Environmental risktaking

I was talking to my friend Blair last night about people who make foolish mistakes and die in the Grand Canyon, and why they do. Her theory, which I like a lot, is that we are so mobile these days that we can go zipping around from environment to environment and have not a clue how to be in them. But we think we do, perhaps because we see them on TV or whatever.

A big theme of this blog is how I lived in New York City and felt totally comfortable and now I live in a small town on the edge of the country -- the bears have been spotted! they're coming out of hibernation! -- and often don't have a clue how to live here. So I've learned to drive the speed limit, say, and bring a map when I go hiking or snowshoeing, not matter how short or local a trip. And other things. I'm no longer surprised that everyone knows everyone else here.

But I don't have a clue how to be in the desert. "Drink lots of water" doesn't mean the same thing in New England as it does in Phoenix. Eighty or 90 or 100 degrees outside is different there because it's so dry and your sweat just evaporates. I could easily overexert myself because of that. Not only do I not know how to be at the Grand Canyon, I can't quite believe that I don't, maybe I don't want to believe it or accept it. So I can see how people might take stupid chances, like going around the railing to get a better picture. I don't, in part because I am such a rule-follower, and also because I can see enough of the place to realize it really is much bigger than I am. It does scare me. It takes my breath away.

[There's a great essay here (scroll down) that talks about how the first Europeans to get to the Grand Canyon couldn't see it because it was too far out of their realm of experience. It's a political essay by an illustrious socialist, but I don't want to get into that discussion here, although this essay is well-worth reading. But this opening is pertinent to what I'm talking about here:

The first European to look into the depths of the great gorge was the conquistador Garcia Lopez de Cardenas in 1540. He was horrified by the sight and quickly retreated from the South Rim. More than three centuries passed before Lieutenant Joseph Christmas Ives of the U.S. Army Corps of Topographical Engineers led the second major expedition to the rim. Like Garcia Lopez, he recorded an "awe that was almost painful to behold." Ives's expedition included a well-known German artist, but his sketch of the Canyon was wildly distorted, almost hysterical.

Neither the conquistadors nor the Army engineers, in other words, could make sense of what they saw; they were simply overwhelmed by unexpected revelation. In a fundamental sense, they were blind because they lacked the concepts necessary to organize a coherent vision of an utterly new landscape.

Accurate portrayal of the Canyon only arrived a generation later when the Colorado River became the obsession of the one-armed Civil War hero John Wesley Powell and his celebrated teams of geologists and artists. They were like Victorian astronauts reconnoitering another planet. It took years of brilliant fieldwork to construct a conceptual framework for taking in the canyon. With "deep time" added as the critical dimension, it was finally possible for raw perception to be transformed into consistent vision."

From "Can Obama See the Grand Canyon?" by Mike Davis]

Blair says she sees people swimming off Long Island in seas that are way too rough for her, and realizes that they just don't know what they're doing because, presumably, they haven't grown up around the ocean. And yet she fesses up to tubing down a river in the Adirondacks where one of their party got caught in a submerged log and almost drowned. Her cousin said later, "oh yeah, underwater logs are the big concern on rivers." Who knew? If you were at a beach and the sea suddenly receded a half mile would you know that a tsunami was coming? You might now, if you remembered that famous photo. (This isn't quite the one I was thinking of, but it's close.)

Similarly, we went hiking in the Columbia River Gorge last summer up to a stunning 100-foot waterfall -- it was on our New Year's card this year -- that emptied into a churning bowl that dropped down through a very narrow opening into rapids at the other end. We climbed down a steep hill to get to an outcropping -- Dave's cousin said later that she never goes down there, which utterly surprised me -- and I still have nightmare flashes about Lily standing on the outcropping taking our picture and taking a step back to get a better angle. Dave and I leaped up and traded places with her. But if she had been in a slightly different position, slightly further back on the rock, she would have gone over. And I would have gone after her and we both would have drowned.

I mean, we never would have let her get that close. But knowing what I know now, that someone very familiar with that environment would not have gone down there, or let her kid go down there, in the first place, gives me pause. I think I need to be more aware, more vigilant about my surroundings, especially when they are new or alien or foreign.

To that end, meditation helps a lot. Keeps me in the present. Accepting that I don't know everything, and that I don't have to, as does understanding that seeing a photograph or two is not the same as being there. Because I feel confident walking around Brooklyn does not mean I have expertise at the Grand Canyon, or a towering waterfall. And finally, I am not weak or inadequate or a wuss for following directions or obeying suggestions, rules, laws.

Vacation photos

Here's a link to some of our Phoenix photos, including the Grand Canyon. Until Dave puts captions on them, know that the kids are our friends we went to visit, and couple of the four adults and me in my blue shirt is my long-lost cousin Maureen and her two kids.

The Grand Canyon sure is grand

It really does defy language. There's no way to describe it. There are no words.

Here's what we did: We drove there on yesterday by way of breakfast at Denny's at 6:30 am, and then Montezuma's Castle, poorly-named ancient ruins between Phoenix and Flagstaff built by Sinaqua Indians. Dave and DeeAnn were comparing them to Mesa Verde, since they'd been there when they were kids (and could climb the ladders and walk around inside). They liked these too but they are smaller, and you can't see past the outer walls. We talked to a very friendly volunteer named Sam who knew a lot about these things. When I asked if he'd ever been up there himself, he said, "that's payday!" Dave said, "How do you do it?" And he said, "With a big grin!"

This trip had another reason for being: My first cousin Maureen, whom for various reasons I have never met, was meeting us at the hotel and we were going to check out the Big Ditch together. And so it was that we drove into Tusayan, where our hotel was, about 12:30, and as I walked into the hotel I saw a woman going in too, along with a young man and woman. It was Maureen and her son and daughter. The 11 of us (counting DeeAnn's family) went to lunch across the street and then we headed into the park.

I remember when I first went, in June 1980, when I was driving across country with a friend. We got there early one morning, 8am maybe, and we just drove up to Mather Point, parked, got out of the car, and walked to the edge. And I, who had been so cynical about this country and figured the Grand Canyon was just hype, was blown away. I couldn't believe how incredibly beautiful it was, and awesome, and majestic, and vast--endless. It was a spiritual moment, a moment when I found it possible to believe in God.

It wasn't as big a shock this time, but I still felt in awe, and inspired, and small. We walked around and went down the famous Bright Angel Trail for a couple hundred yards -- and it drops straight down, right next to the trail -- and ate ice cream (not me) and shopped a bit and took lots and lots of pictures. It seems all you do is dodge cameras, wait your turn to stand at a vista, and take pictures for other people. It seems like no matter how many pictures you take, even knowing how inadequate they will appear in retrospect, you want to take more.

Maureen and I gabbed and gabbed and told stories and got to know each other. She bought all the kids presents, and later gave some to me and Dave too, and I kicked myself because I hadn't thought to bring anything for her. They left early the next morning but as Dave said, it's never to late to gain a relative. She feels like family; she feels familiar; she looks a lot like my aunt Judy and many of her gestures seemed like Judy's too. What a gift! It's wonderful to have a new cousin.

I got caught up in one gift shop reading a book about people who've died in the Grand Canyon called "Over the Edge." Chapter headings cover people who fell off the rim, who died in the river, who committed suicide, who were murdered. It's actually funny in a Darwin Awards kinda way. Aside from the drunks who decide to go for a hike, or walk along the railing, there were lots of testotersone stories, guys showing off. A guy teased his young daughter by jumping on the railing, windmilling his arms and pretending to lose his balance, and then jumping off into the abyss. The daughter said, oh Dad! and walked on. Later they realized that he was trying to jump down to a five-foot ledge and he slipped and fell 300 feet.

There's lots of stories about people going past the railing to get a little closer to the Canyon, often for a photo, and losing their balance, or the rock crumbling beneath them. One guy climbed beyond the railing, turned around to take a picture of the lodge, and, putting the camera up to his face, stepped backward to get a better shot. The hiking stories are mostly about heat stroke and dehydration. Survivors say, I didn't realize it could get so hot, or, I didn't realize it could get so cold. Park rangers speak firmly, telling hikers to turn back because of the weather, or the trail they're attempting is too difficult, or they aren't prepared well enough, or they don't have enough water, and they continue anyway and then one or all of their group dies.

It's very sad, and it makes you wonder how people could be so stupid. But more than that, I secretly fear, could I be so stupid? Could I ever think, oh, it's okay if I go beyond that railing just for a minute, to have my photo taken. I worry, am I vigilant enough? Am I alert and aware and present? Or should I lighten up? Can I be too careful?

And as we talked about it -- poor Steve; I read anecdotes aloud to him from the book on the drive home, three hours, but hey, he bought me the book -- I came to the conclusion that the Grand Canyon is so vast and majestic that it's overwhelming and unreal. The cliffs along the North Rim are so colorful and so far away that they look like a painted backdrop from a movie.

The rangers say, This isn't a theme park. Disney didn't make it. It's rough and unforgiving. And most of us just don't have any idea how to be in the wilderness, never mind a surreal environment like the Grand Canyon. I feel far safer walking a Brooklyn street than strolling the South Rim. As the book points out, many people are unfamiliar with walking on a smooth, even, surface. Bumps and cracks and ridges and hills surprise us.

This manifests itself when I walk in my woods. I don't know whether to prepare or not. Should I tell someone where I'm going and when I'll be back? Pack a daypack with water and a snack, a map and compass? Part of me feels silly, like I should lighten up, get a life, have fun, don't take this hike thing so seriously. But another part of me, and this book is pushing me further in this direction, says, what, it's going to kill you to get a pack and stock it? It's going to kill you to let someone know where you'll be for a couple of hours?

Just do the right thing and admit this nature thing is bigger than you. Get down off that railing and stay on the path. A couple more feet closer to the actual Canyon won't make that photo that much better. Carrying a pack in my backyard won't make me look like a wuss.

What a glorious thing the Grand Canyon is! I don't know if I've ever seen such vastness in such detail, all spread out before me. I see deep into time and I don't even know what I'm looking at. I sense my utter insignificance in the world, never mind the universe. I feel alone, but I feel together in the presence of my family--including my new (but not unknown) dear cousin--my friends, my community, and my god, whatever that is.

Phoenix update

We're here visiting friends Steve and DeeAnn, who moved from Brooklyn the year before we did. Their daughter Emerald is oldest and probably best friend. They met when they were 10 months old and in the Puffin class at the Montessori Day School. They lived around the corner from us -- we could spit into their backyard from ours -- and we saw them every day and the kids slept over at least once a week. They broke my heart when they moved and I think that's part of why I was so eager to leave, after they did.

So! Other than United losing my baggage, it's been an uneventful trip. And we got it back late the next day. We've been to the Heard Museum, a museum of Indian art, we've hiked in the Phoenix Mountains, gone to the Phoenix Desert Botanic Garden, and had good Mexican and seafood. We were hiking near Piestewa Peak, and the landscape is just extraordinary. I can't believe how otherwordly it is, like an alien landscape. The saguaro catci -- those are the big tall guys with the arms sticking out -- dot the red-brown hillsides. It's hot and the air is dry, dry, dry. Tons of other kinds of cacti are all around. I put my hand on one as I was climbing up a steep part, a red barrel thing, but I didn't lean too hard and it didn't get me too badly. Apparently there's a cactus that shoots spines at you if you get too close. I tried to test it with Lily's waterbottle but was warned not to.

We saw lizards, and chipmunks that look like giant gerbils, and a slew of quail running along the ground, and some of us saw a bobcat. We climbed about a mile, maybe more, to the top of a ridge, with a view of the surrounding area, and ate lunch at the top in the breeze. Not bad for two 10 year olds, a seven year old, and a two year old (he did great, although he did get carried most of the way down).

We've also seen some really interesting art, at the Heard, and then at the botanic garden, which had an installation of glass art mixed in among the plants. I'm too tired to write about them, but check out those links if you're interested. We're off to the Grand Canyon for the night tomorrow and I am going to meet a long-lost first cousin. Two extraordinary events in one day!

This is what I'm doing now

I took a hot yoga class today. Not quite as hot as bikram, but still, 95 degress is quite hot. When Yogasana, an Iyengar place, opened on my corner in Brooklyn a few years ago (replacing Mario's Deli, R.I.P.), I ended up going twice a week for awhile. I took half-day workshops and classes and for a few months I was even doing yoga every day at home, which was very unlike me.

This yoga is different. I went to my first class about six weeks ago and did not like it one bit. In Brooklyn we'd spend a great deal of time going over and over and over poses very carefully; we'd often do a half dozen poses in the 90 minutes. We'd spend a lot of time focusing on an obscure body part, like where your spine meets the back of your skull. Everything we did for the session was about that, in some way. Once we spent a half hour rolling a tennis ball under our feet.

This studio is not like that. This feels like a comparable class level, but it moves very fast -- high push-up, low push-up, updog, downdog, boom, boom, boom. The heat is intense. My shirt was soaking wet almost immediately. I'd stop a lot to wipe my face with the towel I'd brought, and chug some water. I couldn't keep up the pace, and I gather the issue with hot yoga -- with any yoga, really -- is that you can get hurt if you get your ego in the way. If you look at the people around you and start getting competitive you can push yourself too hard, and in the heat that can be dangerous.

Apparently the heat is good for injuries, however, so I went back today because my body had felt amazing the last time; my shoulder, which I injured last summer, felt like new. My chiropractor said, turn your head off and listen to your body. You have to try at least once more.

So I went. And while I don't feel as amazing as I did in January, I signed up for a 10-class card because I realized something important: When you live some place a long time, as I did in Brooklyn, for nearly 2 decades, you develop resources and routines and people and ways of doing things. And part of moving, I can see now, was to shake all that up. Today I found myself saying, thinking, Iyengar was good in Brooklyn, really good. But this is what I'm doing now.

This is what I'm doing now. This is how I'm living now. I felt a new level of acceptance for my not-so-new way of life. This is the yoga I am doing now. I am not taking class with my beloved Erin down the street. But just because it's not Erin doesn't mean there aren't things to learn here, and I'll be darned if I shut myself off from them just because it's different from what I know and have come to rely on.

PS on getting lost in our woods

I find it fascinating to realize that I can be totally lost in the woods even though I know exactly where I am. I mean, I really knew more or less where I was, much more "more" than "less." If I'd had a map I think I could have found my way out pretty easily, even if I weren't on a trail. But I don't really know how to bushwhack, and I'm not quite sure how to go in a straight line in empty woods. I mean, of course I could have just gone back the way I'd come, assuming I remembered which turn-offs I'd taken. But I didn't want to do that at all. It would have meant a much longer walk, like going all the way around Prospect Park because I couldn't figure how to cut through the middle, and I was already tired. And I didn't really have the time.

I kept picturing the entire conservation land spread out on a map. In my mind, I could see the Mountain Road entrance in Florence, and the lake, and the dam, and the meadow where we saw moose poop last April. I could see the house with five garages that's just yards away on the other side of the Marian Street Trail. I even imagined I could figure out how to get over there if I just walked in that general direction. But I also had a sense that I could get lost, very, very lost, if I strayed from the trail, and wander around in circles. I lacked confidence that I actually knew what I was doing in this darn woods.

I don't have that sense when I'm in the city, where I really feel utterly at home (or at least I did when I lived there. Less so now, truth be told). Maybe I never allowed myself to get so far afield, or maybe it's all familiar, grided out in a logical manner, with buses and subways at regular intervals; even Brooklyn's odd layout makes sense.

Or maybe it's that I knew it so well, after living there so long, that it took a lot more real exploration to risk getting lost. I need to cogitate this one. It's hard to start anew in some ways, but it sure keeps you on your toes.

Snowshoeing on the back 40

Last weekend's storm that hit a week ago left a foot of powdery light snow, perfect for me to try out my new snowshoes. Other than getting a bit lost I had a great time.

I've had a hard time keeping my snowshoes strapped on, for some reason. Last winter I was using a pair of Dave's and they kept getting loose in the back and falling off, so I had to stop every 10 feet and strap them on again. This fall I got a pair of my own, upgrading to cloth straps, which seem to fasten easier. I also tighten them really tight, hooking them on a little lip on the back of my new Sorels, which we got this fall when a shoe store near my mother-in-law was going out of business (our family got like 10 pairs of shoes, sneakers, and boots for under $200! and my little clothes horse had a great time just trying on all the size 6 shoes and boots).

Last Tuesday, a beautiful day, a bit cold but sunny, with all the great new snow, I trekked into the back 40, the Fitzgerald Lake Conservation Land, behind our house. The place isn't huge, just 675+ acres, but it's the woods. And in case you forgot, I am a city girl.

When I first moved here a colleague told me of a local parent she knew who went for a little hike at Fitz Lake with her two little kids and ended up getting lost and spending the night out there. Ugh! They were rescued in the morning by a dogwalker. At the time I thought, how can that happen? But now I know. I really want to think otherwise, but days like Tuesday make me realize yet again that I am indeed a city girl and I don't really know my way around the country. And I gotta say, even my familiar woods look very different in the winter.

So I headed out my backdoor, taking the trail we made when we first moved in to get to the Laurel Park extension trail. When I hit that, the intersection of which we marked with a cairn so we don't overshoot it, I went up the hill past Fairy Rock and wound down and around to the bird blind. After that I wasn't ready to go home, so I kept on, heading toward the lake, but when I came to the Boggy Meadow Road turn-off I decided to take that toward the Moose Lodge entrance, but turn off before I got there to the parking area to take the loop trail back to the Marian Street trail. Boggy Meadow Road is mostly flat and broad enough for a car. Nice trail. But the loop didn't come and didn't come, and I figured I'd missed it and would have to walk the road back home from the Moose Lodge. But finally the turn-off came, and I took it.

Now this path is unofficial so there are no blazes on the trees, but skiiers like it and it was clearly well-used the day before. I was ready to be home, but had no idea how long this loop was. I figured it was a straight shot and what threw me were the cut-offs off the loop, each one a puzzle: Should I go left or right? I made educated guesses, each time thinking I had an idea which direction I was going, toward I-91 and my house, or back toward the lake. And I got more and more anxious.

Yes, the woods were lovely, dark and deep, but everything looked the same. It was all white and bare and no landmarks and nothing looked familier. No trail blazes. It was about 2:00 and the sun tended to stay behind me so I knew I was mostly going east, and I also knew I had several hours before dark. I kept thinking about that mother with her two little kids, and felt a lot more compassion this time. I was thirsty and kicked myself for not bringing the daypack, which also has a map of the place. I imagined being rescued. I imagined being home taking a shower and eating lunch, which I had neglected to do beforehand.

I did bring my cell, I take it everywhere, so eventually I called Dave and left him a message on his work voice mail just saying where I was and that I was a bit scared but going in the right direction, I thought. Finally, a skiier I'd passed on Boggy Meadow Road came breezing through, and he said I was almost at the Marian Street trail. And I was, although beginning snowshoe time is a bit slower than experienced skiier. There was another cut-off and I panicked a bit, but then just made a decision and went with it. I wasn't far from the trail and was home and showering within 15 minutes.

The lesson learned is, the woods are different from the city. What I am now learning is what it means to say that I am a city girl. All I need in the city is my metro pass and cell phone and I'm good. Maybe a little cash. I can eat anywhere in New York and I know it well enough to avoid the dicey areas, and for me, most areas aren't dicey. But here, I can't tell myself I'm just walking behind my house. I have to tell myself, I am going into the woods where I can get lost and there's no guarantee of passers-by to ask directions to the nearest subway--or rice and beans eatery.

So, note to self: Always bring the daypack when you are in the woods, in snow or not. Stock it with water, maps, a snack, a compass, and yes, the cell phone. Maybe extra socks. Eat lunch first, or else bring it. Keep in mind that when there's snow, there's no place to sit unless you don't mind getting wet, so you just have to keep moving. To that end, wear snowpants and gaiters. Thank goodness I had my long johns on. I was layered so I wasn't cold while I was moving, but when I got home my shirt was soaked through, and that's a no-no; if I had really been lost I would have gotten chilly the moment I stopped moving.

But it's a learning curve, right? I am learning to be more of an outdoors person, and I like it. The woods were lovely, quiet, serene, seemingly endless, even though I know they aren't. I was alone and while I didn't really appreciate my journey at the time, I have reached a new level where I think I can start to enjoy this more and more.

PS -- we're going to the lake with another family today, but it's been lovely and warm all week and the snow is melting, thank goodness! I am thrilled. I can't wait for spring!

The end of the beginning

I think I'm done with the office now. I now have a website that has many of my writing and editing clips, as well as samples of my newsletters. I have PDFs and color copies of many of my Wondertime stories and other clips. (I also have a scanner at home, if need be.) Today when I left I took the last of my files and clips and I think I don't have to return. Oh, I do have to give back my parking and building passes, of course, but I think we can keep those until the end of March.

Today the former WTers spent a couple of hours at the local bowling alley throwing some balls and eating pizza. It will surprise no one to hear I am a terrible bowler. It took me a few times to realize that the balls come in different weights and that the lighter ones are easier to throw. With my typical beginner's luck I got some strikes and spares, but mostly I bowled gutter balls, or knocked down one or two pins. I like seeing everyone but I have to admit it feels a bit different from LIFE, where I grew up. I worked there for eight years and here it was just two. Still, the Wondertimers are a fine bunch of folks.

Oh, I have several blue fleece vests with the Wondertime logo. I want to send some to my regular writers, but I am happy to give away the rest, and there's lots more at the office. Let me know if you happen to want one, for old time's sake.

unemployment disorientation

This is an odd time. It's been a month now since I lost my job. I have been all over the map, emotionally. Sometimes I am charged and excited about all the opportunities this open-ended time offers. Other times I'm overwhelmed, and want to curl up with a book. Blogging is a middle ground: It's somewhat justifiable -- at least I'm writing, accomplishing something -- and it's fun. But here's what I really think I should be doing:

--adding another solutions-oriented bullet to my resume
--making two new versions, theater and community development
--finishing making PDFs of my editing clips
--finishing my website -- and do I want to design my own, and not use the google version?
--making color copies of some of my clips
--writing some scenes I've been thinking about
--contacting everyone I know in the Valley with my new resume and telling them I'm on the market again
--mucking with my new computer --revising contacts, reorganizing my documents, learning inDesign, stuff like that.
And there's perpetual housework and grocery shopping and cooking dinner. Plus I'm only a few chapters into the book group book and we're meeting in two weeks.

My day is truncated by needing to get Lily at school. I look forward to her being at JFK next fall! I just had a great lunch with the parent of a current classmate, and I am coming to the conclusion that Bement is simply too old-fashioned for me and has different values. There's a lot there that I really like, but I believe in addressing difficult feelings and, with the help of trained adults, helping kids work them out. My goal is not for her to get into a private high school, and certainly not Deerfield Academy, Actually, at this point I would rather she not go there; from what I hear, the teachers and academics are great but the families who send their kids there are mostly about success defined by money and power. Why would anyone want their kid to go to boarding school, anyway? I want Lily to go to the Northampton High School. I am excited about that, in fact.

And see how easy it is for me to get distracted from my real purpose? It's so hard to stay in the moment with my life right now. Here are the good things about not working at Wondertime: Well, nothing about Wondertime, specifically. But the good parts about not working in general are:

--It's lovely to sit in a cafe typing on my new computer, with people laughing and talking nearby.

--I have more time for Lily. I pick her up every day and I am more present when we are home.

--I am going to the Y almost every morning these days. I am starting to run again, just 14-minute miles, and just for two to four minutes at a time; then I walk a minute or so. But I do this for a half hour and I feel better when I get off. I've been worried about hurting my hips and knees and ankles, but I'm following the advice of my chiropractor, who says to warm up and then stretch, and to stretch afterward. And I am seeing her regularly, and paying close attention to what hurts, and when, and what makes it feel better. I would love to be able to run a couple of miles several times a week. Maybe some day. Easy does it.

-- I have more time to see friends for coffees and lunches. Had one yesterday, and one today, and tomorrow I'm visiting my friend Helene in Brattleboro. Nice!

-- I started a writers' group with two other ex-pats from parts southerly, and we are all mothers as well as writers, and I really look forward to seeing them every week.

-- I have more time to meditate and do other spiritual things. And I am doing those things, because I've seen what I'm like if I don't. Yuck.

-- Freedom from the nine-to-five grind. It was wearing on me, and it hadn't even been two years since I was back in it. It is very stressful, that daily grind.

-- Developing new routines: meditate, the Y, the office to job hunt, a cafe to write, get Lily, home for dinner, etc.

Here's what I miss about Wondertime, and working in general:

-- The people. Hands down. The community, the feeling I got when I went into the office every day. Arguing over whether it's a comma or a semi-colon, and how wonderful it was to work with people who know how important the answer is.

-- The feeling of accomplishment at the end of a day, week, issue.

-- working with writers, from looking at pitches to asking for pitches to assignment letters to working with the actual manuscripts. One of my last stories was going to be a spread about tree forts and the writer had answered all my questions and we were working collaboratively on making this a small but useful and fun piece, not to mention attractive. It's a pity, and very hard to stop that creative process cold, in the middle.

-- The nine-to-five grind. Or in my case, the eight-to-four. I really, really, really, need structure, and I miss it more than I can say. I miss getting in the office, turning on my computer, getting tea, maybe eating breakfast if I hadn't already had it, seeing folks drift in, getting things accomplished.

--Lily's enjoyment of my office. When she came in she'd check out the free table in the basement, get herself a hot chocolate, play with the Playmobile hospital, then curl up with a book or some drawing paper. She liked it there.

-- Offering leftover toys and games to non-profits who really needed them for the kids they serviced.

--The money. Oh yeah, the money.

-- The security, such as it was. I had a job in these uncertain times,

--Being able to say I worked for Wondertime, a fabulous magazine that I was very proud of and that most people really liked. Having this as part of my identity, part of the structure to my life. I wasn't my job, but it was a big part of who I was.

Mary Oliver is a god.

The Journey

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice-
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn’t stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen branches and stones.
but little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do
determined to save
the only life you could save

by Mary Oliver
from Dream Work
Beacon Press 1992

Four weeks later

I'm sitting in a cafe again, Cup and Top in Florence. I'm sitting by the window looking out onto Main Street, aka route 9, and the sky is a stormy gray with patches of blue. The clouds are moving very fast. The iPod is playing my song mix again--Bonnie Raitt, Helen Reddy, Gordon Lightfoot, Karla Bonoff, plus about 900 more singers and groups. What a mix.

I went to my chiropractor this afternoon--I slipped on the ice the day after I lost my job and fell flat on my butt--and feel better. But otherwise I've done nothing but play with my new Macbook. Sure is good to be back on a Mac again, and even though I'm importing all my old files and music, there's something about having a new computer that feels like a clean slate, a chance to reorganize my life and prioritize myself.

The trick for me is trying to make sure my days are structured, and that I meditate and do some writing every day. All week I've been spending my days going to the Y, then to the office, then trying to get some writing done. Today was a blow-off, as I get sort through my music, pitching stuff I don't listen to and cleaning things up. I am eager to be listening to podcasts again, and maybe put some TV shows (can you say West Wing?) or movies up here.

And those days in the office have been productive. I've set up my new website--www.sashanyary .com, and the live link is to the right of this post--and scanned up all my writing clips and posted them to that site. It's still under construction, but I hope it'll be useful in the future. All I have to do now is make PDFs of my Wondertime editing clips and get them up there too.

It's odd being in the office. We're allowed to be there until the end of March, and some people are there all the time. Most people seem to have disappeared, though, but maybe they're just on a different schedule from me. I think this must be particularly hard for those folks who've worked here a long time. I was there just two years, and while I wasn't ready to leave, it hadn't become my life and my identity quite the way I know it can--at least, that's what I went through at LIFE. I couldn't believe I wasn't a LIFE magazine editor any more. But life went on, even though LIFE didn't, and I have had many new identities and ways to define myself since then.

It's also odd being out on the streets--I feel like I spend a ton of time in the car, driving to the Y, to the office, to get Lily in Old Deerfield. But's much better than two years ago. I know people now. I know the streets and the cafes, and I have a life here now. I asked Dave a couple of weeks ago if he wanted to move back to Brooklyn (outside of Lily's hearing) and he said no, he didn't. So we're here, and that feels good.

Looking forward to the warmer weather but I have to say transitions freak me out, and it's essential that I stay in the day, every day. Or even in the moment. In a few minutes I have to get Lily at her theater improv class. And we'll go home and see her dad and have dinner and hear how everyone's day went. Lily has had a ton of homework lately and it just got away from her these last couple of days. She had a test on ancient Egypt today that she wasn't really prepared for. She's barely practiced her flute this week. She has an essay due tomorrow, and something for science. I think there's a spelling test tomorrow too. Jeesh! She has a lot to do and it just can't all happen. Oh well.

It does leave me wondering what next year will be like. Will there be much less work? Will it be less challenging? Will she be bored? I think that'll be okay, if she is. She can take an art class, or get into a theater production, which she's dying to do. Maybe I'll get her to join the swim team. Maybe she'll meet some great kids who live nearby and she'll finally have some regular playdates.

Well, it's February. Sixth grade is a long time away. She's planning her summer now and in March we're going to visit DeeAnn and Steve and their kids, our closest friends from Brooklyn who moved to Phoenix the year before we moved here. We'll hit the Grand Canyon for a night, and I hope to see a long-lost cousin who lives in New Mexico, and my friends Rosemary and Harry from Oklahoma City. It's going to be great.

"The Producers" in Easthampton

So if it's February or March in the Happy Valley, it's not just sugaring season, it's high school musical time. This is when all those hardworking teenagers put on the shows they've been slaving over for the last three or four months. Last Saturday we were lucky enough to be able to get tickets to the went to the Easthampton High School's production of The Producers.

Now first of all, can I just say, how cool is that, that a local high school puts on The Producers? It's a risky piece in many ways, not to mention risque. The themes are sex and the Nazis and it pokes fun at just about every single group you can imagine, from gays to Jews to women to men to fat people to nerds to Germans to New Yorkers to theater people. Especially theater people.

And if you missed this production, all I can say is, poor you. It was fabulous. With the exception of one major character whose acting was hilarious but singing was often laughably flat, every actor was spot on. I wasn't thrilled with some of the changes, like making Roger DeVries a woman, Rhonda, but I understood why: There aren't many parts for women in this show.

Other changes were pretty understandable, like in Bialystock's I Used to Be the King song, the original shouts, "Who do you have to fuck to get a break in this town?!" and they changed it to "shtup." I get that. But they left in the line, after Ulla sings "When You Got It, Flaunt It" (god she was fabulous), when Bialy says, "Ulla, even though we're sitting down we've giving you a standing ovation" and then he and Bloom cross their legs. Got a big laugh.

I was a bit apprehensive; for this show to succeed it really needs a strong Bialystock to carry it. And their guy was great. Right from the beginning. Strong voice, strong character, lots of energy. Bialystock is basically on stage for the entire show, almost, and he's in almost every number except about three, Bloom's, Ulla's, and Bloom and Ulla's. This actor was a pretty big guy but he moved smoothly and fast. He didn't drop a line in a song or spoken, that I could tell. Before the show I thought, okay, Bialy has to be good or else this show is going down. And he knocked me out in the first song.

The other remarkable actor was Ulla. Again, I was waiting for her line, "Now, Ulla belts." She's gotta belt. This kid belted. She was awesome.

More than most musicals I hold The Producers close to my heart. And when its unbelievable reviews came out, in April 2001, I remembered the lesson I learned from my father when I was 13, and got tickets. The lesson was that he opened up the paper one morning and saw that "A Moon For the Misbegotten" had opened and the reviews were astounding. This was the 1974 Colleen Dewhurst/Jason Robards production, and we went down to the theater that morning and stood in line. And it was, indeed, incredible. They filmed it later and you can get it on Netflix, I think.

In 2001 I didn't go into town to get Producers tickets, I picked up the phone, and I didn't do it immediately; I waited a couple of weeks. The next available was for mid-August, and I still regret getting the $75 seats under the balcony, and not springing for the $100 ones on the floor. We offered them to my father and step-mother, who to my surprise immediately said yes. Don't know why I was surprised, because it all makes sense now.

We went to our favorite Times Square restaurant, a Japanese place in a brownstone right off Broadway at about 43rd Street. It's not there any more, unfortunately. The owner was Japanese and had trained as a French pastry chef, so desserts were outstanding. The place was decorated like someone's living room, with books lining shelves and framed pictures on the walls. Her son played the cello and if we were lucky he'd be there the night we were eating, serenading the diners.

We loved the show, of course; I remember not getting some jokes that everyone else did, like during Bialystock's first song, when he says, "I used to be the king" and someone responds, "It's good to be the king." I didn't know this was a standard Mel Brooks joke in all his movies. But then I got the theater jokes like, during Roger deVries' song where he introduces his creative team, and everyone has been really gay, his partner, Carmen Ghia, Shabu, the house boy, and his stage and costume designers. Until he calls out for his lighting designer, who is a butch dyke with a deep voice and a bundle of cable over her shoulder. I went to theater design school with a butch dyke lighting designer, and I burst out laughing and it felt like everyone around me was looking at me.

We were lucky to see the entire original cast, not just Nathan Lane, who was increasingly absent as the run went on, and Matthew Broderick, but also Gary Beach and Roger Hart and Cady Huffman. Really great cast, some of the best working today, and most have won Tonys, either for this or other shows.

I know this will come as a surprise to people who know me but I am normally an obsessive person. I have been known to watch a movie over and over in a couple of weeks, or a TV show, or, in this case, a CD. I listened to it constantly the rest of the summer. This was a particularly hard summer--my father-in-law was dying of ALS, my family was very stressed, I was miserable for many reasons, and I didn't know how to cope with my feelings and I was making everyone else miserable around me.

And on top of all that, 9/11 happened, and I truly felt like I was going to break into little pieces. I had almost no resources, and I didn't recognize the ones I had. I was trying to keep it together but really felt like I was about to jump off the Brooklyn Bridge. One outlet was the Producers CD, which I listened to over and over and over. Lily came to know it very well. I gravitated to the line in the song "Springtime for Hitler," where Hilter sings, "you know we'll be going to war." Also the line, "the thing you gotta know is, everything is show biz." Those two lines rang in my head over and over.

Eventually I stopped listening to the CD, and I found some resources and learned to cope with my feelings a bit better. But I still love that musical, it still resonates for me, and I was thrilled that this production could pull it off so well. Kudos!

You must read this

A wonderful piece by Maira Kalman about the inauguration.

I Lego N.Y. by Christoph Niemann.

Chance again

So today I was typing something terribly important and here comes Chance, leaps up on Dave's desk next to me, then leaps onto the meeting rail (is that the right word? the top part of the frame on the lower piece of glass) but it's really too thin even for her to stand on, and she's clawing desperately at the very top of the window, trying to get some bird or animal just out of reach. And then BAM she comes crashing down on the desk.

Need I add that the new window frame is all scratched up? And the glass in several windows, especially the glass doors onto the back deck off the kitchen, and the window closest to the bird feeder outside our bedroom, are covered with cat slobber. Yuck.

She's desperate for them birds. They're oblivious, of course, the stupid little things. We'll throw seed until it thaws and the paper starts to warn everyone to stop feeding the birds because they bears are waking up. We can start up again in the late fall. I can't wait to see what she does about the bears, once they start walking around. I am a bit concerned she'll claw her way up the screens, which will be ruined.

She still loves the water. She hears us start to brush our teeth or wash our faces and she comes bombing into the bathroom and leaps into the sink, staring up at us adoringly, pawing the sleek sides of the porcelain. It's really odd. I like to turn the water on a trickle and soak her a bit. She climbs out, then turns back and bats at the stream and sucks it up. There's hair all over the sink.

No cat baths lately, but she sure likes it when we're running the bath in the Japanese tub. And she likes to pace the edge of the upstairs tub in between the two shower curtains. She likes to crawl into every little nook and cranny she can find, pushing out books and bowls and whatever else is in her way, to get back into the dark spot.

Two other favorite things she does. I'm happy that she likes to sleep on the end of our bed, and I love that at around 8 or 9 pm, she starts looking for us to go to sleep. If we're watching TV she comes in there to snooze. Then when we go up to bed she climbs on the end of our bed and washes herself and curls up.

Unfortunately, this is also the time she, and all cats, apparently, is the most frisky, and we often have to dump her very impolitely on the floor to avoid being bit and scratched. She's torn between really wanting to hunt and really wanting to sleep. Eventually, sleep wins.

And then at about 5am she wakes up and stretches and makes her way up to me. She puts her head under the covers -- always on my left side; Dave hates her in bed and she seems to know that, she always comes to my left side and not in the middle of us--and curls up in there for another nap, purring and washing me. (I know I am supposed to pat her because she pats me and nudges my hand. Same thing she does when I come home at night and she wants some attention, and not just dinner.) About an hour later she wakes up and tries to wake me up to feed her. Grrr. Sometimes it works, however, and I do get up and feed her and then go meditate.

The second favorite thing is that she likes to talk to Lily when Lily is in the balcony looking into the living room. She says, Hi, Chance! and the cat just meows back with a very intense, almost anxious whiny tone. Not sure if she likes Lily up there or not.

That's all for now. More TK, as they say in the publishing trade. More To Kome.

Peter Sellers doing Laurence Olivier as Richard III doing A Hard Day's Night

You must watch this. This means you too, Mum:



This is Peter Sellers doing his version of Laurence Olivier doing Richard III's "Now is the winter of our discontent" speech through The Beatles' "A Hard Day's Night." The TV program was the "Music of Lennon and McCartney" from 1964.

And okay, here is the Olivier speech he's riffing on:



And this, Peter Sellers doing an Irish version of She Loves You:

Requiem

This was written Thursday but I didn't have internet access.

So now I am doing the ole’ freelance thang: sitting in a café typing and reading, while Lily is in a drama class down the street. My iPod is playing my song mix in my ear–Nanci Griffin right now, singing Woody Gutherie, Do Re Mi; how appropriate he is for these times.Followed by Meat Loaf, Paradise By the Dashboard Light--stop right there! I gotta know right now!

I feel like a statisic. Heck, I am a statistic. I am a number, one of many millions. I think there’s like 5 million getting unemployment, but we all know that’s a fake number, that lots of people beyond that aren’t working, or are working two or three jobs and still not making enough to live on. I guess W could get unemployment, eh? Or does he just get a pension. Obama has a job, at least, thank god (even though I voted for Nader). Not sure what I think about his economists. Well, I know what I think of them: Larry Summers and Timothy Geithner are big parts of the reason we’re here now. And Summers is a misogynistic turkey besides, which makes him a bad economist--imagine cutting out half your potential work force. Oh well. At least it isn’t Paulson and that crowd.

So yes, unemployed, laid off, jobless. I don’t want to lose my severance, so suffice it to say that I’m not mad at Disney. Truly I'm not. I learned at the age of 13 that it's easier to leave a place angry than sad, and I learned at 45 that the anger is usually covering the sadness, at least in my case. And the fear, although as long as I stay in the day I don't have much fear. And yes of course I'm very sad.

What I will say is, I was very proud of Wondertime. I've told this story before, how I didn’t even apply when I saw the first job listing. How I said phooey to the first ad I saw. Forget that, a Disney parenting magazine, yuck! But then I didn’t get another job, one I really wanted, so I applied to the yucky old magazine and I got an interview. And that’s when I bothered to read it. And then I thought, I’ll will be lucky if they even read my resume! It would be an honor to work with the people who put out this fabulous magazine. And I started praying to get hired.

Of course I did get the job, although those couple of months or so waiting and wondering and praying was scary. And wow, what a cool thing, to finally get a job as an assigning editor that I’d finally decided I wanted all those years ago at Time Inc. but then never really had. I was scared; I wasn’t sure I could do it. But I contacted writers and read clips and websites and helped them with proposals and wrote assignment letters and then edited the manuscripts that came in. I picked the brains of the other editors, and the art department, and copy, and fact. And I learned how to be an associate editor at a national magazine.

And I have to say, it was an honor to work with the people who put out the fabulous Wondertime. Every single person I worked with is an incredible professional. The women who started this thing are visionaries, brilliant, empathetic--poetic, even. They created this funny, smart, warm, loving publication that was always respectful of children and never ever laughed at them, only at ourselves as parents. But even that was gentle. Parenting is hard enough without pouring on the guilt, right? So lets teach people what we can, and commiserate and laugh and feel compassion and share what we’ve learned. It was described to me as a group of parents having a coffee after morning drop-off, talking about the latest challenges and joys. And I know that sounds like a press release or cover letter to a potential interviewer but I believe it. Besides, I'm a sap.

So as a response to my unemployment I’ve been watching a lot of West Wing and it makes me realize how lonely that job, the president of the United States, is. No matter how many advisors he has, it all comes down to that one guy, the one making the final decisions. Parenting is lonely too, especially in those very early months and years. I think Wondertime tried hard to bridge that gap, to connect with parents, to listen to each other, share best practices, have a laugh. Plus the writing and photography was extraordinary.

At any rate, we get very generous severance, followed by unemployment, and I have a couple of months to find work in these troublesome times. I go into the office almost every day (not yesterday, with its 8+ inches of wet snow and sleet) and work on my resume. Well, first I called and emailed all my writers and arranged whatever payment they were due. Then I went through all my files and sorted stuff, passed some on to those staying on and tossed the rest. There's quite a loss involved here, one I hadn't quite prepared for when I imagined losing my job for whatever reason. My feature in the April issue was shaping up nicely, plus my departments, and I know my writers were also disappointed that their work is not to appear. I had several things in inventory too, for later issues, and they will not appear in Wondertime, of course. It's painful, and sad.

We had our second annual housewarming last Sunday--mark your calendars for next year; the weekend after Martin Luther King Jr. holiday (and did you know that some parts of the south celebrate Jefferson/Lee Day the Friday before this holiday? Sick). So my little family spent Saturday cleaning and scrubbing the entire house. Dusting, vacuuming, mopping, laundry (lots and lots of laundry), emptying trash, sorting toys, clearing clutter, scraping snow off the walkway. Yes it’s cathartic but there’s still so much more to do, the files both external and computer, the piles of junk mail that have no place to live but seem so essential, the big house-chores, the projects, the projects, the projects.

My dear sister Cate came in Saturday night and was a huge help. She made a rice salad on Saturday night and went shopping with me on Sunday morning. Mum came in and she helped cook too. Here’s the menu: curry rice salad from the old Bread and Circus, pesto pasta salad that wasn’t so great, a ham, a turkey, a so-called Greek frittata (anything with feta is Greek, just like anything with avocado is Californian), several cheeses, including my fave (and Cate’s), manchego, and lots of breads. Oh, and cookies. And I actually got potato chips and onion dip. Haven't done that in 30 years, but I felt like junk food.

The house was warm and full -- lots of folks came, maybe 30 or 40, over the course of the afternoon, kids, adults, retired, unemployed (several former colleagues came), plus my family, of course. It was fun, and affirming—yes, life goes on. It just does.

Something about that. It goes on. Life goes on. Some folks are really scared, and drinking, and eating. I’m scared when I am not in the moment, in the day. I have to stay in the day. Wiggle your toes, my friend Dee says. Where are your feet? Wiggle your toes. Stay in the day. Normally I can get scared, and these are not normal times. But it’s one day at a time, right? Can’t live in tomorrow. Live in the day emotionally. Plan for the future in a practical way, sure but live today and don’t freak out because Dave might lose his job next summer.

So yes, Dave could lose his job. He just started at UMass this October and the state is facing a huge shortfall and they are talking about reorganizing the entire university, which means big cuts. His boss reassured him he’d be safe, but you know, you never know. He’s the only programmer for 300 people, but you never know. These are scary times.

At any rate, you never know. Brooklyn friends have just bought a second home in southern Vermont so we're going to visit them and welcome them to New England life. It'll be lovely to have them local some of the time. I am enjoying FaceBook, even though I'm just a statistic there too, one of 150 million (!).

And the snow is lovely and thewinter light is incredible, especially when I go into Lily's room at 6:45 am and pull up her shades and look out the skylight at the trees, their branches silhouetted against the pre-dawn sky. They look like skeletons with their leaves off, stark and severe but also, you can really see their structure, see how they are standing, how graceful and serene. I want to be like that.

Unemployed

I have so much else to write about here--now maybe I'll have the time to do it! Disney closed Wondertime today, suddenly but not entirely unexpectedly.

It's the economy, stupid.

We've stopped publishing--March 09 is the last issue--although they are paying us through March 31, and they are not kicking us out immediately.

This too shall pass.

How to tell a New Englander

A friend sent this to me in an email:

Here's what Jeff Foxworthy has to say about New Englanders . . .

f someone in a Home Depot store offers you assistance and they don't work there, you live in New England.

If you've worn shorts and a parka at the same time, you live in New England.

If you've had a lengthy telephone conversation with someone who dialed a wrong number, you live in New England.

If 'vacation' means going anywhere south of New York City for the weekend, you live in New England.

If you measure distance in hours, you live in New England.

If you know several people who have hit a deer more than once, you live in New England.

If you have switched from 'heat' to 'A/C' in the same day and back again, you live in New England.

If you can drive 75 mph through two feet of snow during a raging blizzard without flinching, you live in New England.

If you install security lights on your house and garage, but leave both unlocked, you live in New England.

If you carry jumpers in your car and your wife knows how to use them, you live in New England.

If you design your kid's Halloween costume to fit over a snowsuit, you live in New England.

If the speed limit on the highway is 55 mph you're going 80 and everybody is passing you, you live in New England.

If driving is better in the winter because the potholes are filled with snow, you live in New England.

If you know all four seasons: almost winter, winter, still winter and road construction, you live in New England.

If you have more miles on your snow blower than your car, you live in New England.

If you find 10 degrees 'a little chilly', you live in New England.

If there's a Dunkin Donuts on every corner, you live in New England.

If you actually understand these jokes, and forward them to all your New England friends & others, you live or have lived in New England.

FaceBook

FaceBook is incredibly addictive in a fun way. Here's my page, friend me. But also in a bad way. It's fun to goof on my status, see what gets a response and what sinks to the bottom. I like putting in my book reviews, and of course, reconnecting with old friends. I love to see what everyone else is writing too.

But Dave says it's so easy to use it could mean the end of blogs, and that I really don't want to see. FaceBook as a substitute for a blog entry seems just more of this steady progression of more and more superficiality in our society, and a lack of intimacy. Not that a blog entry is so deep, and maybe blogs are a sign of the end of civilization because no one writes books any more. You don't have to get into a topic with any depth.

I guess my feeling is this: If you don't have a FaceBook page, get on the bus. Get an account and mess around with it. It's just taken off, for some reason, in the last six months or s, with people my age and older flocking to it like crazy all of a sudden. People I never thought I'd see there now have accounts and are updating their status every two minutes. It's way better than myspace, I hear. It's fun, it's easy, and it's really weird the way you reconnect with people you haven't heard from or of in 30, 40 years. I recommend it.

And, note to self: Yes, it's fun, but don't stop reading and writing blogs, or books for that matter. Don't think it's a substitute for real communication and friendship. Don't be fooled by the instant intimacy.

Snow again

So is it a sign of global warming that we have so much snow? Although while it feels like a lot; I don't know if it actually is. Lily's had two snow days so far and work has let out early at least three times and it's only early January.

The trick to living in it is not ignoring it, getting out and enjoying it. Dave dropped Lily off at her Star Wars game today and was going to go skiing on the bike path. I just went snowshoeing and it was a lot of fun. I only had a few minutes so I took the loop out our back door through the woods to the main trail, and then followed that up to what we call Fairy Rock, a huge boulder where we took our Christmas card photo last year and followed the loop back out to the parking area at the top of Marian Street.

I have such good feelings about this trail now, after living here a couple of years. You may remember that we first found it in early January 2007, when we were living in Amherst and Lily was at school and I had a sore back. Dave had picked up a great book on hiking in the Pioneer Valley and found me a hike that sounded lovely but not too strenuous. It was a great hike, maybe a mile, mile and a half, to Fitzgerald Lake. We ate lunch on a big boulder and marveled at the 70 degree weather (depressing).

Coming from Amherst we had driven to the Marian Street entrance, so in April when I saw the new Northampton listing on Marian Street I knew that if the house was even remotely nice, I wanted to live there. I knew right where it was.

The funny thing was, we had been looking hard for a house that spring and just not finding anything, and my friend Anne said, you'll know it when you see it. She said she could walk into a house and know if it was right or not. If it didn't feel right in the first five minutes she wouldn't even bother to check out the rest of it. I took solace from that, trusting that I just hadn't seen my house yet and trusting that I would know it when I did. When the new listing came up, so new they didn't even have time to declutter it for the inside photos, I had a sense. And I was right. With all its faults -- the latest is that Dave keeps tripping on the stairs so he finally measured them and it turns out no one is the same distance, they each vary, some by many inches -- it's still a great place to live, and I have found the neighbors I was looking for.

Just a digression there. At any rate, every time I go into the woods alone I feel apprehensive. I don't have my bearings, I don't feel at home, I don't know what to do if a bear comes along, say. I have raced down to the lake and back in 45 minutes just out of plain fear (and of course I don't tend to get motivated until late in the day, when I've only got an hour or so of daylight left. Duh.

But today, and last weekend, I snowshoed around on my new snowshoes, and maybe because there's so much light and you can see so far through the leaf-less trees, I wasn't frightened. Last weekend I was following some ski tracks to see where they'd gone. Today I just did this loop, as I say, but I could have gone on for ages. It was quiet, peaceful, beautiful white fluffy snow, the branches of the trees heavy with it, the air still and quiet. The kind of moment when you wish you were a poet and could describe it all. Where's Mary Oliver when I need her?

And it's giving me a sense, not of ownership, quite, but familiarity with the woods. I feel like I know where I am, I am starting to know the rocks and trees and dips and sways of the trail. When I got the snowshoes I also bought these telescoping hiking poles and they are actually really handy in the snow. I like them a lot. I feel much more confident.

I am trying to get out and do some sort of exercise every day, and to me that usually means going on the treadmill for 45 minutes or swimming 1,000 yards. But now I am fat and old and stiff and out of shape (yes, I really am) and I am starting where I am. And where that is today is walking in my quiet, snow-filled woods on snowshoes.

By the way, if anyone knows about snowshoes and wants to fill me in, that'd be awesome: Mine keep falling off, at least of them does. Today I adjusted them and tightened them, and then readjusted one of them, and I think I have it. If I keep it very taut above the lip on the heel of my Sorel boots I seem to be okay. Last week the left one fell off 10 times in a half hour, this time it fell off once and then not again, in 15 minutes. Makes it much more fun that way.

PS -- my friend Kim has started a blog, which I recommend. See the link to the right.

PPS -- house to do list, not in any order:
--new siding and repair all hidden rot and put in insulation where there isn't any (there's a lot of places, it feels like)
--new roof, sigh
--replace all the stairs?
--re-carpet or something else the basement area by the coat closet
--wood-burning stove of some sort (maybe glass?) in the fireplace
Not to mention landscaping and gardening, now that the hemlocks are out of the front yard. Big sigh.