Life’s ups and downs

We all have them, the twists and turns, the highs and lows. But how to keep the extremes in check — that is the question. Tomorrow Brook’s first book “Paradise Lust: Searching for the Garden of Eden” will have a full-page review in the New York Times Book Review. the pinnacle of the literati. The reviewer calls Brook’s storytelling “irresistible.” No surprise there, but it’s a highlight of a mother’s life to have the world hear that confirmation. Anyone who’s known Brook since she was a tiny girl with an articulate voice has recognized her gift.

I’m a writer with a small gift — I’m good at ledes, zippiness (as Brook once told me), and snappy endings. Has my writing improved over the years since I wrote horrible poetry as a teenager about the sun shining, blah, blah, blah? Yes it has, immensely.

There are many really superb writers out there, but I remember once reading that persistence is what separates those who write well and those who never complete their projects.

I’ve also learned that there has to be a balance. Working all the time doesn’t cut it; it only diminishes productivity and puts me in a mental tailspin. I need breaks from too much concentration, seriousness, and earnest contemplation.

It’s about not being too hard on myself. Don’t we all regularly commit to finishing a projects like losing weight, getting more exercise, or cleaning the house? I often veer from my projects that I was so adamant about at the start, although I’m obsessive enough to eventually finish small tasks. When it comes to writing, I appreciate deadlines.

I’m so impressed with Brook. She had the determination and self-discipline to complete the huge project of meticulously researching and lyrically writing “Paradise Lust.” I know she had her ups and downs but she did it. Saying that I’m proud doesn’t do justice to her outstanding accomplishment. And now she’s harvesting the fruits from her garden!

How did she surpass the big questions? Sometimes it’s hard for me to get past worries about the big picture. I’ve always loved the E.L. Doctorow quote about writing that Anne Lamott distilled in “Bird by Bird”:

“E.L. Doctorow once said that ‘Writing a novel is like driving a car at night. You can see only as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way.’ You don’t have to see where you’re going, you don’t have to see your destination or everything you will pass along the way. You just have to see two or three feet ahead of you. This is right up there with the best advice on writing, or life, I have ever heard.”

— Anne Lamott (Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life)

Little mantras I often tell myself: You don’t have to work on the big picture all the time. Take small steps toward a goal. Don’t give up. Keep your eyes on the prize, even if you avert them occasionally.

Another thought about improving my own mental health as I age — I’ve realized how close excitement and anxiety are. I’ve always been a fan of both, but now I don’t want to depend too much on either to keep me going. Cultivating calm is far more important to me. Not to say that I don’t regress, like now when I’m over-the-top excited about Brook’s well-deserved success.

But I try to give myself a break from either getting too excited or too anxious, knowing that either can easily spiral away from my grasp of what’s really important to me — being a good mother, a good friend, enjoying all I have in my life. So maybe this afternoon I’ll go see the movie “Tree of Life” and look at somebody else’s big picture.

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Homeland run amok

Since 9/11, we’ve been terrorized by fear. You see it in the monumental popularity of Fox News where almost every story is about something  (flip-flops) or someone (any Muslim) that is out to harm us. During this latest debt ceiling debacle in Congress, the fear is about the budget deficit.

Poof! Get rid of tax loopholes for the richest among us and it’s done, or at least on the right path. Instead of reason, sound bytes of politicians preaching fear rule.

A cultural paranoia has taken over, much like the low level of Jewish paranoia that I’ve always had, knowing I would have been hauled off to a concentration camp during World War II in Europe. But at least I’m aware that it’s a form of paranoia, because I wasn’t there.

Many people have real fears, how to feed their families when they’re unemployed, how to get decent medical care, or how to pay for their kid’s college education. That makes it all the more important for our dysfunctional Congress to jump off the crazy train.

Poor House Speaker John Boehner crying on his couch, an icepack on his forehead after trying to placate his dogmatic freshman members. But that “fool’s errand” has only gotten worse.  President Obama may call on the 14th Amendment to raise the debt ceiling in a few days because it’s unconstitutional to not meet our debts. The Tea Partiers will go nuts but, as one senator said, they’re already nuts.

Whatever happens with the debt ceiling debacle, the goings-on in our nation’s capital have been insane (“doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results,” Albert Einstein’s definition of insanity).

I hope the Tea Party movement’s mantra of cutting spending — without sufficient regard for the most vulnerable among us — will eventually be overridden. Do they really think the deficit is our worst problem? I think it’s about unnecessary super-expensive wars, lowering unemployment, and rebuilding our spirit of innovation through top-notch education.

I’m an optimist and believe that most sensible voters will not in 2012 vote for the crazies ranting about the budget deficit. But a lot of strange things have happened in the past 10 years.

And the polluted mixture of real economic fears and imagined fears doesn’t help.

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Sicko

My right ear is throbbing but at least it doesn’t hurt anymore. Yesterday the ear/nose/ throat doc said I had a “nasty” middle ear infection. He sent me out of his office with a bunch of prescriptions, calling into the hall after me, “So you’ve had no surgeries? (I hadn’t seen that question on the informational sheets. I’m not sure why he asked.)

“Oh, I’ve had two, both with local anesthesia,” I told him. And I had explained — probably repeatedly — that I didn’t like taking pills.

Recovery Day One: I’m not one to lie around but here I am, hanging out on the couch. Not worrying about the debt ceiling or work or whether someone wonderful will rent my house for the winter. I’m taking a break from regular life. Maybe I’ll lose some weight in the process. All because of the meds.

One of my goals growing older is not to take a lot of pills. In just one day I can see how they rule your life: ear drops 4x a day, antibiotic twice a day one hour after a meal, and a weird schedule of some kind of steroid that was supposed to reduce the swelling of my Eustachian tubes (I’ve already gotten the ent man to let me drop it after a day, made me dizzy and nauseated).

Pills can rule your life. Antibiotics make my stomach hurt. Then take a probiotic supplement. More pills. I’d rather eat a mango.

Good clean water is the best medicine. “Drink plenty of water” may have been some of my best parenting advice. At least I know it was heeded. I recall Brook directing a play when she had a bad cold during her senior year at Wesleyan. She sent an article with a photo of herself looking very directorial, with a scarf around her neck, gesturing with her hands, telling a reporter, “I’m drinking plenty of water like my mom told me.”

Not having enough water on the plane must be how I got this ear infection. Flying cross-country last week I also didn’t splash water on my face every half-hour. Reading “The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks” commanded all my attention. I remember thinking later, “Hmm…I probably should have tossed more water on my face.” This technique — especially under my nose — has worked  to keep my ears safe in the past.

When I was younger I got lots of sinus infections. My former ent brother-in-law told me I had “kinky eardrums.” I pop my ears in the shower daily, as he advised. Next time I fly I’m taking one of those spray bottles for plants. Saving a lot of money on doctor’s visits and pills — so that I can go on more trips — is always a good thing.

 

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Empty Wallets

George Packer’s piece in the July 25 New Yorker humanizes the serious economic mess we’re in, not like the politicos in Congress ranting about cuts that disallow an unemployed father from providing medical treatment for his daughter with bone cancer. I’m mad as hell and I can’t take it anymore! So I’m writing.

How outrageous that Congress and the President are babbling about reducing trillions in the budget, cutting Social Security and Medicare — for some elderly their only income/health care — while members of Congress have the best health care on earth, don’t have to worry about paying for their next gallon of gas, or consuming ultra-giant sodas instead of milk because the crap is cheaper.

President Obama should not give in to these irresponsible, inhumane supposed government representatives who are really only interested in securing their jobs for another term. Use the bully pulpit, you know how, comon’ Barack! Now is the time.

Speaker of the House John Boehner is carrying on about the president wanting a blank check to get us out of this economic mess. Yeah, that’s enough to scare the masses who get so riled up about the possibility of their taxes increasing by $100 a year. Is it really so awful to pay $100 more a year to have decent schools or help provide health care for a young girl with cancer?

Why does saving such a small amount of money have more impact than letting the wealthiest corporations maintain tax loopholes, or allowing the ultra-rich to benefit from tax breaks approved by the Bush administration?

But not help the Hartzell family, who not only were denied the best medical treatment for their daughter, but were also cut off from receiving jobless benefits in Florida?

Ninety-seven percent of House Republicans have taken the “No Tax Pledge” while the biggest corporations get out of paying their fair share of taxes. Is that what they mean by a “No Tax Pledge?”

Why are no-tax pledgers so angry about helping others? If they’re religious, don’t they learn in church to do onto others as you would have done unto you, or something like that. It’s really the religion of individualism that has driven us into this abyss. Individualism to the detriment of everybody else only inspires greed, harkening back to the Reagan years.

We hear words tossed around such as freedom, rights, more freedom, but why do they only relate to the people intent on spouting them, not all of us?

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Hello again — from east to west

Flying home to Tucson from my home in Southwest Harbor, Maine, I’m sipping on Bailey’s Irish Cream on the rocks, wified on board this Southwest Airlines flight west. I’ve been east — down east — for three weeks.

Who said “you can’t go home again?” Nearly nine years ago I added another home to my life. I’m lucky to have two homes that suit me so well. Yesterday in Southwest Harbor I could feel myself heading west again. As much as I love my Southwest Harbor home/community of more than 30 years, I was mostly ready to leave. I’m reading “Incognito: The Secret Lives of the Brain” by David Eagleman, and I’m learning how our conscious mind merely illuminates the headlines of our daily lives. Amazing how seamlessly all those neurons underneath the headlines do their job.

I’ve been thinking about how we’re developmentally ready for the different stages in our lives, how I’m glad to be getting older, calming down. I’m still ravenously curious about the world but am intent on not stressing out about it. Maybe the best years of my life will be from 66 to 70 — social security (if it still exists next year), seeing the lavender fields of Provence, reading at my leisure?

I’m finally pleased with myself, which has taken a long time and hasn’t been easy. My Maine poet friend Candice told me what a perfect image it was to watch mama me sitting between Brook and Ethan in front of a 1972 poster of George McGovern on my sunporch, sipping wine, eating a perfect Maine summer dinner of grilled halibut, asparagus, tomato wedges. Shared memories perked up the conversation as tourist cars passed by on their way to Seawall Road campgrounds, a glimmering full moon rose outside the window, and one or two pesky mosquitoes bit the dust.

It was a very special time in Southwest Harbor this year. Brook launched her first book, “Paradise Lust: Searching for the Garden of Eden,” at the Southwest Harbor Public Library. Nearly everyone there knew her when we went to the library and as a four-year-old, she would choose a stack of books. Candy Emlen,  now the library director, started working at the library in the late 1980s doing her final project in my College of the Atlantic class, “Teaching Social Issues through Children’s Literature.” She introduced me to introduce Brook, referring to me as a very special person in the community who had done so much for literacy by starting Oz Books in our little town. My big story, “The Heyday of Children’s Literature,” came out in this week’s Publishers Weekly.

And I got my hair cut really short to let the gray grow in faster. I’m not sure what I’m trying to say, but hey, I’m 38,000 feet above ground, having woven lovely threads of my life together.

 

 

 

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Home sweet Maine home

It’s been a week since I drove onto Mount Desert Island, my former home for 25 years, now my second home. That’s right, I have a second home in Southwest Harbor, Maine. When I owned Oz Books vacationers came in talking about their hikes, day-long excursions to Cranberry Island, or picnics at Wonderland in Acadia National Park. I envied them, never imagining that I too would have their summer freedom.

The summer after closing my bookstore in 1997, I finally had the time to go swimming at Mile Rock in Long Pond. A young family noticed me on the big rock next to them. “IS that Sheila out in nature?” Kim P. asked incredulously. “It’s the OZ lady!” her children called out.

I’ve come from Tucson for my annual three weeks away from my primary home. Here’s what I’ve been doing so far: walking around Wonderland and/or Ship Harbor, taking care of repairs/upgrades at my house and trying to rent it for the winter (always stressful), drinking wine and talking about writing with my poet friend Candice, hiking up Beech Mountain with Martha and Mary ( I brought the traditional turkey jerky all the way from Trader Joe’s in Tucson), reading “Incognito: The Secret Lives of the Brain” by David Eagleman, eating a lot of crabmeat — no lobster yet — but I’ll have some with my kids next week, gazing out my bedroom window at the harbor toward Somes Sound and the surrounding mountains (small compared to Tucson but probably the most gorgeous view on the island), drinking strong coffee and checking my email across the street from Seawall at the Common Good Cafe, taking one bike ride without a helmet — naughty me, reading “Life” by Keith Richards, having a shiatsu session with dear Kathleen and taking a stroll around sunny Bar Harbor afterward, eating jalapeno dark chocolate ice cream, renewing an annual women’s retreat with three smart/energetic writer/teacher friends, eating dinner at Maine-ly Delights in Bass Harbor by the Swan’s Island ferry, strolling along Shore Road behind my house gathering wildflowers, meeting the women’s group I helped start years ago for a drink at the elegant Claremont, keeping my distance from the old Oz Bookstore that I owned for 15 years that has since become a pseudo art gallery, attending the Summer Festival of the Arts Arthur Russell strings concert, sitting on the bench at the end of the Cranberry Island dock alone and with friends but not sipping brandy with Dan. He’s back in Tucson in the heat and the monsoon and his work.

Have I done enough yet?

 

 

 

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“Island Boy” blue day

Oh Barbara Cooney, I miss you. It all comes back to me here on Mount Desert Island, growing up with Brook and Ethan, running Oz Books, all my dear friends and wonderful community.

I remember Barbara’s sense of humor, the gorgeous gardens at her Damariscotta home. When I was young and more anxious, she always told me that she needed times of quiet juxtaposed with creative, often frenetic, times. I listened to her, but it’s taken me years to achieve that need for quiet. And it’s hard when I’m here; I want to connect with all my dear friends.

My first day back was perfect. Southwest Harbor is the most beautiful place in the world — when the sun shines, the Atlantic lapping slabs of pink granite at Wonderland. My pal Martha and I lounged around by the sea, a velvet breeze gently massaging our faces. We talked about writing, and this and that, as old friends do. The beauty of this place is intoxicating.

Last night after having dinner at Maine-ly Delights with other dear friends, we strolled down the path by my house to the Cranberry Island dock, sat on a bench at the edge of the water with a blanket over our legs, gazing at the sunset. Was it real or a movie set? Gray streaks emerging from a V-shape turning to pink. A clear evening. We could see the fire tower on top of Beach Mountain. The sea mirrored the sky. What could we say that would match that beauty?

At home a half-hour after Ellen and Lucy left, I heard loud noises that interrupted my tea-drinking peacefulness.

Early fireworks over Somes Sound. Yippeee! I won’t have to trek over to Bar Harbor with the humungous crowds on Monday night. I got up automatically and walked out the door down the path by my house to Shore Road. Flash, flash, flash…fireflies all around the field.  Kidness popped up, who knows when I last saw fireflies?

What a pleasure, leaving my house to the cool breeze, not hesitating to worry  about being robbed while I was gone. Southwest Harbor — my other home.

For those of you who have never been here, I’ll post photos soon. My blog is about words, but this place is indescribable.

Better get out to Ship Harbor now. “A good man. A good life,” my friend the illustrious children’s author/artist Barbara Cooney wrote in her picture book “Island Boy.” Yes, I’m grateful to have such a good life.

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The shoes, oh the shoes!

My pal Martha and I share an ongoing conundrum: How many pairs of shoes to take on a trip? I’m thinking four when I take off for my beloved Mount Desert Island, Maine, on Thursday.

I’ll need the hiking boots for slippery climbs up Beech Mountain in the rain, my new turquoise sneakers for shorter strolls around Ship Harbor and Wonderland, sandals in case it gets summery, and heavy Dansko clogs — the wild card. What if it rain, rain, rains, as it often does, but I go out in the evening and want to feel taller, more elegant (?) than I do in tie shoes? And it’s cool enough that I need socks? That’s it, I’ll wear the clogs on the plane. (*Martha —  there’s no need to call back).

See what putting words on the page can accomplish?

And to you dear readers, I’m gearing up for vacation mode. I’m not sure if I’ll pay attention to “Sheila Talking” while I’m in Maine. I’ll be talking so much more there: I’ve increased my cell phone minutes/texts for July. I’ll want to let Dan, back home in Tucson, know what I’m up to.

I love seeing all my dear friends and accepting invitations when I’m at my house in Southwest Harbor. The trick is to take time for myself, to breathe in the salt air, ride my bike alone along Seawall Road, and arrange myself in the rocky cliffs of Ship Harbor with a good book and picnic.

And there’s the annual retreat with two Maine children’s author friends, Margy Burns Knight and Anne Sibley O’Brien (who years ago suggested I start a consulting business called “Sheila Talking”), and Phyllis Brazee from the University of Maine, who singlehandedly pioneered the advent of quality children’s literature in Maine classrooms.

This year, there’s the added excitement of Brook’s book launch at the Southwest Harbor Library on Thursday, July 14 at 7 p.m., with a party at our house at 165 Seawall Road afterward. (MDI friends — If our driveway is full, please park at the Catholic church or on Shore Road and walk up the path to our house. Thanks).

I hope it’s sandals that evening. I have a new outfit — since I’ll be introducing my magnificent daughter in front of an enormous crowd — but hmm…maybe the dress I wore to both Brook and Ethan’s college graduations? Sound shallow? Now that I’ve turned 65,  occasional brain relaxation suits me just fine.

Vacation… may you have all the shoes you need — on Mount Desert Island — or wherever summer takes you.

 

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Incomprehensibly small world

Ethan emailed me today that a grad school buddy who’s in Afghanistan is coming up to to join him for a bike trip this weekend in Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan. When my adventurous, talented son, Ethan, now 30, graduated from Mount Desert Island High School I gave him calling cards with his trademark “E” on the front. The address was simply “Planet Earth,” although he would have a real email address in college at Reed.edu.

Here it comes, you say, When I was young…blah blah blah.

Okay. When I was in college, junior year abroad mean that the more sophisticated, wealthier students traveled to London or Paris. Needless to say, I didn’t go.

But both Brook — and especially Ethan — have made up for my lack of contact with the outside world. Brook spent a junior semester in Bali, and when she arrived at the home of the family she was staying with, her college sticker greeted her on the bedroom window. Small, small world.

I didn’t cross the Atlantic until I was in my 40s. I loved Paris for its continuous love affair with art and beauty; Israel for its long-buried and excavated thousands of years of history, and the freshest, tastiest tomatoes and cucumbers at hotel breakfasts; and my short jump over the Florida Strait to Cuba for its mojitos, plus my only experience at a Communist Party neighborhood gathering where young kids asked me to dance.

I’m curious about the rest of the world. I’ve got a new passport. I thought about applying for NYT columnist Nicholas Kristof’s trip to a developing country for journalists over 60 (like me). But I didn’t. Hell, I don’t want to sleep in a tent somewhere scary where I’d have to worry about more than scary bears eating our food. And I wouldn’t want to be bewildered by not understanding another language.

In Israel I found out that there are dairy/kosher/Italian restaurants, Sabras (Israeli-born) folks may make derogatory comments about Russian immigrants, and some Israeli Arabs may be very glad they don’t live in Gaza.

There’s nothing like an actual experience, right? I always felt sorry for my mother who watched everything on TV but had never been anywhere. One day she admitted that shopping in Hong Kong would be fun.

“Give me a bed and a blanket and some light breakfast,” as Greg Brown sings, but make it in a comfortable place — and I’ll go.

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Home is where you belong

Home can be more than one place. At least it is for me. Such a warm feeling for Gabby Giffords who’s home in Tucson for the weekend, the first time since being shot in the head on Jan. 8, nearly dead. Gabby’s sure that Tucson is home; her roots are deep. I’m happy for her. It’s good to know she’s here.

In the movie “High Fidelity,” John Cusak can’t stop pining about an old girlfriend. “She feels like home,” he says. I never forget that line because it seems so right. Home is where you belong. You feel it so intently there’s no mistake.

I used to feel that New England was home. After I worked in the 1972 McGovern campaign in Montana,  I could have stayed there and taught. “Nope, I definitely feel my New England roots calling me home,” I said. No way would I leave Maine. I used to be a commercial for Mount Desert Island.

No more, at least not in the winter. I’m not a westerner. I’ll always be a New Englander. I have a house on Mount Desert Island, in Southwest Harbor. But for eight years now, other people have lived in my house, slept in my bed, showered in my tub, strolled down my path to the ocean. I’m there for three weeks every summer. Does that still count as home?

I see my house more clearly now than when I lived there winter and summer, teaching and running my bookstore, my kids in high school when Ethan would wait for the bus in a t-shirt during snowstorms, there waiting when they returned from college every summer.

I walk into the kitchen and it looks familiar. I practiced tap routines on that wood floor. Placed yummy birthday cakes and homemade pies for women’s group potlucks on the pantry shelf. Slept in a sleeping bag in front of the living room fireplace one Christmas vacation during a horrendous ice storm with no heat. Made my way down the stairs on my tush with a cast on my broken ankle. Cuddled and read with my kids on the couch in winter, drinking hot tea and eating mint chocolate chip ice cream. And so much more.

Is 165 Seawall Road still home? There’s a gap when I return every summer. Intervening days aren’t mine,  yet their remnants hover over the lilac bushes. Most of my days are spent in the desert, here in Tucson. But I have so much more history in Southwest Harbor. I belong there but it’s different now. When Brian at Sawyer’s Market says hi and asks me how I’m doing, it’s not as a year-rounder, someone who’s stuck it out. It’s only a polite question for a summer person. A label I never dreamed of donning. Who woulda thunk it?

So yes, I still feel comfortable in Southwest Harbor. I often say it’s where my kids and I grew up. But I belong in two places, which makes me not as attached to either, as say, a third-generation Tucsonan. Welcome home Gabby! Welcome home to me when I return to Southwest harbor in just two weeks.

 

 

 

 

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