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A Cry in the Night

A Cry in the Night

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I was awakened at 4 by the barking of a fox. This is not a rare occurrence. What made it memorable was how close the fox seemed to be. Right beneath the bedroom window from the sound of it. 

For years after we moved here I thought this sound was the screech of an owl or some kind of wounded animal, so distressed did it seem. It troubled my sleep, made nightmares of my dreams. The night itself seemed to be speaking, issuing a warning, sounding an alarm.

I know now that this howl is the bark of a fox, going about its foxy business, further proof of the wild kingdom that flourishes just outside these four walls. 

I no longer fear this sound, even if it wakes me up.  I just read for a while to settle my jangled nerves, taking comfort in the fact that we share this place with the animals who were here before us.

What Might Be

What Might Be

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I begin the day with moonlight, a bright waning gibbous that cracks a sweet gum branch in two as I glance at moon and tree through this window I call my own.

How companionable it seems, this moon. Not the cool, pale orb of rounded perfection, but a heavenly body that looks at bit battered around the edges. Knocked down, but still there. 

Meanwhile, daylight is gaining on it. Soon it will fade to a translucent disc. The sun will rise, strengthen, send shards of light through the prism, make rainbows on my wall.

But I’m starting early, in the cold darkness, and this is just a glimpse of what might be.  

The Coffee Table

The Coffee Table

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When my children were young I remember how pleasant it was at the end of the day to pick up toys and tidy up the house. I knew it wouldn’t last more than an hour or so after they woke up the next day, but for a few blissful hours I could float around in a state of order. 

Now that there are toddlers in my life again, I’m remembering what it felt like to live, even thrive, in the midst of complete pandemonium. There’s a letting go that is probably healthy, though it may not feel that way at the time. 

Take the coffee table. I’m sitting beside it right now, and though most of the weekend’s disorder has been put to rights, I haven’t yet re-stacked the magazines. I can still see Bernadette’s sweet face as she palmed the slick covers and slid them off one by one. What power! What glee! 

There’s a reason why the magazines are still jumbled. The better to imagine those sweet kiddos, their arms around my neck, their heads on my shoulder. 

Going Nowhere

Going Nowhere

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A walker in winter may be trapped indoors by rain, ice, snow or cold. For several years now, though, I’ve had a secret weapon, a way to walk inside that doesn’t involve pacing. That would be the elliptical in the basement. 

The machine is designed to work out not just the legs and hips but also the arms and shoulders. The only part of the body it leaves untouched is the brain, that restless organ. 

Outdoor walks provide a moving display of images on which to dwell: familiar houses comfort, treed paths shelter, new vistas enliven.

But the elliptical walker has, if she wishes, a TV with streaming shows and old movies and whatever else she can find for distraction. She has a library of music and books to plug into on her phone. She has, in short, the world at her fingertips. And so she walks, and walks, and walks … going nowhere but quite content. 

Farewell to the Office

Farewell to the Office

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Long ago, a family of three moved into a house that was far too large for them. In fact, even to say it was a family of three was pushing it. This was a mom, a dad and a six-month-old baby. The house, while not palatial, seemed so to us at the time. We rattled around in the four bedrooms and two-and-a-half baths. We parked a playpen in the living room, and put our dining room furniture in the, uh, dining room.

Except the dining room was barely big enough for a party of six, which we learned our first Thanksgiving when we had to turn the table diagonally to fit everyone in.

Meanwhile, the family of three became a family of four and then five. The dining room filled with toys, the hutch moved into the living room, and at some point it became official: the dining room was now … the playroom.

It remained that way for a decade or so, when I vacated the upstairs office I’d happily occupied to give each daughter a room of her own and moved down to this room, which absorbed two tall bookshelves and a “desk” (a hollow door laid across two filing cabinets). The office it has been these many years, also an ersatz den with a comfy couch — and a doggie haven.

Today, we move all the furniture and rip out the carpet. Tomorrow, a team of experts (my sister and brother) will help lay new flooring. The desk will be gone, and a new dining table moved in. The office is dead … long live the dining room!

The Prism

The Prism

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The prism is back, rescued from a dusty retreat on top of my dressing table, where it sat cupped and safe in an ornate candlestick since I moved it home at the start of the pandemic. 

That’s no place for a prism to be, I told myself, so I brought it into this room I’m making my own and hung it from the shade roller so it dances in the window. 

I’d almost forgotten about it when I walked into the room this morning, tea mug in hand. But there they were again, those welcome rainbows brightening my wall. 

The Very Thirsty Piano*

The Very Thirsty Piano*

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My new piano is a joy. Most every day I sit on its comfy bench and touch its lustrous keys and think to myself … what did I do to deserve this instrument? Not only have I continued to play old pieces, but I’m even attempting to learn new ones — a sure sign of devotion.

But the piano has developed one interesting habit. It’s thirsty — very, very thirsty. It has a humidifier, you see, with a light that comes on when the water drops below a certain level. When that happens, you fill it through a tube to avoid removing the front of the instrument. Doing this keeps the piano in tune, and is good for it in general. 

When the tuner showed me how this works, I imagined we’d be filling it up once or twice a winter. But it’s been a cold January, and the piano lights up about once a week. So now I water the ferns, I water the spider plants … and I water the piano. 

(*Apologies to the late Eric Carle for riffing on his title)

Winnowing

Winnowing

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I’m in a transitional generation, one that has both real and virtual clean-up duties. Not only do I need to tidy up my computer desktop, to create file folders and organize documents and photos within them, I must also deal with the hundreds of real file folders in cabinets in my basement. And those are much heavier. 

They are also filled with gems: Long-ago memos, tattered and worn. Assignment letters from editors who were my mentors and also my friends. Reams of research. Pink “While You Were Away” phone message slips. Studies gathered the old-fashioned way, by going into a brick-and-mortar library, finding the journal and photocopying the pages. 

And then there are the interview notes, all in my near-impossible-to-read scribble. I’ve tossed pounds and pounds of them, saving only the ones where I’ve spoken with dear friends or eminent experts. 

As I winnow my way through each folder, I remember how hard I worked to assemble that information, conduct those interviews, take and process those notes. Which baby was I holding at the time? Which child was hanging on my leg?  A part of me thinks I should leave these folders alone; they are too precious to process. But another part of me is greedy for space, for empty file drawers. And these days, that part is winning out.

Empty Corner

Empty Corner

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The living room is larger today. Wing chairs are back in their usual places, flanking the grandfather clock. It’s easier to reach books on the far shelves, and plants can stretch and breathe. 

What’s missing is the Christmas tree, fragrant and bedazzled. The tree that blocked the bookshelves and required major furniture rearranging. The tree that bore the weight of glass globes, tin stars and ceramic angels with grace and dignity. 

This morning I moved toward the far corner of the living room to turn on the tree lights, as I have been every day for more than three weeks. I was ready once again to be bathed only in its reds, greens and blues. 

Then I remembered, the corner is empty, the tree is gone. This morning, I sit in its shadow.

Being Inside

Being Inside

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It is full-on winter now — temperature in the teens when I woke up. How right it feels, when the furnace hums and the clocks tick and the birds chirp, how right it feels for it to be cold outside. The snow falls and stays. The bare trees stand sentinel.

December was lovely but strange, warmer than some Octobers. Lawn care chores piled up around me. Bulb-planting blistered my palms. 

Now, being inside is not only expected, it is necessary. There is a kind of relief in that.