A Brave Writer's Life in Brief

It’s time to return to blogging after my couple of weeks off. They were very good weeks and thank you for letting me take them! Noah (20) and Johannah (18) were home for Christmas. Noah spent a week with us and Johannah a whopping 3 and a half weeks! We played games (lots to share there in the upcoming weeks), we drank hot chocolate, we laughed, we watched TV, we went ice skating, we stayed up late talking. I enjoyed and savored every day.

However, I discovered while enjoying and savoring that my creative energy is utterly depleted. I collapsed many times on the couch loathe to get up again. I avoided the computer and left my desk a mess. In short: I’m in serious need of a recharge.

I feel a little like an out of date cell phone whose charger got lost and now only gets recharged in teaspoon sized bursts while driving in the car. My recharging usually consists of minutes here and there on the run, not a quality pause in the midst of a busy life. That means I can sustain a creative charge for, oh, say, a day and then I’m all out of juice again.

I haven’t had a good long drink of quiet, nurturing or rest in a good long time. As Christmas break unfolded, I unraveled. I sat in front of the fire, I knitted yet another scarf (I only knit scarves because any other pattern becomes stress-filled stitch-counting rather than the soothing, rhythmic, mindless clicking of needles), I watched Top Design and reruns of Friends, I made and ate good food, I put whipped cream on every hot drink, I cuddled kids and took our dog for walks, I fed our birds and ignored the mess in the basement.

Each time I walked by my office, my chest tightened. I know you want me to do taxes and make decisions, to answer email and to plan classes. Just not now. Just a little more time off, please.

One way I seriously recharged was to get out of the house and into nature. Liam and I signed up for the Audubon Society’s Christmas Bird Count. On Sunday morning, December 30th, Liam and I got up dark and early. We clunked around the kitchen making tea with milk and pouring it into a thermos. We assembled turkey sandwiches, trail mix bars and clementine oranges into our mini picnic tote. Then with two pair of binoculars and extra layers of clothing, we headed into the still black morning and drove 25 miles to the Cincinnati Nature Center.

We met other binocular clad counters. Liam and I were happily assigned to a group of all novices led by one expert (and I mean expert). This guy not only could replicate the calls of numerous birds, he could recognize them from below, by ear, by flock and wing beats. One time we thought we heard a red-tailed hawk when he changed his mind and stated, “Nope. That’s a blue-jay imitating a red-tailed hawk. They get close, but their pitch is off.” Oh. My. Goodness. Yeah, I’m more the kind of birder that says, “Hey! There’s a cardinal. I can see it right there sitting perfectly still and it’s all red.”

Anyway, we tromped through endless mud and dead leaves already composting into mulch, up hill and over dale. What struck me about the experience was how quiet it was. Bob, trustee expert birder, told us that bird watching is really more “bird listening.” And it was true. We hardly talked at all. Most of the time we stood very still waiting… hoping for some movement, some flutter of leaves or swish of brush.

And I loved it. The quiet reminded me of the library, yet it was outdoors where my lungs filled with yogic breaths of air. Therapeutic. Even after three hours of rubber legs, frozen finger tips and growling stomach, I didn’t want to quit. It felt really good to focus all my energy and attention on one little tiny thing: counting birds in the bush. I wonder if this is how golf feels for executives.

We returned to the center to eat lunch and many cheerful birders welcomed us. It might be difficult to appreciate just how odd it feels for me (who lives in her head of ideas and virtuality) to be in a room of people who enjoy conversations about numbers, biological components, ecology, and international tourism that takes travelers to car camping in Kenya as opposed to pensions in Florence.

Liam and I returned in the evening for the final count which included all the birds of our region. We laughed every time the room gasped when a count was exceptionally high: 3,743 robins or disastrously low: 0 kildeer (the room exhaled a mournful sigh realizing that the kildeer had not survived suburbanization of the farmlands since not one has been sighted for the last six years).

It occurred to me that mothers especially give, give, give until they are all given out. We take mini-breaks (drink a cup of tea, read a novel in the car while waiting for ballet practice to end, stand in the shower for twenty minutes instead of fifteen, watch a TV show while emptying the dishwasher). How often do we really stop the world and get off for several hours, for a week, for a month?

Nature and birds took me away from the world of words that I inhabit and allowed me space to be. Family gave me the hugs, love and validation that comes from connectedness rather than performance. Christmas injected “the special” into what had been an ordinary fall.

I hope you too find a way to recharge as we head into winter. I’m ready to be back. Peace and wonderful birds to you.

Christmas lists are zipping into my in-box like spam, accompanied by hyperlinks to ensure accuracy. One list included the comment in all caps: I DO NOT FEEL ENTITLED TO THESE GIFTS AND I REALIZE I AM PRIVILEGED TO GET ANYTHING.

This is the same kid who asked for donations to the Elizabeth Glazier Pediatric AIDS Foundation two Christmases ago. This year’s list includes items from environmentally and economically responsible companies… you know, green, clean and not mean to labor.

Another list specified clothes from the “other” company where the raptor logo is tattooed even on the boxer shorts. I’d bet their day laborers don’t get Christmas off.

A third list read like the Sunday ad for Best Buy: gaming chair, iTunes card, CDs, Guitar Hero, Mario, earbuds for iPods.

The future fashion designer in our family asked for a dress form (and offered to pay half of it with her cookie business money seeing how expensive they are).

The oldest has not submitted a list, but careful listening over the last several weeks helped me to find what I consider the best gift under the tree. It will go unmentioned at this time as I don’t want him to accidentally stumble on this blog and read it ahead.

What stands out to me this year?

No more Legos, American Girl dolls, Nerf guns, bows and arrows, board games, Rokenbok cars, knitting and sewing kits.

No more bikes, trikes and unicycles.

No more Playmobiles, foosball tables, trampolines or dress-up clothes.

We’ve moved all the way into technology and fashion mode around here. Clothes and electronics are about all they want any more.

I drove downtown today. I parked and walked. I went from store to store shopping, passing funky little holes in the wall selling Greek gyros or old, used and rare books. I breathed the frigid air, covered my ears with a scarf and hoofed it to the places that held the gifts my kids had requested.

It felt nice to shop on foot, to not hurry through a mall, to hold knit cotton in my hands or to thumb through a book, to smell old paper and ink. I liked the sting of cold on my nose and the way walking cheers me up.

When the kids were small, I ordered every gift by mail order catalog (in the days before the Internet especially). It saved me the trouble of traffic, parking, hauling babies in strollers, long lines and competing for toys.

Now that they’re older, I wanted to touch the things I bought for them. I liked being alone and thinking about each one, holding in my hands something that I knew would be really valued (not just played with).

This is what it means to have older children. Shopping is no longer about restocking the toy cabinet. It’s my chance to spend time with the accumulated knowledge I have of their tastes, needs, wants, and whims… and then to fill them the way only a mother can.

I usually hate shopping. Today, I loved my kids through shopping. It made all the difference.

Los Angeles
Originally uploaded by juliecinci

on a clear day.

I’m still in Los Angeles and have had a dickens of a time finding wi-fi in this technological back water town. Finally drove through a sufficient number of strip malls hunting for business men with laptops until Bad Ass Coffee came through for me and delivered Bad Ass wi-fi along with my Bad Ass cafe au lait. 🙂

It is from this refined establishment that I am able to post this missive.

Unfortunately I’m on Pacific Coast time which means all you east coasters are way past freewriting hour and the west coasters (if sensible) are at the beach on this glorious day. So take today off. 🙂 We’ll resume freewriting next week (or select one from the Friday Freewrite category on the right sidebar).

As for me, I’m gearing up for the drubbing Notre Dame will take when my Bruins get on the field tomorrow at 5 PDT.

(Yes, that is UCLA right there in the middle of the photo… the red brick buildings that are mid height. Go Bruins!)

Caitrin turned 11 on September 12, the day before her older sister left for college. Not exactly the birthday present she wanted. Anticipating this change in our family and the loss it would be for Caitrin, we planned a trip to the American Girl Store in Chicago for a week later. It gave her something to look forward to, and I knew it would probably be the last year she would be interested in such a trip.

On the northwest drive from Cincy, she sat in the front seat next to me, happily chattering about musicals she loves, Little Women (the book she’s reading) and fashion (her passion). We played games: searching for the alphabet in order using billboards and store signs (there’s a stretch through Indiana that is seriously lacking in signage which made the game that much more competitive), and we played the alphabet game where you name a musical artist for each letter of the alphabet (or alternatively, we also played where we named a song whose title started with each letter of the alphabet).

We listened to “Hairspray” an embarrassing number of times… and sang at the top of our lungs to it. (If you don’t know that musical, get yourselves to the movie immediately – what a happy, uplifting story!)

The Chicago hotel room included a pink American Girl bed for her doll (is that cute or what?). We shopped in all the designer stores, laughing at the high prices (a purse for $7,000.00? Are you kidding me?). We saw an episode of ER being filmed in the square just opposite the AG store. That evening, we ate dinner in the American Girl Cafe (featured in the photo here).

The time away was nurturing in every way. When we returned to the hotel after our dinner, we went to the pool together (her favorite). I sat in the jacuzzi watching her dunk and dive, singing to herself. She’s eleven for another eleven months. I’m glad.

My first contractions usually came at night. They would be strong enough to alert me to them, but not so strong that they overwhelmed me. I’d waddle to the rocking chair, find a book to read and begin the rocking back and forth watching the clock and jotting notes about the minutes between the hard crunches across my stomach.

I’m one of those annoying women who didn’t mind labor too much (at least pre-transition labor… then it’s a whole ‘nuther story) and had all five babies at home. I did have one very difficult birth, but the whole thing only lasted forty-five minutes so… yeah. I know. Shut up. 🙂

In any case, tonight I’m pacing the floors and looking for that rocker. I want tea and a book. I want a blanket and soothing music.

My oldest girl is leaving home. There are half-packed boxes everywhere. And suddenly she doesn’t know how to pack them. She must have me. Never mind she’s had all summer and half of September. 36 hours remain and she must have my help. I’m annoyed. Cranky.

I want the room cleared of debris, but much of it has sentimental value: the script from Random Acts of Shakespeare (her second of six summer camps), silver heels from the prom, a red diploma, origami cranes she made with an old issue of Real Simple magazine strewn across the floor, scarves and perfume and that silly drawing a friend made in her psych class, Jane Eyre and Harry Potter stacked by the bed, pieces of paper that all have OSU letterhead and meant something Dire and Important only months ago (now irrelevant yet taunting – did I forget something? Is she really going?)…

Then there are the piles of clothes and sweaters and hoodies and skirts. Johannah wears skirts. She’s got scads of them and they each have a clip-on hanger. Two suitcases are full and we’re still washing clothes. I looked at her sideways while packing: “I thought you said you had No Clothes…”

“Oh Mom. I wear most of those t-shirts working out.”

“Twenty-five?”

“They don’t take up any space.”

And they don’t. Not really. Six of them are from Shakespeare Camps anyway.

Still, I keep wandering through the cluttered halls, agitated. Like labor. The pangs subside and I go back to working or writing or shopping. Like Sunday. At Costco. I walked through the aisles with Caitrin. Quaker Oats Granola! Johannah would like that. I’ll get it for her… oh wait.

And just like that, transition. A strong pang. I sucked in my breath. Breathe I remind myself. My eyes stung, my gut cramped. She won’t be here to eat it. And then it was gone. I moved down the brown sugar aisle.

The pangs are coming closer together now. I change the loads of her clothes from washer to dryer. Zing. I inhale, imagine Johannah’s smiling face at a football game, and it passes.

Right now as I type, in the other room four kids (who still live at home, who still include Johannah) are rolling dice, laughing and trading cards. Twinge. Another one.

The baby’s on its way. I feel it. Only a couple of final pushes and she’ll be out into a whole new world. But this time, without me. My big girl. My young woman. Her own person. Not a baby any more.