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Sally’s Garden

Sally’s Garden

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A few days ago our friend Sally invited us to her house to dig up ferns. Her crop was crowded and needed to be thinned, she said. So we ventured over, shovels in tow, on an unseasonably warm April afternoon.

We’d been to Sally’s house before but had never spent time in her backyard. It was nice, I knew, from looking out the back window. But I was unprepared for the beauty and calm spirit of the place.

In the native plants garden there are ostrich ferns and wood poppies and bluebells. A path winds along the perimeter with a pond in the middle and a little arched bridge. The yard is shady and cool, a habitat for birds and butterflies. It backs into a woods that stretches for miles along the stream valley of Little Difficult Run. Sally’s garden is one of those surprising suburban oases.

It wasn’t until we returned home, our car stuffed full of ferns and wood poppies for transplant, that I realized why “Sally’s garden” sounded familiar. It was the Yeats’ poem “Salley Gardens” it brought to mind, a verse put to song, a tale of regret and time passing and all sorts of emotions that are often hidden in the suburbs. But they are what give a place depth.

Down by the salley gardens my love and I did meet;
She passed the salley gardens with little snow-white feet.
She bid me take love easy, as the leaves grow on the tree;
But I, being young and foolish, with her did not agree.
In a field by the river my love and I did stand,
And on my leaning shoulder she placed her snow-white hand.
She bid me take life easy, as the grass grows on the weirs;
But I was young and foolish, and now am full of tears.

W. B. Yeats

My Heart With Pleasure Fills

My Heart With Pleasure Fills

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I’m thinking of that poem, the one we learned in elementary school, the one that seems jaded and obvious — until you stumble upon it in real time.

The other day I rounded the corner of a paved path and there was my own “host of golden daffodils.”

Or not my own, actually. That was the beauty of it. They were for everyone, were wild and free, glorifying not just a single backyard but a widespread and well traveled community woods. Tucked among the oaks and maples and just a few feet away from the skunk cabbage.

I slowed my pace as I strode beside them, wanting to savor their beauty as long as possible. Other amblers did the same that sweet spring morning. There was a hush in the air, a reverence for the blossoms.

I did not wait for “the inward eye, which is the bliss of solitude.” I took no chances. I used a camera. And now, as I look at the photograph, I remember the flowers’ surprising presence in that parceled suburban landscape. The words flow into my mind before I can stop them: “And then my heart with pleasure fills, and dances with the daffodils.”

First Things

First Things

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Has it come to this then, writing a post about not writing a post? Or, I should say, writing a post about not writing a post first thing in the morning and hence being waylaid, side-stepped, distracted and otherwise shut off from those first pure moments. It’s not yet 10 a.m., but on days I come into the office, I usually write before 6. Four hours later, I can see how easy it would be to not write at all. Let this, then, be a post about finding time, about deciding what will be automatic and what will not.

“Make it as much a part of your day as brushing your teeth,” say the gurus of exercise/meditation/daily writing/morning prayer. But how many automatic elements can one day hold? Aren’t our days already full to bursting?

All the more reason to plan carefully how we begin. To decide what will come first; to consider what, at the end of the day, we will most regret having not done.

I choose to begin with writing. Most days, I follow the plan. When I don’t (like today, for instance), it doesn’t take long to remember why I do.

Good Fences

Good Fences

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The fence was built but it needed reinforcing, so on Saturday I helped my brother hammer chicken wire into split rails. A small task, and gladly done. Now his dogs will be free to romp and play in their new home. The fence will give them freedom.

“Good fences make good neighbors,” Frost wrote. But these words are spoken by the neighbor; they appear in quotation marks. The poem begins:

Something there is that doesn’t love a wall,
That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it,
And spills the upper boulders in the sun …

And, later:

Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder
If I could put a notion in his head:
‘Why do they make good neighbors?’ Isn’t it
Where there are cows?
But here there are no cows.
Before I built a wall I’d ask to know
What I was walling in or walling out,
And to whom I was like to give offense.
Something there is that doesn’t love a wall…

Something there is, true. But that doesn’t stop us from building them.

Afternoon Light

Afternoon Light

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The late-day walk is sun-scorched, quick-timed. The cars don’t see you coming. In the lengthening days of new spring, it is still raw and cold, so I don’t linger on the path. The point is decompression. The jingle-jangle of the subway, the pressure of the deadline — these will slip away in the balm of foot fall. Or at least that is the hope.

But afternoon light is desolate. It lacks the comfort of the morning. I find no explanation for this in science, only in poetry:

There’s a certain slant of light,
On winter afternoons,
That oppresses, like the weight
Of cathedral tunes.

Miss Dickinson to the rescue. She understands.

Walk from One World

Walk from One World

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This winter’s mild weather means it’s not too cold for a walk before dawn. I’ve taken a few of these lately, mostly brisk strolls to the train.

To walk to Metro is to walk east, toward morning. So in all of these ambles I aim toward a slight strip of red along the horizon, the earliest sign of daylight. The only folks I see are just like me, dressed in black or gray, shouldering packs and briefcases and gym bags, purposefully striding to the ribbon of track that will whisk us from one world to another.

These last few months I have come to appreciate even more the benefit of such a separation. It is good to have a place that is not home, a cool, quiet, unemotional place in which to produce solid, if unimaginative, prose. So, I move fast on these morning walks to Metro not just because I’m scared to be stirring in the darkness, but also because I’m genuinely eager to leave the turbulent, heartfelt, almost full to bursting world for a leaner, calmer one.

I have no illusions, though. My best and deepest work always comes from acknowledging and confronting the turbulent world. I walk fast in the morning, but never fast enough to leave that world completely behind.

The Paper

The Paper

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It has been a while since I had to write a paper. Even though I write all the time and deadlines are my constant companion, there’s something about an academic deadline that’s different. Is it because a grade rests on the performance? Undoubtedly that has something to do with it.

Most probably, though, it harkens back to some deep primordial fear of failure. The way my stomach would somersault when the teacher (often a nun) began collecting the assignments — and I realized that I Had Left Mine At Home. It was pure terror, to be rehashed in dreams for decades to come.

And then there were those loopy all-nighters of college and late high school, typing (yes, typing — on a typewriter with White Out and correcting strips) the bibliography as the sun rose. Those nights had a rhythm and a pattern all their own: the despair of 2 a.m., the rejuvenation at 3, the near crash at 4 and the triumphant completion at 7:30, just in time for an 8 a.m. class.

I’ve learned to pace myself a bit since then. I’m mailing my paper today (fingers crossed) and it isn’t even due till tomorrow.

photo: IBM

The Nemesis

The Nemesis

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For the last few weeks I’ve been getting to know an old nemesis. If you had to name this entity it would diminish its power, so I will leave the name out for now. Let me just say that it sits on my shoulder and mumbles in my ear. Don’t use that word; it won’t work. Where is the transition here? No, that isn’t it at all. When my nemesis has the upper hand I am wordless and unhappy.

Through the years I have assembled some ammunition. This blog, for instance; it flies beneath the radar screen. The nemesis lets it go. And sometimes in the morning I can work happily before the nemesis awakes. But long about midday it will set in with all its niggling, nagging power. Often I push through it. Sometimes I give up and do something else.

Looking in some writing books the other day I came across a passage that helps. It’s from The Forest for the Trees by writer, editor and agent Betsy Lerner. “I won’t say there’s no such thing as a natural talent, but after working with many authors over the years, I can offer a few observations: having natural ability doesn’t seem to make writing any easier (and sometimes makes it more difficult); having all the feeling in the world will not ensure the effective communication of feeling on the page; and finally, the degree of one’s perseverance is the best predictor of success.”

It’s that last point that I cling to most. The nemesis doesn’t like to hear it. The nemesis counts on my giving up. And so, just to spite it, I won’t.

Cul-de-Sac

Cul-de-Sac

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One of the features I’ve observed through the years about the suburban landscape is the great number of cul-de-sacs. Everyone wants to live on one, I suppose. So I included them in my poem.

No longer “dead ends.”

Now they are cul-de-sacs.

“Bottom of bag,” a Catalan phrase, I learn, via French to English.

Their modern use: to calm traffic.

But what happens to traffic calmed? It bursts loose on the straightaway.

Meanwhile, the lone woman rides her bike to the circle,

round and round she goes.

She has lost count of the years.

Homework

Homework

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Behind my back, the girls say, “Someone should tell Mom she doesn’t have to do all the reading.” But no one does. And it wouldn’t work anyway. I do all the reading gladly. And I take my time writing papers. I have fallen back into the old routine.

The last two times I was a student, I earned professional masters degrees. For 10 years, the classes I’ve been in have been ones I’m teaching.

So the class I’m taking now is just for fun. For intellectual re-engagement with the world. There is no need for excuses. The process is the point.

I had forgotten the ease of letting someone else do the work. Of sitting and listening, and not leading, the discussion. Of being all lit up by the ideas bouncing around my head. It’s good for a walker to have something to chew on while she treads the suburban paths. And I have more than my share these days.