A Puzzle Tree

Across the road from my home’s driveway stands this aged tree. It’s been there since long before we moved here over thirty years ago. In this picture, it gives the impression of solid growth and stability.

Circle around to its back side and this is what you will see. Only three sections of outer tree trunk now supply life to itsspread of healthy  branches and leaves.

  

Over the years, the center of the tree has eroded and all that now remains is a shell of a tree, its inner substance confined to just a suggestion of what it once was.

This tree constantly reminds me of something. I need to remember this tree each time I look at people, be they strangers I pass or friends I meet. I need to remind myself not to be influenced by what is visible to my eye. Time may have eroded the perfection of their outer image, but it is the inner core, strong and vital, that really defines who they are.

All over the sixteen acres of our property, mature trees have been stripped of their leaves and green growth by last year’s severe drought. They now stand as skeletons etched against the sky. With every strong wind, more and more of their dead branches break and drop to the ground.

Yet this shell of a tree remains green and growing. 

Why do you think that is so? What makes the difference between trees that have succumbed to stressful times and another that has maintained its vitality even when much of its original existence has been eaten away?

What's Your Style?

                                     

A relative posted this picture of a double rainbow on Facebook recently. What ignited my attention was the shape of the homes in her part of the country. She lives in Wisconsin and homes there, like all across the northern states, are square, upright and compact.

So different from southern states where older-built homes tend to sprawl and hug the ground. I’m certain architects could give me a practical explanation for this difference. When one begins to meditate on the different conformations a home can take, it boggles the mind.

In the writing of my novel, Twist of Fate, I found it necessary to research what resources were available to those hardy newcomers who first settled the western plains. They emigrated from the eastern part of our country where an abundance of building materials such as rocks and trees were readily available.

But on the grassy open plains, they found themselves at a loss as to what could be used to build a shelter. If fortunate enough to locate a rise in land sufficient, their first habitat usually was a dugout—they dug into the side of the hill and created a man-made cave. Most began their adventure in a sod house; it was the only material available in abundance to create a dwelling. Cutting blocks of sod and stacking them to build walls, it still took a few tree trunks to act as support for the sod blocks that became the roof.

How far we have come from those early days. Now, newer communities continue to sprout their  towering, space-eating buildings that nudge one another and have barely space to pass between. From one extreme to another, it seems to me. 

Ocean Beach Memories

Each time I travel back to my childhood environs, I promise myself a day at Ocean Beach Park. Even the name conjures up sun, sand and surf. In its heyday, the airwaves reverberated with the sound of abandoned fun. Now the carnival has moved to warmer climes, the carousel, its glitter tarnished, has been dismantled and the harsh buzzes and loud noises of mechanical games replace the penny arcade. Within the cool interior of its now-abandoned roller skating rink, my errant footsteps echo through the building’s emptiness.

Later as I step onto the boardwalk, I can see the distant shoreline lying calm and I’m greeted by the whisper of gentle waves. I seat myself on a nearby empty bench and settle down to indulge in my favorite pastime - people watching. The hat that shades my face from the dazzle of unaccustomed sunlight bestows anonymity.

I follow the path of a youngster as he churns the sand, his speedy steps taking him to a sleeping body  stretched out on a blanket. He stops to share his excitement, all the while his suit of water dripping on the unappreciative adult. Innocent act of annoyance completed, he turns and races back to the enticing water.

Close by, a group of young adults fling themselves into a vigorous game of volleyball, clinging wet sand glistening on lean, sun-bronzed bodies. With bare skin covered in the skinniest of bikinis, these young girls are aggressive in their enjoyment of the moment.

An older generation shares the boardwalk with me. They move at a slower pace, appreciative of the visual delights and solid platform for their walk. The couple stroll side by side, their aches of arthritic joints responding to the sun’s penetrating warmth. Another woman seated close by cautiously raises her skirt to the knees, exposing white shins.

Such are the images I impress on my memory. Later, in my land-locked home, though winter days of sun-less hours and frigid winds take away my breath, I will snuggle in my recliner and revisit these moments, returning once again to this pleasurable time.

Thoughts While in Transit

One April in particular, I found myself back in my childhood home, caring for a dying sister. Days overflowed with the visits of a corps of home-care professionals, performing the hosts of chores required by everyday life and chauffeuring Jeannette to endless rounds of hospital visits for treatment that served only to delay the inevitable. In between, I worked at dismantling our family home of forty years.

Needing a break, I decided on a walk into the neighboring countryside. With weakening gasps of defeat, winter had finally relinquished its frosty hold and spring now burst on the scene, full of enthusiasm. Patches of white puffs overhead-nothing more than window dressing-dotted the crystal-blue sky. As I walked, a mellow breeze lifted my weary spirits. The road I followed climbed steeply and left me light-headed with calf muscles protesting. Determined to take advantage of this however-brief escape, I pushed on.

I passed homes sporting newly-set-out shrubs; patches of flowering plants sprinkled the dark earth of garden beds. One or two tenants stopped in their labors to send me a friendly wave.

My meandering took me beyond the houses and into an undeveloped area. I soon found myself at an overpass bridging two ridges high above a steady stream of Interstate traffic below. I climbed the low metal railing and sat on the grass. The mélange of vehicles whizzing by far below mesmerized me as tired muscles relaxed.

It seemed strange to be thousands of miles from familiar home-grounds yet these surroundings evoked old memories. Like being trapped in a time warp, the transience of my situation filled me with ambivalence. Was the path of my life also predetermined by the genes I inherited? The decisions I made, the options I chose--were they all conditional responses bred into me through past generations? 

The Bible teaches that man was the only creation to which God gave freedom of will. Yes, it had been my decision to undertake this overwhelming task of accompanying a sister along her final days on earth. But was it really a thought-out choice or was it only the conditioned response of an elder sister who always felt responsible for her siblings? No matter what predisposed the decision, I had made it willingly and would remain to fulfill my obligations. But just for this moment, I took time out to pause and absorb the quiet and peace of my surroundings.

When a change in the air’s touch brought goose-bumps, I looked about. Something in the distant western sky caused me to catch my breath. Billowing clouds tinged with a gray that forebode coming showers were gathering. Beyond their mass, an ominous blue-gray cast already replaced the sky's clear, azure coloring. Sure signs of an impending storm headed my direction.

My peaceful interlude ended abruptly. Time to return to the house, to seek it’s shelter from the coming storm. With reluctance I climbed back over the barrier and retraced my steps, refreshed and ready to pick up the burden I had willingly taken on. It brought a sense of peace knowing that even in the midst of turmoil and uncertainty, those islands of quiet and restoration were available. The walk I chose to take had turned into not only a change of scenery but a settling of my uneasy mind.

Sustenance For Writers

Recently I’ve been gleaning simultaneously from three different books on writing—all considered classics. Wild Mind by Natalie Goldberg, Writing Personal Essays by Sheila Bender and Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott. An interesting experience, to say the least.

I’ve read all three in years past but felt need of a refresher course to realign me with the true purpose of my writing efforts. If you’ve never opened the pages of any of these excellent resources, I definitely urge you to do so.

Natalie Goldberg’s book is a call to practice your writing. As she writes, “Being a writer is a whole way of life, a way of seeing, thinking, being. Writers hand on what they know.” As we practice our writing, our minds ricochet back into memory and dreams. Her half-page Try This catapults you into areas you’ve never considered writing about previously.

As I applied myself to doing the ten-minute exercises suggested by Sheila Bender, I had hopes they would provide an opening to deeper truths I’d been reluctant to explore. Instead, I find myself dwelling on the ordinary things of everyday life. I console myself by remembering the memoirs published by May Sarton, Journal Of a Solitude. Her book consists of excerpts from daily journals over a year's period. She writes of plants blooming, cards and letters received, friends coming to visit or that she visited. Nothing earth-shattering or mind-blowing. Just a recounting of those little daily victories that deserve to be celebrated.

  

I saved Anne Lamott’s Bird By Bird for last. She so eloquently and concisely deals with the nitty-gritty of writing, I can only absorb what she writes in tiny doses. I nibble and I digest—isn’t that the best way to absorb, to make something a part of yourself? I hope so. 

Cloud-watching

I begin to put lines and symbols on paper. The assignment seems simple enough; make a drawing of your earliest memory of a neighborhood. As I sketch in the two-story duplex that I called home during my school years, memories invade my thoughts, vivid and intimate.

I concentrate on the task at hand. Here is a square topped off with a cross to represent the little Catholic church which dominated our lives. Next to it the schoolhouse with attached nunnery for the teachers. But my mind rushes past the solid structures,  remembering the patches of wild strawberries and the fruit-heavy blueberry bushes that grew in the low meadow beyond the school yard.

At the square marking my home, I pause trying to figure out how to include the sand-pile behind the house. Not an ordinary sandbox, but an area several yards square where we would create whole villages complete with hills and tunnels and roads for our little cars and trucks. My crude drawings can't keep up with my memories.

I still my hands. In my imagination, I climb again the rise of land behind the barn, pulling a disappearing act once again from a small house that held too many people.

How often in those years, as I hovered on the brink of adulthood, did I seek out the seclusion and isolation of this exposed site? The prickle of the grass, the feel of the hot sun on my skin, the smell of a summer's day--it all comes rushing back and I drop my pencil, frustrated because I cannot translate it onto paper.

What simple drawing could convey the inner needs that drove me to seek this place of solitude? The need to escape, escape from the daily press of being eldest in a family of numerous children. There was this desperate need to be solitary, to give myself room to stretch, to discover who I was.

This lonely hilltop provided the space to timidly explore rooms of my mind, rooms whose doors I had only passed by until now. I would lie on my back, watching the clouds play their silent cat-and-mouse game while thoughts long held captive peeked around the open door and took a tentative step into my consciousness.

As if I were still there, I see myself reach for a blade of grass to chew on, remembering the taste as its sweet juices slid down my throat. While on that hill, time stood still for me. I savored this aloneness--this time to daydream, to explore my changing feelings--this attempt to penetrate the thick veil of time into my future.

It felt like I had stepped off the spinning world and hung in space. This became for me, a breathing space, a time to plunge the depths of my thoughts, sort out conflicting emotions. I became conscious of the slow in-and-out moving of each breath I took as I pondered the puzzles of my life.

Even as I write, I recapture that feeling and it draws me backward in time, away from the words, away from the drawing, away from the memory I was attempting to recall. I am enticed by the sense of peace and satisfaction associated with that hilltop. I will lay down my pen and return. Once again, I will stretch out on the warm grass, just me, a breeze and the sun.  

Framework of a Dream

The following was written some years back. I thought I'd share it because it personifies my life philosophy. 

 The mass of stillness contained within the framework presses against me, intimidating me with its hugeness. Overhead the bare ribs reach to enclose more sky, the skeleton covered by a tightly stretched canopy of inky blackness, a twinkling of white lights pierce its seeming limitlessness.

 Turning a slow circle, my eyes attempt to penetrate the emptiness, searching the vague distance for something, anything. But all solidity melts into the receding shadows. The quietness is suffocating, even my shallow breath seems an intrusion. Behind me, the warm glow of home-lights beckon. This giant hulk is waiting, incomplete; not yet imparted with the touch of life, its purpose for being. I feel the waiting, the anticipation of what is to be. Soon, now...soon.

Standing in the midst of that suspension, I close my eyes, once again conjuring up the vision. I surround myself with the sounds of shifting, bumping bodies, settling into their enclosures. The flat swat of a swinging tail, the heavy stamp of an annoyed foot are punctuated by the steady rhythm of teeth clamping and crunching. My nose is assaulted by the earth mixture of sodden feed, ripe grain and heated bodies. 

Overhead, the mountains of hay wait in readiness, unseen yet invading with a permeating sweetness that recalls the days of sweating bodies under a blazing sun. Lazy dust mites drift and swirl in shafts of light that puncture the dimness.

With the goal once again reaffirmed, I open my eyes. Having filled the empty space with dreams, I am content. As I turn to go, I stumble over the cat twining herself about my feet. It is Calico, a precursor of the soon-to-be fulfilled dream. She insinuates herself into my consciousness, insisting that I once again perform my duty and pronounce welcome upon her latest batch of kittens. I follow her lead to the near corner, the soft mews and cries growing louder as we approach. Calico settles amidst the tumbling bodies, concentrating on her duties as a mother. She is oblivious to the approving look I beam down.

Obligation fulfilled, I head for the house. Waiting is the bed, and sleep. I will rest my aching muscles and weary body, thankful for the refreshing a night of peaceful slumber can bring. Tomorrow will soon be here, another day to fill with strenuous but satisfying labor. Another day closer to the reality of the dream.