One Midnight Gone

That's actually a musical theater reference to "Into the Woods". At my current location, in Nicarugua onthe outskirtsof San Juan del Sur (where my keyboard has gone sticky due to humidity and fine grains of sand), it's truthfully ten midnights gone. Looking down at the calender icon floating on the screen, I am somewhat in denial that the date is the 15th of August, that I've been here for 10 days, and my luxurious three weeks is half over. Oddly, the "I've not accomplished ANYTHING" voice is barely a whisper. The goal was to relax, read, practice yoga, write, and swim in the ocean every day and that is what I've done.  The writing has taken a little more practice, but that is to be expected when the brain is rusty and the keyboard sticky. 

This is the second time I've been to Costa Dulce, and this morning, no one is up for the pre breakfast, where the ladies of the cucina make coffee and put out fresh fruit, yogurt and granola, and I'm sitting sola with my black coffee and honey, scanning the horizon for the mama whale and her calf that has been sighted.  In the time it takes to blink, a rainbow streams out of the cloud cover and beams right down into the pacific ocean. I grab Muriella out of the kitchen and point. A rainbow sighting is rare in my sphere, and you want to share it with someone... immediately if necessary. "Arcoiris" she says and smiles. Within the space of five minutes, it disappears without warning, not even a shimmer.  It hits me that I'm with a group of people who are practicing self care - and what wonderful enegy to be in. If I could stay for another week, I would and already thinking about next summer, and where my self care sojourn will take place. I can't be guaranteed that I'll have El Nido if I return here. I've grown so attached to my space. I am grateful that I can traipse down my steps to the beach, to the lookout meditation platform on the ridge or up to the shala so easily and not lose sight of the Pacific ocean, with the constant thunder of the waves in my ears. At night, I wonder if she is feeling anger or sadness or pleasure; the noise can turn suddenly so loud and I wish I was Moana so that I too could speak ocean.

The Year of Living

In late February, I’ve learned that people start getting squirrely out here on the Outer Most. Maybe that is why I am only now hearing activity in the ceiling of my dining room - little feet scurrying back and forth. Search as I may, I cannot find their exterior entry point.

I was feeling particularly subdued just about this time, last February. I had had a particularly difficult conversation with someone I care about, which altered our friendship, and left me bereft. The dark mid winters are perfect for wringing those bleak emotions. That squirrelly feeling can certainly make you feel nutty if you nurse it.  Just when it seemed I couldn’t get out of my own dark cloud of uncertainty and low-level depression, I received an invitation from an adored friend who invited me to New York for my birthday.

The beginning of that week, however, brought news that became more alarming each day about the mysterious virus that was popping up in California, Washington State and now Westchester County. I debated driving so I wouldn't have to encounter anyone along the way, but in the end, I decided I wasn’t going to let fear rule me, and took the train.

Like everyone else, I had been reading about the virus spread, and the sub-chatter about mass extinction. Movies were suddenly being highlighted on Prime, Apple TV, like Contagion, World War Z, although skipping my favorite, 1971's "The Omega Man".  Odd, that distributors would want to cash in on these fears, stoke the fire and drive up excitable runs on pantry supplies and Amazon orders. I recall having to ship my brother a bottle of rubbing alcohol by way of New Mexico because there was none to be found here, online or in all of Los Angeles.

In the five days between Kmae's invite and my drive to the Providence Amtrak station, the east coast virus was a slow boil on the back burner. I wiped down my seat while people looked away. Another woman several seats back and across the aisle was doing the same thing, and had a mask. I kept myself to myself, catching up on my New Yorkers, which is always a good thing to do on a plane, train or in the bathtub. 

Thursday evening, March 5^th, Penn Station was nonetheless teeming albeit with a muted after-work crowd. I counted three masks on my way to the 1 train up to Mae's apartment.  She had purchased tickets to Hadestown, the Armory Show, special entry for MOMA and beauty treatments with my favorite technician, Kate. Vanessa came in from Riverhead and we supped on hors d'oeuves and sparkling drinks, keeping the talk about what was a mysterious virus then, at bay, if only just a bit. We all agreed to the basic rules, wash hands, wear gloves to open doors, that sort of stuff. It was winter, and that didn’t seem a stretch. Mae and Rob returned to their horse farm Saturday morning, allowing Vanessa and I to linger on through Sunday.

After a pop up art show on the east river, I braved the cold rain and hoofed it north to a Greek restaurant near my old apartment where I met the Angry Man (at 60!) for a long, luxurious lunch. We had been estranged for a few years, and I had rebuffed his attempts at rekindling a friendship, wary of his charm, but I felt that the stakes were high. He has never been in 100% health and I didn’t want anything to happen to him without us reconnecting. He was important to me, and despite his shortcomings, we had genuine love for each other. It was a decision made with simple, straightforward clarity. There were only two other diners, and we ordered way too much food, as if trying to fill the space. I had been taking note of all things. How many people were where, if people were gripping the poles in the subways or balancing and praying not to fall in someone’s lap.  I didn’t use stair rails and opted for a shoulder to push open doors.  Angry later told me that was the last time he took the subway.  

After we said our goodbyes, I walked blocks and blocks to Lincoln Center, grabbing Vanessa along the way for a double feature, of the Romanian film, “The Whistlers” and then rushing over to the AMC for “Emma”. Double features are among my favorite things to do on a cold, overcast day - or any day, really. Sunday morning, I met a few gal pals at the jazz brunch where Vanessa was performing.  By now the news in Westchester was bad, and forgive me if I get this wrong, but I believe the spread went from one commuter, to a person he commuted with, to his family, and on and on. We discussed it with the melodies of great American songbook familiars in the background, sunlight straining through the windows on East 38^th street, spring on the horizon. One of the gals that relayed her family cancelled their winter trip, her parents too old to safely travel and forbidden by their doctor. No one really knew anything.

It has been a tradition of mine to have birthday dinner parties, and last year, I had eight positive RSVPs for the 14^th. As the week went on, teachers began gathering in hallways, in front of the secretary’s desk at the main entrance, in the lunchroom. I gathered up my groceries for spicy meatballs, (with a vegan option), simple salad and homemade carrot cake. Parts of shelves gaped where items had not been restocked.

On Saturday morning, the news was getting more intense; schools were already beginning to shut down across the state, our district being the last hold out. I sent out the group text explaining to people to check their emails, my instructions and protocols were going to be one long annoying text message. First, I got out the bleach and scrubbed the entire house down from top to bottom. I put on my huge blue cleaning gloves, a housewarming present in California years ago, which traveled from moving van to storage to moving van to storage and so on. How’s that for a lifetime guarantee? I washed and wiped down everything, including every handle, doorknob, and window crank. When the house had that awful closing-time-diner smell of cleaning product, one of the scents I most loath in the world, a scent that turns me right back out the door, even at my favorite French restaurant, I got out my homemade room atomizer, rosemary and mint and sprayed the entire house while burning PF Candle’s Golden Coast incense.

The instructions for guests was as follows, (and remember, nobody really knew anything except to keep your distance, wash your hands and wear a mask):  Remove your shoes outside, take three hand towels, wash your hands, place used hand towel in the hamper.  I would plate everything, etc. etc. I put the extra leaves in my table so there would be ample distance, not six feet, but still. But as the day went on, the news got more alarming.  A run on toilet paper and flour and rice and bottled water began. The texts came in one by one.  That evening, there were just two of us, another teacher, and we talked about what remote teaching would even look like or if we’d be allowed back at school to get materials. While we were eating cake, the alert came in that our district was closing through April.  

I went into action. I wanted to boost my immunity, and since yogurt is off the table due to my moratorium on plastic (incredibly difficult), I began to make Kimchi and bottle it in my recycled Teddy’s peanut butter jars. I kept the leaves in my dining room table and used one end for impossible puzzles by Edward Hopper and Charley Harper. I brought the ironing board up from the basement, my African textiles I bought in Malawi the previous November, my sewing kit and began downloading mask patterns.  I joined a local restaurant supplier for groceries and ordered things like millet flour and a five pound bag of rice (I don’t eat rice under normal circumstances, and I haven’t started) horseradish root, spelt, tapioca, as if it gave me license to try anything at all. I canceled a yoga retreat I planned for April.

I unloaded my knitting projects, my ukulele, started blue jeans groups and had remote teaching assignments. Betsy signed me up for an eight week yoga/coaching course and every day at noon, between students, we practiced yoga. On Monday evenings, attended virtual lectures. It was there, that first Monday, that I learned that “overwhelm” could be potentially an unhealthy condition I was practicing.  I am mostly good at being in the unknown, but not so good at not having anything to look forward to.

I began reading the Harry Potter series to my third graders in the afternoons over my Google Classroom (we’re currently in the middle of “The Deathly Hallows”). I baked peanut butter chocolate chip oatmeal cookies, chocolate marshmallow cookies, pumpkin whoopee pies, carrot cakes, granola and jam breakfast bars and delivered them to neighbors. I started going through my address book and calling, writing and texting everyone I knew, I broke up with someone who isn’t worth mentioning and started new friendships with people I had met while socially distant walking in the woods or on the shore, I made various kinds of chili, lentil soups, curries, harissa. Shellfisher friends brought me clams and I learned to shuck and made about a gallon of chowder. I went grocery shopping for neighbors. I taught myself to French braid my hair from the University of You Tube. I practiced my Spanish in the bathtub using the Mango App. I practiced yoga every day. I gained ten pounds. This was all before summer had even begun. Typing those words down, I am amazed. You’d think I was moving non-stop.  

 

Because I had planned to spend the summer in western parts, my house had been rented to trusted returnees with strict cleaning protocols. I switched plans and bought a ticket to Puerto Rico through August. Five days before departure, the island was shut down and under curfew. No one could go to the beach, leave their home after six at night, so the JetBlue credit transferred from New Mexico to PR went back into the air miles bank. I spent most of the summer between Naples, Maine and Riverhead, New York with sisterfriends. We went through the necessary precautions, and it was a godsend to be able to be around people, in places looking out over incredible bodies of water with spectacular sunsets. I continued the Harry Potter book club, and took an online job reading with some younger kids. I practiced yoga everyday, tried wake surfing and ate a lot of ice cream cones.

I had gotten into the habit of noting everything I did in my Filofax; who I spoke to, how many minutes I spent in the basement organizing (where said Filofax was unearthed), forever organizing, what classes I went to, etc. And then I stopped sometime over the summer. Only with the beginning of school have I taken it up again. It’s a practice that serves me because otherwise, I’d feel like I was idly bumping into walls, sludging around the house.

I believe that this is the malaise of “at home”. First it began with concerts and live-streamed theater events, the novelty of group Zoom calls. I couldn’t keep up with all of the goodwill that was pouring out.

Then burn out.

Then a feeling like I was slacking off, that I should have finished my book, my incredible lesson plans for TeachersPayTeachers, Don Quixote, Zola’s Rougon Cycle, Trollope’s The Way We Live Now, obtained a second master’s degree from Columbia in French History and Literature. I completed puzzles and sent them on to the next person in California, Truro and New Paltz, each one getting more difficult. Two sent to me haven’t even been opened yet. I satisfied my book quota on Good Reads and began watching all of the BBC adaptations of Dickens. I baked more cookies and tried to go gluten free. I drove to Maine and volunteered as a poll worker in November. I discovered I was clenching my jaw unconsciously and needed six crowns. 

On December 23^rd, after 238, 000 miles, my car called it quits.

There was no volunteer trip to Sri Lanka this year, no yoga service retreats to Provence or Mexico.  I put off my second women's Tuscany retreat for October 2021 retreat until I had a clear idea of when travel would normalize. I was relieved that Valentina’s parents and in-laws had been spared any casualties at Camporsevoli. She wrote me that she couldn’t stop baking brownies.

I read a blurb in the New York Times morning newsletter, The Weekend Briefly with the column How to Get Out of Groundhog Day. Although people in my circle have used this term to describe how they feel, that is not what I’m feeling, like I’m stuck in a time loop. I'm feeling like time is standing still, and though the seasons are changing, I can't remember heat but since we barely have snow I can't remember that either. I barely put my garden to bed this fall, and school started at a slog with anxiety and defensiveness and ultimately, helplessness. Gratefully – so gratefully, the school climate is balanced out by the kid's joy at being there.

I wish what everyone does. To go to the movies, to have a dinner party, to walk on a crowded street and then relish walking on the same street, empty, in the small hours of the day.

There may not be a dinner party tomorrow, but there will be cake. 

 

Junk

I'm thinking of the Paul McCartney song, written in India, March 1968 and featured on his 1970 release "McCartney", later on "Anthology 3", covered beautifully by John Denver and for me, heard for the first time in the film, Jerry McGuire. 

 

But that's not what this piece is about. That was just a clever way for me to divert myself from writing about the Burt Bee's pomegranate lip balm that is sitting on my dining room table. The tube I had dropped in the wooden bowl by my front door, ready to be applied before I left the house. The same tube that I sent to my mother in a care package and found by her bed when my sister and I cleaned out her bedroom. I struggle to remember her bedside table, the thick cotton doily and lamp. The Milagros and just …stuff. Stuff that anyone keeps on a bedside table.

 

My brother Philip and I stayed for an additional five days I think. Honestly, I would have to go back through my records because the time span was such a blur. It was simultaneously so slow moving and fast. We had contacted cousins about family items like furniture, old letters and records from ancestors, Grandma Sue's Quimper, and dutifully boxed them up and shipped them where they were supposed to go. We gathered her many Laurel Burch cat earrings and disbursed them during an informal gathering of her Lunch Bunch friends. 

 

I packed up home goods, such as the lip balm, Dove body wash, the coconut oil my brother brought with him from Hawaii, thinking, “why let them go to waste?” but now I see it was a way to hang on to her.

 

There are miscellaneous odds and ends I might find in a drawer or I've moved them from the dining room table, or back to a box to sort through, making a slow progression of the house. A cache of prescription drugs, her wallet, her flip phone, check book, keys to her house on a leather fob that belonged to my dad. Other things I cannot bring myself to go through that sit in my basement. My sister has the bulk of her things that we kept, in her own basement. We get together often, and I'll say, "Let's go through that stuff" but it hasn't happened yet. 

 

I hung on to the empty jar of coconut oil for a while.  I can see Philip rubbing it lovingly into her hands, as if willing her to wake up and get to right again. I recycle these containers hesitantly. That these mere objects would be reminders of her, and not something more substantial is odd to me. I thought about it while I moved the empty Burt's Bees balm the dining room table. The label has rubbed off, but the bright red top resembles a signal siren. It's those last vestiges, the last things she touched.

Sitting with these is a scrap of paper with her handwriting '"The Ballad of Ramblin' Jack" about Jack Elliot'. I remember the conversation. We were all together for my niece’s wedding in Virginia, maybe eight years ago. I had gone to Pete Seeger's 80th birthday concert at Madison Square Garden. I called her from the floor where we had tickets. During this conversation, she revealed a grudge she was nursing toward Bob Dylan. When I search my memory, he is not part of the vast variety of music that filled our house, nor did I find any of his records among my father's 1200 + collection.  It seems her suspicious seeds had cracked, and Jack Elliot was indeed the real deal, not Dylan. During the conversation, she couldn't remember the film she had seen but promised to find it and send to me, and within a week, there it was in the mail.Why I still have this scrap of paper, I don't know, I found it tucked in the filofax I've recently taken to using again

You see if I don't write down these memories, I know they will fade. I feel like the past year was a blur already.  

Next to that note, is a large pink sheet of notepaper that starts with "Begin each day with thoughts that bring out the best in you" trimmed in affirmations "Today I will..."  "Yes, I can..." "I am grateful for...”. Notepaper and sticky notes were a favorite stocking stuffer of hers. My scribbles this time cover the page...'she will be able to move home, but she's not walking - to fly needs wheelchair, next two weeks special care'.  This must have been after my conversation with one of the many rotating doctors in Albuquerque, when the four of us kids were discussing what and where and how the future of Mom would be.  We didn't begrudge her for moving to New Mexico. In fact, she knew it was her happy place, where her heart was. Like other women of her generation, I suppose, she learned to really listen to her heart after the grief of widowhood, the depression of having a Georgetown education and not doing anything with it, the realization that you are on the other side of life, you're in the twilight years, but you're fighting like hell against accepting it. This didn't happen in a short period of time, it happened over a period of eight or more years. During that entire time, I never saw her cry about my father once. Not once. Stoic Iowan or following the river of denial, I do not know. 

We had to do recon work, after being chastised by one of her friends. They knew something but we didn’t. My mother would not speak of her health, she lied, she was reluctant to give me her doctor’s information, finally handing over the phone number of the P.A. she had been seeing for years, someone who’s name begins with a “J” who I had the most difficult time getting in touch with and when I finally spoke with her, in the back entrance yard of my mother’s, sitting at the picnic table in front of her outdoor fire place, the sun not yet blazing down, my mother asleep in inside, she didn’t tell me my mother was dying, she only sighed “I know,  it’s so sad when our parents get old”. 

 

I knew she was dying, I didn't want to believe it, nor did I want to sit down later that night, in the dark with the glow of my laptop staring at me, to write my brothers and sister my discoveries from that visit and my knowledge, but I did. My mother hadn't lost the sharpness in her tongue, defensively demanding, “What are you doing here? I’m fine!” which I knew was a cover up for her fear, because when I drove up on March 8th at 10 PM, she was waiting for me at the door, with a look in her eyes and her arms open wide.

 

She was at that time, I think I put it, about 80%. It was hard for her to get around, she needed someone to come in and help her. It wasn't clear whether she should be driving. The house was a mess. My friend Nancy came up and helped me to give everything a deep clean, and bring all of the unnecessary things to her storage unit, where they would suffer the dust that blew in underneath during the New Mexico windy season. "I’m not going anywhere!" she'd cry from her bedroom, or her seat at the kitchen table. Nancy and I would just turn to each other and give a smile, but it was hard.  So hard. 

 

The lip balm is almost finished. I'm scraping it out with my right pointer finger. I'm loath to toss it. These things she touched, so near the end. I just can't.