Thursday 13 on Friday Mish Mash

I just have to psych myself up for a change in seasons. So I am taking the liberty of posting photos that make me feel good--with my apology for the ones that I've already shown multiple times.

.

For starts: there is a farm down the road that displays a blow-up scene for every holiday and then some. Some are better than others. This is for-------Easter!

JB and I live at # 9. One of the first things I will do when the ground thaws is plant pansies in this space at the edge of the driveway. Then, after Memorial Day in May, I will plant lettuce here.

This is what my backyard will look like once I get going. I love to plant and putter. I even like to clean up.

I can't tell you the name of this flower but I do know blue flowers are relatively rare, and both the bees and myself like this one alot.

I live in a college town surrounded by farms and farmland. All spring, summer and fall we will flow with the local produce. This year a very large food cooperative is opening up, a great way to support local farmers, and I'm looking forward to shopping there. But I also never pass up an opportunity to stop at a little stand on the side of the road.


This peace lily is from Ces, and I think my father has also blessed it from heaven. The white flowers on it just keep coming.

I love tucking ornaments and other surprises here and there in the yard.

This is where my garden will be. In the background is jb's Magic Cottage, where she does her artwork and plays like a five year old.

It's in a Rest Home, but my mother's room is nothing if not cozy. It's all working out so well (thank you, thank you).


Just driving along the back roads, this is a typical scene. Okay, perhaps not totally typical, but kind of typical.....

And my favorite: how about this beautiful cauliflower? I keep posting it because I just love the way it looks....


Is this really a Thursday 13? I have no idea.......

Hope Springs Eternal....

It's been some kind of winter here in the U. S. Northeast. Deep snow has covered the ground since November and it just keeps coming. However, my internal clock has begun to tick its way to Spring: I find myself thinking about planting seedlings and clearing my garden and maybe even re-landscaping the front yard. Not to mention hiring a couple of good guys to dig up and ready the soil in a few new areas of the yard, which I shall then plant to my heart's content.

.

JB and I have a third of an acre here, and it feels like more. I am approaching my gardening dreams a section at a time, and I'm in no rush. I'm beginning to think our "challenges" of the last few months might have finally settled down, and I'm headed back to paid work next week. Today is the FIRST day in 5 months that has felt manageable--nothing major, but nothing overwhelming either.

.

I've also been thinking alot about DUALITIES these days: why does one thing have to compete against another? If I win, do you have to lose? Is sadness really needed in order to know happiness? Why can't my heart have its way? Heavy thoughts. I can't help them, of course. But in a tribute to this, and then to that, I'm sharing the beauty that is around me whenever I just let myself see it.

.

Oh, by the way: I have a clear preference, and it's not snow....

And then, of course, the otherworld:








Is it possible I could just follow the path?

Love what I love,

And leave it at that?

Chapter 31

Anyone who knows will tell you that Chemotherapy is poison. You feel it running through your veins like a blow torch gone wild.
.
Alex would complete six cycles, each one lasting 21 days. Before the start of each, she was required prepare the week before, which happened to be the last week of her current cycle, beginning the wretched process all over again: medication for anxiety and another for nausea, steroids, and fast moving benadryl. Then her body would suffer the miserable indignity of eight hours being filled with IV bags labeled “Do not come in contact with human skin”. Even in her pathetic state, it did not go unnoticed that the oncology nurses would never start or finish the process without wearing special protective gloves.
.
After the diagnosis Alex spent three days underneath swollen eyes and mindful terror, but then, true to form, she got cracking. She arranged that her marketing director, an eager young man with a future to build, would handle the management of her company for the next few months. She studied the kitchen calendar to be sure that all of Andy and Amy’s academic, performance, social and extracurricular activities and needs were planned for and in place. She made a quick trip to her parent’s in Rhode Island. She made sure the kids understood that they needed to be “uncharacteristic angels”, in her words, until they could all get through this, and she did her best to comfort Mike, who at this early stage seemed almost catatonic.
.
“Mike”, she said one night as they got into bed. “What can I do?”
.
“Don’t die”. he pleaded. His voice sounded terrified. She knew he was clenching his pillow.
.
“Mike,” Alex said. “Don’t think about that. Think that I am going to be nagging you to paint the garage and take down the Christmas lights. Or think that I will withhold sex the next time you drink too much.”
.
Mike reached for her and they both smiled. Alex put her arms around her husband and for the only time she could remember his broad shoulders felt small.
.
“Mike. Some people do survive.”
.
Now in the darkness of their bed, she knew he was crying.
.
“Mike…” That’s all she could say. She brought him into her and centered her breathing. In the months ahead he would recall the way she said his name that night, and he would remember that his wife loved him.

Chapter 30

Cancer is vicious and underhanded. But in Alex’s case, it just waltzed through the front door and settled in. Innocuously, she could not shake the aftermath of the flu. It was only normal that her breathing and stamina would be affected, but after she wimped out of three tennis dates, and after a month of failed antibiotics and escalating hoarseness, her family physician ordered another chest x ray, and then a CAT scan.
.
It took less than a week before Alex was referred to an oncologist, “There’s some concern, it’s not clear, let’s play it safe”—the doctor had said. “He’s the expert. Let’s see what he has to say.”
.

With more work-ups and less assurances, Alex and Mike spent an impossible and short- fused weekend driving Amy to her dance lessons, dropping Andy and his friends off at the movies, shopping, fixing dinner, puttering, making love, making small talk—keeping their hands and minds busy—until Monday morning at 8 am, when they sat across from Dr. Mark Chambliss, Chief Oncologist at the New England Cancer Institute.

.
“Mr. and Mrs. Fournier, I’m sorry to confirm it is lung cancer”, Dr. Chambliss said.

.
Neither fear nor faith can protect a person from certain news. Defenseless, Alex and Mike both gasped. Alex instinctively put her hand across her mouth, as if to hold back a horrid bile.

.
‘How many times has he said these words to how many other people?’, she thought. And whatever he would say next, how many of those other people lived, survived, thrived after this moment and this day that they could never, would never, forget?

.
“We’ll treat it with a combination of radiation and chemotherapy. I’d like to begin next week.

You'll need to start on some medication before then, and we'll give you some help for anxiety and nausea.”

.
Alex stared at Mike and then down at her clenched hands, which had ripped the wad of Kleenex she was holding to shreds. Mike was sitting straight up, military style, and chaulk white.

.
“Whoa. Jesus. What stage is it, Dr. Chambliss?”, she asked.

'
“It’s stage 3”.

.
Alex and Mike knew what this meant. Still, she stared at this physician with the cropped grey hair and John Lennon glasses and said, “What are my chances? I want to know”.

.
“Well” the doctor said, “25% of patients with stage 3 lung cancer survive two years or more. There’s no reason you can’t be in that 25%." He paused, looking to Alex and Mike for how much information they really wanted.

.
“Look” he said, “I just saw a patient who was diagnosed four years ago. She’s in remission and feeling fine. It’s not always that way, but you’re young, strong, feisty. It’s non small cell lung cancer in a single site. We can treat this, Alex. We will treat this. You’re not a candidate for surgical resection so we’ll go in with radiation therapy in combination with chemotherapy. You’ll feel terribly sick, you won’t be the bell of any balls, but we’ll aim to knock it out.”
.
In an instant, stunned and stupefied, without sound or movement, a primitive wailing moan rose from deep deep inside Alex's head . “Oh Amy, Oh Andy, Oh Mike, Oh Mom and Dad, Oh Lily.”. it cried, “Oh Lily, oh Lily, oh Lily.”

The Boo Hoo Flu

This is dedicated to Debra Kay and of course, my own sorry state of a self:
.
First my head
Keeps me in bed
Then my lungs
My teeth and tongue
.
Sore and tight
It’s just not right
My arms and legs
Weigh two kegs.
.
I deserve
To be better served
Than this sore throat
That can’t emote,
.
Even my toes
and both elbows
Not to mention
No attention
To all my chores
And open doors.
.
On my sleepy pillow
I’m a weeping willow
I rest my head
And pretend I’m dead
I feel like lead
tied to a bed.
.
Damn! Damn!
I’ve been slammed!
There’s nothing here to misconstrue
I have the fricking flicking flu.
.
Fortunately and however, all things shall pass... :)

Chapter 29: A Soliloquy*

Alex shut off the hot water faucet and let an ice cold stream splash onto her face. Years ago, there had been weekends when she followed this routine hoping to wash away her guilt, but not so this morning. She was remotely sick and unsettled. Two nights ago she unpacked the contents of her suitcase into a five drawer oak dresser and laid out her toiletries and makeup in Lily’s bathroom. Through the grey steam of her shower, she looked around in disbelief. For the first time, she was here without secrets. For the weeks and months that would follow, she would know deep sadness for her children, for Mike, for her illness, for the burden she was putting on them and on Lily, but she would no longer smother from a blanket of shame.
.
Alex wrapped an oversized towel around her too-thin body, rubbed dry her peach-fuzz hair, and slipped on the Minnie Mouse slippers that Amy had excitedly given her last Christmas. She walked down the hall to the living room and motioned to Lily, who was sitting on the couch, her feet propped on the cracked leather hassock.

.
“Hey honeygirl…” Alex said.

.
Lily looked up from her book and smiled.

.
“How was your shower?”

.
“Good. Great”. Alex paused. “Lily, I love you so much.. Do you know?”

.
Lily nodded. “I do. I love you so much too”.

.
“Are you sure you’re up for this?”

.
“Yes”, Lily said, “I am”. Then she paused. “But I worry about you…I don’t know if you should be away from the kids, even away from Mike. I’m here, Alex. I’m not going anywhere. But we can’t have you struggling, worrying about Andy and Amy…and…”
.
Alex sat down, stretched out and laid her head on Lily’s lap. Lily caressed her stubble head, aware that a necessary discussion would now begin.
.
“Lily”, Alex said, “Andy was 10, Amy was 9 when you and I stopped seeing each other. I went to counseling, I went to confession, I buried myself in my work, I tried to be parent of the year…”

.
Alex pushed her words forward. “And I tried to be a devoted wife. I never questioned my obligation and responsibility to my family. I knew I could never live with myself if I abandoned Mike and the kids, no matter how much I loved you. There was really no choice: the kids needed me, the guilt would have destroyed me.”

.
Lily looked down at Alex and spoke slowly, thoughtfully.

.
“Alex, how are we going to make this work? I can’t imagine that seeing the kids twice a week will be enough, and what happens when they need you, when there’s a problem at home…”

.
Impulsive feisty Alex looked anything but. She knew these questions by heart.
.
“Lily, do you remember when Mike cheated on me in San Francisco? He said it meant nothing—but I never forgot how betrayed and violated I felt. That helped me hold back my feelings for you for how long, Lily—almost ten years? But for me, I could never say it meant nothing—I could no more reason or control my love for you than I could stop breathing. Maybe I couldn’t get past the shame and guilt but I deeply loved you then."

.

For a moment Alex stopped. "And now.”
.
“Six years ago I chose my family. I knew it was the right thing, the only thing I could do. It’s been six intolerable years. I never stopped thinking of you. I hoped you might call me and try to reconnect, but I knew you wouldn’t.”

.
“I don’t know how I am going be away from Andy and Amy. It’s torture, really. But when I heard that diagnosis, some colossal shift happened inside me. Something shook me up one side and down the other. I longed for you, Lily. I could no longer accept living, or dying for that matter, without you, without trying. Like my dues were finally paid. Like time was literally slipping away."

.
Alex is crying. Her words are encased in small sobs.

.
“Alex…” Lily is crying too.

.
“No, please Lily, I need to say this. All my life I’ve struggled to do the right thing, and when I had kids it was so great that I finally just knew what the right thing was. I can’t think of anything I wouldn’t do for them….”

.
"I can’t imagine dying before they’re grown. I think about their dates and friends and graduations from high school and college, their weddings, their own children… to think that I might not be there, how will they possibly survive without me?”

.
The words are sputtering out, halted by Alex’s efforts to manage her breath.
.
“I’ve written cards to them for their graduations and weddings and babies. Paula has them tucked away for me. And I’ve talked to them a lot about all of this. I let them know I might not be here but I am doing every frickin thing I can to come out of this whole. I’ve told them where to look for me in the night sky, just in case. "
.
"And I’ve told them about us, Lily. We sat in the kitchen for an hour one night—the three of us, and I tried to explain. They were shocked, furious really--Andy was totally disgusted. I don’t think it’s possible for either of them to understand how I could love and need you this much, how I could ever leave their father and our home, whether I were sick or not. "
.
"And I the truth is I can’t explain it either. I just know that whatever time I have in this life, it has to include you-- that I have to be there for you too. Some things are just that simple-- like, when the world is ending, or when you’re dying, what do you long for?"
.
"Most people probably see me as incredibly selfish: Paula was so disgusted-- I think she expected me to reason it out with her and come to my senses. She pushed and pushed until I broke down and couldn’t stop crying. She was so shocked to see me like that—tough wise guy me—but I think she finally understood.”

.
“Understood what, Alex?”

.
“Lily, I have stage 3 cancer. I have people I dearly love. I can be depressed or I can be happy, and I choose happy, Is that an over simplification? Maybe it is, but it is really that simple for me these days. I’m happy with you in ways I have never felt with anyone else and anywhere else in all my life. I am…myself. It’s taken me 44 years. And you know what: I would want my kids to do that for themselves in their lives. That’s the simple bottom line. ”

.
Lily’s voice, soft and kind, was strangely grounded.

.
“Alex, we won’t lose each other again. I swear to you we won’t. But, do you…maybe we could still….”

.
“No Lily”, Alex said. “I was drowning. Remember what you said the first night we met, when I asked you about obligation and responsibility?”

.

Lily remembered,"If you can’t swim…….”

.
Her long soft fingers stroked Alex’s forehead, slowly moving down just below her right earlobe, and up again, over and over again. She could feel Alex’s tension rise and soften, rise and soften.
.
“I pray I will be a better mother, a better person, a stronger person, a healthier person because of my choices. Maybe I’m making another giant mistake—but I have to do this. Sometimes I hope maybe this can free Mike up in some way too. I just have to trust it’s the right thing. I can’t help crying about it—the pain of it-- Lily, you have to understand that—I worry non stop about the kids and Mike and how they’ll do with it all. And I pray there’ll be a time when Amy and Andy come around and are comfortable here, accepting of us, in this house. Either way I am their mother and they know that. I know they do. But it’s been six—really ten-- years. I haven’t felt whole for one moment in all that time. And the thought of you without me was worse than the reality of me without you. I worried about you all the time. I’ve come to you sick and weak —I can’t tell you I’ll be around when your book is published or that we’ll to retire together to some little island somewhere with our magazines and flower gardens—I know it’s a terrible time to ask you to commit to me again, but I’m full of love, Lily, and I will take care of you however I can for as long as I live.”
.
On this Sunday morning on a cocoa colored Crate and Barrel couch, their bodies motionless, while Paul Simon sang “Graceland” in the background, Lily and Alex held on to one another for a very long time.

.
And then, Alex sat up and looked directly at Lily.

.
“If I should die, I’ll keep the light on for you. Don’t, don’t forget that.”

.

Lily paused, shook her head and smiled.

.
“Alex, that is so hokey trite. But still, it’s good to know.”

.

*Spelling adjusted by special request...

Chapter 28

“Mom, I can’t come tonight. Macy’s having a sleepover. And Andy says he’s not coming if I don’t”.

.
Alex hesitated and closed her eyes. This was to be the first time her children would visit her and Lily together and Amy was begging out.
.
“Well, honey,” Alex said, “Okay, how about lunch here tomorrow?”

.
“No,Mom." Amy’s tone was exasperating and punishing. “You know I have practice tomorrow”.
.
“Honey, I need to see you guys at least twice a week. That’s what your dad and I worked out”.

.
“Maybe you should have thought of that before you left us Mom”. Alex can hear the crack in Amy’s voice.

.
“Amy”, Alex said. Her voice was tender. “If it’s ok with Dad, Lily could drop me off Sunday morning and we could have breakfast as a family. Would that be okay?”

.
“But Dad said you aren’t strong enough to come back and forth.”

.
“This I can do, honey"

.
“Alright” Amy said.

.
“But Amy, you and your brother will come here for dinner next Wednesday, okay?”

.
“Yes, okay Mom. I guess so.” Amy was trying. She was furious and confused, too young to accept the bizarre juggling her mother’s decision had forced upon her, but she was trying.

.
“And Amy…”

.
“Yeah?”

.
“Do not smoke or drink tonight. Don’t even think about it. Your father and I will ground you for five years if you do.”

.
“Yes, Mom”. Alex knew that Amy was smiling at this, affectionately tolerating her mother’s nagging guidance.

.
“And Amy,” Alex said.

.
“What, Mom? I gotta go”.

.
“You’re still my favorite daughter.” Sensing Amy’s impatience, Alex paused only a millisecond longer.“And honey” she said, “Try to be patient for now, Okay?”

.
“Okay,” Amy said. “Love you. Bye!”
.
Alex held the receiver to her cheek, her face falling slowly into her chest, uncontrollable tears welling up and spilling onto her Arizona sweatshirt.

.
She walked into Lily’s study, now rearranged to accommodate her arrival, and picked up the photo of Andy and Amy posing at the summit of Mt. Katadin, grinning back at her without a care in the world. The photo was taken a few months before they learned their mother had stage 3 lung cancer, before their family fell apart, before all hell broke loose.

.
“Help me God”, Alex whispered, "Please help me with this”.

.
A hour later Lily, entering the kitchen door holding two bags of groceries, found Alex red-eyed and sorrowful.

.
“It’s the kids, Lily”. Alex said.

.
“I know, honey” Lily said. “I know”.

Back to Work...

A long year ago I found myself in the hospital after back surgery. The surgeon and I hoped I would be released after a few hours in recovery, but instead, probably with a reaction to anesthesia, I was sick to my stomach, could not stop vomiting, and suffered the indignity of a catheter.

.

I was alone and quite miserable. A nurse came in and stood beside my bed,

.

"They want me to get you out of here today, honey."

.

I was quite miserable. "No", I said. "The doctor said I could stay overnight if I needed to".

.

"Well" she said, "They told me to try to get you ready to leave. We need the bed".

.

I stiffened. "I'm not leaving until I can".

.

About a half hour later the nurse returned. I was still quite miserable. (There's nothing worse than the dry heaves to make you worse and then worse again).

.

She stood at the head of my bed. Finally she began talking.

.

"Hey, are you a boss?"

.

"Whhaaat?" At this point I could barely talk.

.

"You act like a boss--like you know what you're doing".

.

"Whhaat?"

.

Several minutes afterwards she returned again. By then I was utterly miserable. She wanted to talk.

.

"Hey", she said. "I didn't mean to insult you when I asked if you were a boss. Sometimes I don't say things the right way. I just meant...."

.

"Nurse", I pleaded, "Don't worry about it. Please let me just lie here".

.

Next month, for the first time in years and years, I will return to work as somebody else's employee. Somebody else will be the boss. And for the first time in years and years, that will be just fine with me...

St. Valentine

.

I can remember many Valentine Days when I felt inadequate, unpopular, and unloved because I did not receive a Valentine. No card, no flowers, no secret whispers or exclusive midnight toasts.

.

Those were the days when I measured myself against a backdrop of 'couples-are-better and singles-are pathetic'. It's true that research bears out that individuals are generally happier when they are in a committed relationship (note: not just traditional marriage, however--loving siblings and best friends together, for example, also raise the happiness quotient.)

.

On this Valentine's Day I have received two valentines that challenge the lovey-dovey commercialism of the Day and that touch my tender heart in the deepest and finest of ways.

.

First:

You might wonder what I have done to deserve this sweet card. I wonder too, because this card is from the guardian angel home care companion who has taken care of my Mother all these weeks and months when jb and I could hardly keep things from crumbling around us. This woman--I'll call her "C"-- has been willing to juggle her schedule, help us out in any way we've needed, be so consistently kind and reliable I've come to think of her as family. Why she is thanking me says more about her than it does about me. But jb and I accept her valentine with a grateful heart.

.

And a white envelope arrived in my mailbox today with this handmade knitted heart and a sweet 'Happy Valentine" card inside.

.

It was not until I turned the card over that my eyes just about filled when I read the following:

.

"I sent you the

one that was a

little misshapen

because I knew

that you would

still love

an ill-formed

heart"

.

Oh N. I love you too, and I'm so glad we're friends.

.

So, whether you're single or coupled or anything in between,

HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY from my heart to yours.

Chapter 27

They checked in at Logan Airport giggling like third graders on their first bus trip. Just before boarding Air France, Alex called home and again promised Andy and Amy a vast supply of postcards, phone calls and gifts throughout her trip. Leaving Mike and the kids had not been easy: Alex worried about and struggled with guilt and uncertainty. But she also felt exhilarated: like Lily, after almost a year and a half of unspoken but forward moving intimacy, she grasped the reality of what neither of them would clearly and definitively put words to for another two years.
.
From start to finish Flight 333 was woefully inadequate. The leg room was tight and the service bare bones. The seven hour flight should have been uncomfortable but it was anything but: Lily and Alex talked non-stop about everything from politics to poltergiest, nibbled on sliced cheese and apples and crackers and truffles-- cleverly anticipated by Lily-- and in between took turns resting their respective heads on each other’s shoulders. Stepping off the plane and into the ancient bustle of the Roissy Charles DeGaulle Airport, Alex was giddy and wonderstruck as they pushed and prodded themselves through a riotous and wild confluence of hundreds travelers converging from all directions into one single file customs line.
.
Lily pulled out the instruction sheet from Show of the Month and headed toward a sign that said Transport au sol. There she found a large white phone and in her once adequate French told the operator that the Peterson-Fournier party had arrived. They were told to step outside and along with eight other travelers they squeezed into a Renault mini van, where a gregarious Parisian driver talked, pointed and laughed throughout the 45 minute ride from the airport to the heart of Paris, upon which he delivered each group to the doorstep of their hotel.
.
Show of the Month offered dozens of three star accomodations, and Lily had looked at every one before she chose the Hotel Moderne Saint-Germain. Located in the 6th Arrondissement on the Left Bank, within a block of the Sorbonne and easy walking distance to the Latin Quarter, it was an old world charmer with 45 rooms on four floors. The lobby was sliced into three small sections: to the left, the front desk and concierge, in the middle a glitzy bright sitting area where a group of Japanese tourists had spread out and were talking non-stop, and to the right a cozy breakfast room where Lily and Alex would start each of their seven days with a croissant, raspberry jam, ham and cheese, orange juice, and a double cappuccino.
.
Just beyond the reception desk, these two grinning Americans and their two large suitcases squeezed into old gold elevator. Once inside they turned the round brass dial to number 2 and manually pulled shut the crisscross doors. Then with the push of a button the heavy elevator doors thudded closed and an abrupt jolt captapulted them upward, where the doors opened to a dark hallway. They walked fifteen steps to room 214, turned the oversized key, and there they stood.
.
Lily and Alex entered the room with the same elementary school giggles that began in Boston. Alex flicked on the light switch to reveal a tiny room with grey walls, two twin beds pushed together, each covered with a thin clean worn wool pink blanket , a small night table, and one maple four drawer dresser. A sink was tucked into the far right corner of the room opposite a splinter of a closet at the opposite end. In between a doorway opened to a clean efficient bathroom so small that they could barely turn around, but none-the-less it managed to somehow fit in a toilet, shower and boudet
.
They looked at one another and burst into laughter.
.
“Cozy, eh, madame”” Alex said.
.
“Very very cozy, c'est très parfait,”Lily responded.
.
The room had one floor-to-ceiling window with a small balcony one floor above the bustling Avenue St. Germain.
.
“Alex!”, Lily called. “The view is fantastic.”
.
Newcomers to Paris are surprised by the pervading grayness of the city and its concrete architecture. It’s not until they figure out how to focus exclusively on the street level that the vibrant colors and rich history truly unfolds. Lily knew this already--Alex did not—but it did not take long for them in delightful unison to scan the ornate concrete upper stories of every building and then let their eyes fall to the sidewalk scene below-- its contrasts of pulsating color and movement—storefronts, awnings, flower boxes, fresh fruits and vegetables, café tables, umbrellas, bustling men and women carrying French bread and riding bicycles.
.
“It’s so Paris, Lily.” Alex gushed.
.
“Oui” Lily said. “C'est très parfait”
.
Alex laughed, “Lily, I hope you know how to say more than that. ”
.
“Oui”, Lily said, “Je peux dire que nous allons avoir une semaine fabuleuse”
.
“Oh you showoff. What does that mean, besides the fabulous part?”
.
“It means we are going to have a fabulous fantastic wonderful terrific week.”
.
“Oui, Oui”, said Alex, “Oui, oui, oui”.
.
Lily lifted Alex’s suitcase onto one of the twin beds and placed her own on the other. She leaned over and began organizing her clothes and toiletries. Alex approached her from behind. She put her arms around Lily’s waist and tucked her head so it nestled into Lily’s shoulder.
.
“Honeygirl”, Alex said, “Will you sleep with me tonight?”
.
Lily stiffened. She hesitated before she turned around and looked directly at Alex.
.
“You think?” she asked.
.
“Yes”, Alex said, “I do think.”
.
“Whoa. Wow”, Lily said. She waited a few seconds before continuing,
.
“OK” She paused again. “OK”, she said. “ So our city tour starts at one, then we’ll see if we can find that stationary store we read about, stroll until we find a fabulous café for dinner, and finish day one with banana and chocolate crepes. Then we’ll pick up some red wine and we’ll come back to the world’s smallest room and see if these twin beds really will stay together”. Another pause. “OK?”.
.
“Yes”, said Alex, smiling. “That is what we’ll do, Lily. That’s exactly what we’ll do.”

The Writer

In the midst of months of craziness and crises, two weeks ago I spent the weekend with eight poets, two group leaders, and two Senior Editors from two small and well known publishers. From what I could tell, everyone was published--many times over--but me.

.

This was the Colrain Poetry Manuscript Conference, a pre-screened by invitation only weekend for poets who have a completed manuscript (40 or 50 poems) eager for publication. The conference evaluates each manuscript in detail--including one full day watching and listening to seasoned editors open your envelope as if they were sitting at their desk, review your cover letter, and think and talk aloud as they turn each page and review everything from the Table of Contents to the first few poems. This is advice and feedback one would never ever be privy to in most circumstances.

.
Well. Let me begin by saying I was the least prepared and possibly the least polished among this otherwise impressive group. It's possible I was the least talented as well. I did not expect that and truth-be-told, I am not used to being at the bottom rung of talent or prestige.

.
After the first round--a review of "5 poems I couldn't live without, 5 poems I could live without, and 5 poems in the middle of my manuscript", I almost left. "This manuscript can't really be reviewed because almost every poem needs revision", the well published and impressive group leader said to me in front of my 4 person work group.

.

Even my very favorite poems! "Poorly used and mixed metaphors, lack of clarity about what the poem(s) is about, predictable and uninteresting rhyme patterns, inaccuracy of images.". The Senior Editor of Ausable Press--a woman clearly worth immeasurable dollars for her time and take, ended by saying, "This manuscript is not yet ready to fly".
.

To be fair, she said nice things about my different styles and experimentation, my emotional resonance, some use of sparkling language, a few great images. And by the time the weekend was over, not one of us nine had passed the "manuscript is ready" threshold. While I was at times embarrassed, there were several poets--finalists in major poetry contests and first runner ups in publication reviews--who were far more pained than I by the advice they received.

.
Does this sound excruciating? Guess what: it was. And it was the most helpful weekend I may ever spend in my pursuit of excellence and success as a writer. I think most of us felt that way. The mystery of the publishing world, the actual odds and difficulty of getting published, the reality that there are plenty of fabulous writers competing for very few opportunities--all of this has grounded and inspired me.

.

Plus: I learned a ton. Here are some of the high points in abbreviated form. They may just apply to any endeavor, not just writing:

.

If you don't know the importance of revising and revising again (I didn't...), you don't know something very basic.

.

Never ever ever ever submit a weak unfinished piece. It's never about quanity. Every single word and piece of writing has to be your best, or you've wasted the effort.

.

Writing requires great faith, great doubt, and great determination.

.

Here's how one senior editor looks evaluates the manuscripts she receives. It must be:

.

1. "At least as smart as I am
.

2. Something I can learn from, or

.

3. A story or poem that will pull me into its world and rattle my heart

.

4. Or that knocks me out with its bravado"

.

Don't polish until you know what you're writing about.

.

Good writing answers this: "In a world where X is true, what else is there?"

As a Counselor, I've often told my clients, "Soft friends protect you and hard friends teach you to protect yourself." The Colrain Poetry Manuscript Conference was a hard friend to be sure, but I survived. I have a feeling my writing will never be the same. And that fact alone is all good.

Chapter 26

Boy, am I glad to be able to post another chapter of the story of Lily and Alex. To those of you who have so kindly been following this story, thank you so much for your patience.

.

It's becoming more difficult to know and share the best order of these chapters. This one, for example, focuses on the early days of these two women together. I hope you will forgive me--now or in the weeks ahead--if I fail to tell this story in a chapter sequence you can easily follow and understand. And please let me know if I don't!

.
They had known each other sixteen months when they went to Paris. By then Lily and Alex got together every Wednesday night at their weekly Book Club and most Saturday afternoons over lunch during Amy’s dance lessons. And sometimes, with both Amy and Andy in tow, this would extend to an afternoon movie or local art exhibit or, to Lily’s goofy amazement, multiple strings of candlepin bowling. The kids loved to bowl and were happily oblivious to the sad fact that not one of the four of them ever even once broke 100.

.
“Lily”, Alex had said, “Your bowling sucks”.

.
“Alex”, Lily replied, “Your bowling sucks too. And you just about crack the alley when you throw the ball.”

.
"Yes, but Lily, you look like an ostrich when you throw the ball. That’s worse.”

.
Lily chuckled. “Not if you own the bowling alley, it’s not.”
.
Lily was in charge of their tickets and passports. She kept them in a worn camel colored leather pouch she had picked up in Milan years ago while supervising a student exchange program. Although she was not supersitious, she was careful to use the pouch only for special occasions, which this certainly was. This would be the first time she and Alex would travel together, would spend extended time together. Twice when Mike was out of town Lily had occupied the Fournier guest bedroom for the weekend, but a week in Paris—this was something else again. This was something along the lines of the impossible and improbable, and they both knew it.

.
As for Alex, except for a traditional spa weekend with her sister Paula every weary February and her annual ski trip with her investment club buddies, she could not recall a vacation without Mike and the kids. She had struggled for weeks about whether to go or not. By the time she told Lily she was in, Alex knew she might be stepping deeper and further into a forest of emotions that she had thus far, with mixed results, wrestled to control.
.
Lily had been eyeing the eight day self guided Paris tour through the Show of the Month Travel Club for several months. One Saturday, over a scallops and risotto lunch at the Daily Catch, she casually asked Alex if she had either the interest or inclination to go.

.
Alex listened to the itinerary and cost and simply replied, “Maybe. ”

.
When several weeks passed without further mention of the trip, Lily was surprised, as bowling bowls flew, to hear an uncharacteristic, understated nonchalance in Alex’s voice.

.
“I checked with Mike” she said. “I can make that Paris trip with you”.

.
Lily, who was not prone to hyperbole or drama and had mastered certain social skills, mirrored Alex’s matter-of-fact tone.

.
“Great”, Lily said, “I’ll book it for us”.

.
That night, with a full moon casting a perfect spotlight on the apple green wall in her midnight black bedroom, Lily recognized a desire that she had not allowed herself to feel except in a few rare instances when loneliness overtook her.

.
She and Alex would be together for eight days and seven nights. In the preceding months, though they publicly walked with their arms around or tucked into one another, and their greeting and parting hugs sometimes lingered, though Lily felt a warm rush when Alex called her ‘Honeygirl”, and though Lily never failed to ask for honorable guidance in her nightly prayers, until now-- Lily had managed to tightly control her thinking. But on this night she did not insist on affirming herself as a responsible independent professional single woman—solid and safe in the life she had built for herself.

.

Instead, she imagined herself standing beside Alex, their hands joined and their arms swinging playground style. This was the image that comforted Lily for the three minutes just before she fell asleep, soon to dream that she was inside Dar Williams’ folksong wandering the hills of Iowa gruesomely searching for the love of her life.

Resilence

In my household, it's no secret that the last four months have been a quick trip to hell and back. I'm not sure we're on the upswing, but I think so. There are a few signs and reminders that tell me things are settling down and looking up:

.

1. Mom: She's moved to an A-plus rest home: her own spacious room with her own furniture; three dining room family style meals a day; morning and afternoon crafts and activities, including Bingo: a nurse and aides available 24 hours a day; cozy communal kitchens and livingrooms; weekly laundry and housekeeping; and in all, 30 residents who patch together as a sort of family unit. I cannot believe our good fortune that my Mom got in this place. And, man, does she deserve it....

2. I bought three Amaryllis' this Christmas--gave one to my Godmother, sent one to Ces, and kept one for myself. Except the one I kept for myself never got out of its box. I forgot about it, lamented I didn't have time for it, and thoroughly ignored it until two weeks ago, when I opened the box and found a pathetic twisted sun starved bud barely on life support. I watered it and put it on a little table with morning light.

.

Can you believe this? I rarely swear in this blog but goddamnit, if this amaryllis can survive and blossom, so can I (And therefore, so can you).

3. And then there's Stella. No more trace of abuse or neglect. No more whimpering or not

daring to move. Instead, it's all about walks, chicken and cookies these days.

4. I'm seeing trees everywhere these days, often thinking of Ces and snapping shots I want to share with her. This one doesn't come close to the splendor of this old girl, but perhaps you get the idea?


Resilence. Sometimes I either bend or I break. So I'm bending. And I'm not alone....

Good To Know.....

Some things are just plain good to know:
.
You cannot cause a shadow to disappear
by trying to fight it, stomp on it,
by railing against it,
or any other form of emotional or physical resistance.
.
In order to cause a shadow to disappear,
you must shine light on it.

Shakti

The Blizzard of '78

A mammoth blizzard—the worst since 1888—slammed the Northeast, dropping from 1 to 4 ft. of snow in the latest blast from a whiter of stormy discontent. Raging from Virginia to Maine, the hurricane-like storm killed at least 56 people, caused an estimated half billion dollars' worth of damage and crippled Connecticut, Massachusetts and Rhode Island for five days.

.

This is how Time Magazine described the Blizzard of 1978. In the coastal town of Scituate, where I lived at the time, winds threw 40 foot boats from their marinas onto the middle of Main Street. I will never forget hearing the Coast Guard on my husband's short band radio incredulously screaming that--right in front of their eyes-- they could not save one house and then another from being washed away into the raging ocean. We lost electricity for days. People were stranded in their cars on major highways and had to be rescued. Mostly everyone who could opened their homes to thousands of people who needed shelter.

.

And what I remember most of all is that the world stopped for a time. Commerce and chores were replaced by community and commonality. I loved that then, and I long for it now.

.

So here then, on its anniversary, is a look at the of the Blizzard of '78:

.