relief, a realization: "this is faith." It's gravity, whooshing you down a playground slide. You decide if you climb back up, ride again.

Or sulk in sodden sand, lamenting what was too short, too thrilling.

The voices we hear while strangling ourselves are probably worth a listen.

WHAT IT TAKES

Important things often require letting go, not white knuckles.

Yet I cling, fight, kick, scream, rage, insist, 

try on, discard, 

dance with fancy words and complications.  

SICK DAY

Unclenching my throbbing brain on this "sick day."

After all, I'm not really "sick."

I feel mostly okay. Though I'm utterly exhausted, even after a full night's sleep. I guess I can also admit a little achey-ness and soreness. And slight dizziness.

Let's not overlook the sniffles.

So maybe my "sick day" is actually a sick day. Why so hard to admit I'm not feeling well?

Evidence I'm not quite me:

• This morning's fantasy: an indoor stroll at the mall; a hot, salty, buttery pretzel; an "awwww"-filled peek in the window of the pet store. Hell, maybe even a "massage" on one of those pleather chairs.
• I'm contemplating turning the tv on. Maybe there will be something good on one of the talk shows?
• I don't really give a hoot what's for dinner or if we even eat dinner.
• Didn't even bother to weigh myself today. What can I do about it, anyway? 
• Not considering my sloth "lazy." Certain it's "essential."

Unngh. I think you get the idea.  

PLACES I WROTE (TWO)

Another summer:

This time, a tiny house, a teensy town. Handkerchief-shaped baby skunks waddle across the road, struggling to keep up with mama. On a busy day, fourteen cars pass. I lift and twist a medicine ball every morning, pick pink flowers and arrange them in a windowsill Coke bottle. I wash and dry my dishes (I only have three), shake out my tablecloth, sweep the kitchen floor. I sit at a computer and write; there isn't much else to do. I watch The Thorn Birds deep into the night. The supermarket is thirty miles away. The post office is around the corner. I make chocolate chip pancakes. I wake up and go to sleep when I want, am never tired, and sleep next to a laundry basket filled with books. I answer to no one, yet I am nowhere near happy. 

Only now do I know how lucky I was.

PLACES I WROTE

Rochester? Have I written about Rochester? No, not Mister, though he hulks behind curtains, strides in his cape, catches me off guard. 

Rochester. The city. New York. Once called the Flour City, more recently the Flower City. 

City of another life -- city of photographs, homophones, and old, cold cemeteries. 

City of white hots, first sushi, garbage plates (fries, gravy, meats, grease). 

You can drive to Buffalo, you can drive to Niagara Falls. 

You can be younger there, because it's from way back. 

Your way back when. 

You had an attic all your own, a desk, a nook. 

You had a house: wooden, slanted, spacious, full. 

You: too many words. 

Silent mornings. 

The house: yours. People came, people went. For hours and hours, you were alone. You wrote, you dawdled. 

The house creaked. 

You flitted among tombstones. You fluttered in libraries. You hovered over medical anomalies: weird creepies, floating in blue, floating in pink, floating in yellow. Cracked photographs. Post-mortem faces. Shrouded, grey, askew.

At home, you fried pierogies, sprinkled them with paprika, peered through curtains to a church. 

You watch the answering machine. Messages are left. You talk at the callers. You put your dishes in the sink. You don't wash them.  

When he finally comes home, watch him sneak things from a mailbox, hurry things under a jacket, tuck things into a book. Start holding your breath, become careful. Become quiet. Watch. 

Wait.

Drive away, away from Rochester, away from lopsided houses.

Wait. 

Look back, fondly, with eyes you'd never imagined.    

BOOKSHELF

Long ago, I knew everything, everything F. Scott Fitzgerald scribbled in his notebooks.

Last year, I fantasized a "greener" Christmas.

In between, I sought advice to guide me through life as a woman, turned to chubby food critics when seeking the greasiest greasy spoons, questioned what questions to ask before marriage, and presumptuously struggled to "help" people out of poverty.

Who was Roberto Clemente? What made John Adams tick? The best digital camera in 2008? The secrets of effective teams?

(I know!)

And I know how to teach sixth graders about fractions.

If you're adopting a rescued dog or deciphering a polysyllabic medical term, let me know. If you need a half-filled notebook or any of Hart Crane's poems, just ask.

Marion Nestle told me what to eat; Julia Child, about France.

John Irving made me cry, and then cry again. And again.

Decorating your first apartment? It doesn't have to cost a fortune. Have a question about Fermat's Enigma? Too bad -- I haven't cracked that volume.

Give me a couple of days.

In the meantime, if you want to fall in love, find your own Lorca.

A SABBATH-READY HOME

One of the many valuable lessons I learned from a Sabbath-celebrating friend was to take time on Friday to get my home ready for the weekend.

For Leah, this meant food-shopping, cleaning, changing linens, and picking up a beautiful bunch of flowers. She viewed the Sabbath as a special guest who deserved a clean, organized, and welcoming place to unwind. Sabbath was a weekly holiday; it was always wholeheartedly and sincerely celebrated. Sabbath was something to get excited about.  

Although Sabbath is not part of my religious tradition, I love it. As a once-busy New Yorker living in a tiny space, preparing my home for the weekend was a much-welcomed gift to myself. It forced me to take care of my physical and emotional needs.

My thoughts turn to the Sabbath as I look upon this weekend with the dread I've felt for the past couple of months. Unfortunately, weekends have become a heavy, fraught time. It's horrible to admit this -- however, I want to change my perspective. 

I'm going to use today for Sabbath preparation. Even if that only means dusting and vacuuming, I feel like I need to give it a try. I need to do things differently, and this is something that once worked. 

Hope I can make it work again. 

"WHATEVER YOU ARE, BE A GOOD ONE."

This post's title is a quote from Abraham Lincoln. I have a large colorful print of the saying in my kitchen; I ponder it daily as I decide to decide what, in fact, I am.

It's hard to be a good _______ (fill in the blank) when you feel more like the blank than the fill-in.

I've long resisted defining myself, always vague about what I wanted to "be," what I wanted to "do." It was easy to want to be a "writer." The title is so vast and amorphous it's practically meaningless.

"Writer" is an easy title to hide behind.

I have a very close friend who is blindingly sure of himself. He knows exactly who he is, remains (at all times) certain of what he must accomplish, and never loses sight of how to get precisely where he wants to be. Woe to anyone standing in his way!

I can't even imagine how to be such a person.

However, I am curious.

A technique for dealing with depression is to behave as a non-depressed person would. Although you feel miserable, you go about your day behaving as though everything is just peachy. You become an actor who plays a character nothing like yourself.

I want to play the part of a person "being a good _________."

I would love to be a really good ________.

But first I need to play another role: Person Who Fills in the Blank.

TODAY WAS A BALL

Some days are easier than others. On the more difficult days, if you can find a way to play, you've almost got it made.

WAIT, I'M...RUNNING?

A few days ago, I decided to run a 5K in November.

I hate running. Always have. Until this week, I don't think I've ever run for more than sixty consecutive seconds. And if I did, it only happened once. Hey, I'll quicken my pace if someone is holding a door for me -- but not always. Hold the door, don't hold the door -- it doesn't matter much to me, as I'm usually not in a hurry.

So, this running idea came as a bit of a shock.

Where did it come from?

I've completely changed my body over the past year. I've been doing Pilates about four times a week, and riding my exercise bike about five hours a week. All in all, I've lost about thirty-six pounds.

I wanted a new kind of challenge.

One year ago, I never would have dreamed of taking up running. My back hurt, I was overweight -- and I was also, sorry to say, lazy.

This year, completing a 5K is actually in the realm of possibility. And I need a new fitness goal.

I went online, discovered the Couch to 5K Running Plan, printed it, grabbed a sheet of metallic star stickers, and bought Mizuno running shoes.

I went to the gym, and got on the treadmill. Twice over the past three days.

Yesterday was Day Two. Last night, I slept like a baby. Today my legs and feet were killing me. I was advised to soak my feet in ice water. I was more terrified of the soak than the running.

The ice water was painful -- a million little daggers -- but the post-icing felt amazing. My feet feel so, so good.

Will I be able to run my Veteran's Day 5K? Stay tuned to find out.  

SEPTEMBER 11, 2011

It's September 11, 2011, a bright and sunny Sunday morning.

I picked up the Denver Post and unexpectedly cried; I didn't think reading about something I've thought about every single day for the past ten years would move me to tears.

I've been watching Twitter this morning; some are posting their remembrances of 9/11, others are reporting their experiences at New York Fashion Week. A minority are tweeting their normal, everyday things -- they seem to be going about their business as usual.

Once upon a time, I would have judged how everyone responded to this anniversary. When it comes to mourning, I've long felt that no one does it "right."

I'm glad that tendency seems to be behind me.

I chased a fly with the Dustbuster. I caught and set him free.

I'm thinking about the peach tart I'm making later today.

I don't know how to peel a peach.

I don't know what to make for dinner.

I'm curious if there's something else I should be feeling, or doing.

I guess I'm uncomfortable with my response (or lack thereof) to this day. Part of me thinks I should be making Pronouncements, saying Important Things with Capital Letters.

But the truth is that I still feel very tiny and vulnerable and sad. I can't use words as a cover or shield.

I wish I had something to say about how my life changed ten years ago, but I don't.

I can't come up with a metaphor, or find a poetic phrase, to summarize sorrow.

So I will wish everyone well.

SIGH OF RELIEF

Fall unofficially arrived today, and I can't believe what a difference ten degrees makes.

Right now it's 65 and I'm writing in a plaid flannel button-down. Skies are grey, a light mist is falling, and I'm perfectly content. 

This is a day made for lazies, and I am a proud, proud lazy. 

Summer oppresses with the weight of so many expectations; once the sun comes out and the temperature climbs, I always feel obligated to do so much, to enjoy every moment, to go go go and get tan tan tan...

Today I feel less pressure to do; I just want to be. 

LABOR DAY

It's Labor Day and everyone's in a tizzy about "the end of summer" and wondering if they can "keep wearing white."

First of all, we officially have about three more weeks of summer; secondly, I never wear white because I'm messy and drippy and stain-y.

I look terrible in white. 

Grudgingly went food shopping after I spent the morning thinking about this week's meal plan. I simply couldn't imagine cooking anything ever again. I got dizzy and sad, and decided to suck up eating ready-made and processed foods for at least the next couple of days; this easing up was a huge relief.

When I'm feeling down, I freak out and start obsessing about all I need to do to feel better; this consists of me berating myself into changing all my habits. 

The major changes I inevitably decide I need to make are:

• Improving my sleep
• Cleaning and better organizing my home
• Cooking and consuming healthier snacks and meals
• Following a consistent schedule
• Engaging in challenging (but not too challenging) exercises
• Spending time outdoors
• Creating something artistic
• "Keeping busy"

I know these are the "right" things to do (don't they look like they belong on a clipboard?); however, I spend more time thinking about doing them (and berating myself for not doing them) than I spend, well...you know. Actually doing them.

I've just got to ease up. 

(As for the meal plans -- when I'm better, I'll create a binder where I keep all the easy, delicious and healthy recipes I love. I'll thank myself.) (You're welcome, future self.)

"DORMANCY"

When I'm sad or mad or scared, (or any combination) I waste a lot of time.

It takes tremendous energy to generate negative emotion. It tires me out.

However, I also tend, for lack of a better word, to go "dormant" when I get upset.

I sit and stare, oppressed by silence and fear of what might happen if I act. I trap myself and wait, vaguely, to "feel better."

Let's not quantify the amount of productive time I've given over to this so-called dormancy. Let's be non-specific and say: A Lot.

Let's take it a step further and say: Too Much.

Today, I got angry. Today, I screamed. Today, I flipped out. At the top of the stairs, I ranted terrible accusations and flung an innocent notebook.

However, right after my rage, I was astoundingly productive. For a time, I was liberated from my sadness and anger, my new found energy exhilarating. My "hissy fit" seemed reasonable, even justified.

Then, just as suddenly, I was numb. I strained, listened to the silence, lamely attempted to understand what I had done. Without missing a beat, I dismissed my antics as "just how I am." After all, someone "made" me mad! And then, as the hours passed, I moped, and moped, and moped.

This is what I did today, as I always have.

Part of me would love to honestly announce: "Enough is Enough! I'm Ready to Change! I'm Ready to Grow Up!" but I'm not quite there.

Yet.

PASSION AS BURDEN

Why, when I write, am I so hard on myself?

I do nothing else in which I am so self-critical.

When I cook, I give myself a lot of leeway -- of course, I want  to create delicious food, and I plan and work accordingly. However, I'm always aware there's a frozen pizza or bowl of cereal if things don't go as hoped.

(FYI, a PSA: never criticize your cooking in front of guests -- if you know your stir fry is too salty, or forgot to add nuts to the brownies -- don't call attention to these "mistakes." If you don't point out "errors," most people don't notice or care. They're just grateful for a home-cooked meal.)

(Similarly, never point out your perceived physical flaws; if someone doesn't think you have a big nose, why do you want to plant that idea in their brain?)

When I take photos, I'm kind to myself. I take dozens of shots and judiciously use my editing software to get a "perfect" picture. If this doesn't work, I simply shoot again. I really have a "no big deal" attitude and it works.

However, as soon as I think about writing, my mind is flooded.

"What are you going to write?"

"Why? That's boring."

"I'm sure someone already did a better job saying that."

"It's never going to work."

And so it spirals...

I'm a decent cook and pretty good photographer. I'm happy with my current skills and strive to improve them. I enjoy these two pastimes, and never hoped to engage in either as more than a hobby. Perhaps this is what sets them apart from writing -- I've never feared the consequences of my cooking or photography "failures," and my "successes" aren't tied to how I feel about myself.

CAR AS THERAPY

In my car, I am Dolly, Mick, Morrissey, Kurt, and, yes, Courtney. I'm also (I'll admit it) Justin and The Music Man. And Bryan Ferry.

Twenty years ago, when I first had my license and my world was falling apart, I drove around and around New Jersey for hours at a time. These were not just the days before GPS, they were the days before I was smart enough to worry about getting lost or stranded. All I needed was a full tank of gas and my radio; I was accountable to no one. I drove and drove and drove. Sometimes, I cried. Other times, I sang.

I drove, and I thought, and my thoughts were bleak. But it was (and is) better to think dark things while doing something. Pondering without action has always been dangerous. Driving is one of the very few things to which I can truly devote my full attention. It shuts parts of me down, and makes other parts more alive.

Driving also gives me a voice -- a singing voice that I use nowhere else. Even if I am alone at home, I never sing. What is it about a car?

My life is different now than it was in my early driving days. I have a cell phone, a house, and responsibilities. Gas prices are higher than they once were; dogs have to be fed at a certain time. "Driving nowhere" isn't as exhilarating or liberating as it once was; in part, it's because I know there are someones waiting.   

But today I drove, and I sang. It was the first time in a long, long time, and I was too loud to hear my thoughts.