Day: December 6, 2011

 

Meg, the Inquisitive Hen, pops up everywhere, even in the middle of the donkey’s eating their hay. They do not seem to mind. Meg has her own mind, for sure.

For the first time in my life that I can recall, I had nothing planned or scheduled when I woke up this rainy, dank morning. No appoints, work to do on a book,  trips to take, things to fix. Maria encouraged me (strongly) to stay in bed late, read, and yet such days make me very anxious. I am always working on a book, but I have to wait for some editing on the Frieda book to pick get back to work on it, and it’s  too soon to start the Simon book. Random House has also encouraged me to take more time on the books, go slower, let the process breathe. My agent says the same thing. I’m trying. It’s hard. On such days, I feel a rising terror in my chest.

Emptiness has always literally been terrifying for me, and I always filled it up, and not always with good things, but this morning I decided not to do that.

My Ipad beeped at that point, and I got an e-mail from my daughter (posted at 3 a.m. as she finished work) suggesting I get the new Bon Iver CD, “Bon Iver,” good, she suggested, for a rainy day. I went to Itunes, and was listening to this sweet and soothing album by 7 a.m.

How did it happen that my daughter Emma, far away in Gotham, knew to send me just what I needed and thanks to the mercurial Steve Jobs, I was able to receive it. Perhaps because I slowed down long enough to wait and listen for it. Emma and I are seeing one another infrequently, talking less than we used to and we know less about one another’s lives than we ever did. Yet our relationship is sweet, loving, connecting. I am not into her stuff, she is not into mine.  I admire her life, and have no idea what is best for her. That’s her job.

We are each living our own lives and yet I feel closer to her than ever. How can this be? I did not grow up seeing this model of a parent-child connection and many of the people around me are neck-keep in their kid’s lives, even when they grow up, and their relationships are shrouded in drama and conflict. That was true of me, also. After the divorce, I sometimes feared that I would lose my daughter, we seemed so far apart. And yet all I had do was nothing but let her life her live, and go and live mine well. The best lesson I could ever impart to her, the best thing I could offer her,  I realized, was to be happy and lead a fulfilled life. We have come a good ways.

And so here, on this rainy, drizzly morning, across the ether, without words, a phone call, or other communications, the songs I needed came into my life, into my farm, from a person I loved who understood that I needed them. Is there sweeter music than that? And that was before I got up. Less is more, sometimes.

 

Found an old barn outside of Cambridge N.Y. yesterday and was drawn to its spiritual, Cathedral like feel.

A number of good people are offering to buy copies of “Going Home” from Battenkill Books to give to their favorite animal shelters, vets and rescue groups as a holiday or fund-raising gift. A touching idea. I am going to donate a carton of books to the project, and Connie Brooks is figuring out how to handle these generous offers. The best way, I think, is for people to purchase books (plus shipping, bookstores can’t afford that) to a designated shelter and provide the name and address. I’ll sign them, of course. To participate in this worthwhile holiday project, call Connie at 518 677-2515 or e-mail her at www.battenkillbooks.com And we can offer free video copies of “Going Home” as well as Bedlam Farm notecards. Check for further details here or at Battenkill Books. And thanks. It’s a very touching movement.

 

As many great philosophers have pointed out, we are not here in this world long, and there is no reason not to live from our hearts while we are here. This seems difficult for many people to do. I was shopping yesterday, and an acquaintance came up to me – I hadn’t seen her for two years – and I asked how she was and she told me in great detail how her mother was (her mother was not good, she was in her third year of chemo, she said). She told me much about her mother’s agony, but never said a word about herself or her life. And she did not ask me a single question about mine.  After awhile, I wished her well and broke off the conversation and I wondered why she was telling me about her mother rather than about herself.

As I got into the car another acquaintance came up and he told me about the death of his brother’s dog – the dog underwent multiple heart surgeries and years on medication before he succumbed, and I found myself wondering the same thing. Many dogs die every day, and I would not think of telling friends of my dogs who have died when I run into them on the street any more than I would tell them how my mother struggled and died.

I think these acquaintances were seeking sympathy, and were exchanging the currency of their lives, the currency so much of our society uses for exchange. The world is  grim, filled with disappointment and suffering and despair. The economy is collapsing, the earth deteriorating, the political system unworkable, the future grim: blah-blah-friggin-blah.

That is what we hear, that is what we see, that is how we think. Hi, how are you. My mother is undergoing chemo. My brother’s dog suffered and died.

And yet I do understand. Struggle stories have become the currency of our culture, from politics to the news to the economy. All of us know people in our families who are sick and dying. None of us suffer alone.

We all have stories of struggle. Almost all of us have lost someone or something we love. A person, a dog, a cat, or a horse, a job, a retirement fund. We will all be one of those stories one day, one way or the other.

Those stories are a choice, I’ve learned,  not the reality of all of our lives, not the universal currency.

We could, if we chose, tell one another stories of hope, and of promise.  Simon was mistreated. Simon is well. People are born. They fall in love. They find work. They get puppies and kittens and love and enjoy them. They laugh at good movies, love to go to the mall, find great bargains.  They answer the creative spark and write books, poems, take photos, make quilts, paint pictures, take walks in the woods, cook good dinners, have long conversations, read good books, find meaning in their lives, change grow, strive and work,  shed fear and find hope. These are the stories of my currency, my news, the stories I will tell my readers, my friends, my wife. The stories of my farm, my work, my photos, my life.