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Monday, September 18, 2017

Messages from Cyberspace

Every so often (as it  did last week) Facebook reminds me that I haven't posted in awhile. Of course, she always couches her criticism in positive terms (your followers are eager to hear from you).  But I'm not fooled by her courtesy and I certainly don't need an algorithm  to remind me of my shortcomings!

Awhile ago my editor and I were discussing the merits and shortcomings of social media and whether I should jump into the virtual pool. Common wisdom suggests that an online presence requires attention. If I didn't like like frequent blogging or tweeting, it might be best to forego social media all together.

I opted for a website and once-a-month blog but decided tweeting would be too much. I will be honest —I love interacting with my readers— I love reading letters and emails from librarians or kids and their teachers. (My favorite letter was from a student who said that he and his classmates had been assigned to write to one of the two authors they had studied that year. Apparently all the other kids chose the other author but I chose you.) I decided to focus on that last line— I chose you. After all, writing is not a popularity contest, I told myself...if an author reaches the heart of one reader, she should be honored.  I was honored and wrote back to my solitary fan that very afternoon.

But back to Social Media.

Keeping up with FB is sometimes difficult because I'm reticent by nature, the classic introvert who recharges her batteries in the quiet of her own corner. Wandering (and often lost) in my own fictional constructs, I often forget to check-in on-line. I love people and care deeply about this world we all share, but I am more far more comfortable letting my characters do the talking than reaching out more directly.

Of course, communicating is the key to nurturing relationships and I am committed to making a better effort to stay in touch. This morning a little bird sat on my porch ledge.  For a moment I reconsidered opening a twitter account...then I realized that it was probably Facebook who sent her.

Wednesday, August 2, 2017

Poem for August, Eschatology


Already August. 

Already the trumpets
have abandoned 
the vines,
leaving behind 
a thicket of green—
the top beams 
of the pergola
heavy with growth—
deep tangled growth
that shelters us 
from the determined heat
of August.

Resting there, 
it is easy to forget.

Elsewhere in the yard,
in delicate pink
and lilac voices,
the Rose of Sharon
still proclaims
sweet, sweet  
On the back porch
thyme and basil, 
parsley and rosemary
still gambol 
in lush finery,
happily unaware 
that one by one,
the flowers 
are departing.

Already, it is August.

Friday, July 7, 2017

Be at Peace

     For more than twenty years, my extended family and I  have been toasting la familia in the same beach house on LBI. In the early years we could stand on the balcony calling out to family members on the sand below, need anything? Often, a foil wrapped sandwich or snack-sized bag of corn chips would be tossed to the waving arms below. 
     Some years ago, the beach was broadened. After Sandy, the dunes were further built up and fortified, and our hand-waving, voice to cupped-ear mode of communication was permanently cut off. ( iPhones have proven to be a considerably less desirable mode of dispatch when lolling in the sand.)
     We sometimes miss the early days of the toss and catch, of the easy bring down my glasses, or we forgot the beach bags shout, but the dune grasses weave a beautiful silver lining on their sandy thrones. Sitting on our beachfront balcony, sun worshippers and families on the other side of the dunes remain unseen and unobtrusive. One can easily imagine oneself the only soul at the shore.
     Early mornings when I sit with my coffee, books and writing necessities, the tumult of the world recedes and it is easy to find peace. The constant lapping of the waves reminds me to let go, to feel the presence of something deep and eternal, something more abiding than the tumult of our singular lives. It is true that the ocean sometimes rages. Waves thrash and beat the shore with a fierce and threatening anger. But unlike many humans, the ocean always returns with her soothing, steady, chant of peace.
     A few mornings ago, my grandson and I  walked to the beach early in the morning. Except for a few fishermen, we seemed to be the only ones awake. We raced, buried our feet, made shell-shaped sand cakes with seaweed icing and collected sun-bleached treasures. Finally, our hunger got the best of us. Go home? my grandson said and it amazed me that the house we had barely unpacked was already home.
     At two years old, my grandson already understands that home is where we feel safe, where we are surrounded by love beyond measure.
     Much has changed since we first starting coming to the house at LBI. But still and always, the sea remains constant. It's good to have you home, she loudly proclaims or softly whispers. Be at peace. 

Thursday, June 15, 2017

My Sheltering Patch of Pink

     After my very busy May, June has been a month of catch-up — a manuscript to polish, winter clothes to be put away, a summer garden to plant... Though my favorite season has always been fall, this go-round, I am looking forward to the long, fruitful days of July and August. Thanks to the previous owners of our home, staggered perennials welcome each morning with something new and colorful to celebrate. 
     More than a century ago, the poet William Wordsworth complained the world is too much with us. Once again it feels as if the troubles of the world have the potential to overwhelm us. How lucky I am for this joy-filled patch of land, this lush, comforting place to call home, this place where I may turn off the disheartening news of the day and contemplate the beauty of nature. My wish is that everyone had such a patch of comfort in their lives.
     As I write this, a chipmunk scurries beneath a delicate globe of pink blossoms. It's good to remember that there are yet places where hatred and hostility do not intrude. It's good to have a place where hope blooms undisturbed.

Thursday, May 25, 2017

Drawer Pulls, Heel Wheels and a Most Marvelous May!!!

     Wow! May has been a busy, whirlwind month. College graduations (congrats to Cee Cee and Daniel), visits with some remarkable students, two unexpected but thrilling awards for UNBOUND (each bringing with them exciting adventures in  NYC) and amidst all the celebrating, helping to pack up the New Jersey home of my youth, the home my parents lived in for more than 40 years.

     My sister texted that the priest speaking at the Loyola graduation was talking about not holding onto things— this—  I texted back— as I am quite literally removing the hardware from mom's dresser, a dresser too cumbersome for either of my siblings to take into their homes. What makes us hold onto such things, I wondered. In UNBOUND, Grace buries a small button. Anyone ever finds this/will know we existed, she says, and perhaps that's the reason for my pilfered furniture pulls. 

   Whether its a book, a photo, or a piece of unburnished brass, the things we hold onto remind us of the things we hold dearest. 

     This past weekend, Sam, a fifth grader with wheels on his heels asked me why I write so much history stuff. I gave Sam a very writerly, grown-up answer about the importance of history and remembering the individuals who came before us. 

But on the train ride home, I thought about the wheels on Sam's heels and how strange my answer may have seemed. At 11 years old, Sam zips through life (and museums if he can get away with it). It may well be that a sense of history won't be meaningful to him until he seems to stand still while the years zip by.  

Right now, that's too much for me to think about. There's too much for me to do — I might even need a pair of my own heel-wheels!

Tuesday, April 4, 2017

Thoughts After An April Rain

not all
from April
sleeping flowers.

some seep
into bare
or soak
into rotting

some words

in anger,
or sometimes

the tender heart
to recoil,
and the deepest
to decay.

Wednesday, March 29, 2017

On Gratitude, Joy and Being Published

Writing this blog under the wire again ~ it's been such a busy and exciting month with lots of good news, some of which I just shared on my fb page, and some which I'll share soon enough. As the seasons keep rolling, I can't help but be mindful of how grateful I am to be spending my days (and sometimes my nights and weekends) doing what I love.

Writing is hard work, but it is also joy. It's the companionship of characters we come to love. It's the creation of a world that readers may want to visit ~ and for me, it's the promise of endings which offer a glimpse of kindness and hope that the non-fictional world  often lacks.

After my most recent talk, a student came up to ask some additional questions. He seemed hesitant to admit that he wrote poetry and reminded me of myself when I was in college. I'd been writing since early childhood, but for a long time was reticent to admit this. 

I repeated to the student—to the poet— what I had said in my opening comments, what I boldly repeat here because it is so, so, SO important. 

Being published does not make you a writer.  I confess that  walking into a bookstore or library and seeing the words I've written in solitude proudly bound and sitting on a shelf is wonderful in the truest, most expansive sense of the word.  I am thrilled to hear that students are reading and discussing those words and that some words have even received shiny notice. But I also know that I was a writer when most of my words remained banded together and stuffed in a drawer. Truth be told, many of my words still get stuffed in that bulging drawer. 

Being a writer, as I told the students who came to hear me speak, as I repeated to the poet who stopped by afterwards, is a way of seeing and experiencing the world and wanting to capture what you see and experience through words and images. 

So many unpublished poets and writers weave their gossamer strands of truth in quiet, unheralded solitude. A week of happy notice is thrilling, but what makes me a writer is here and now, sitting at my table, chasing words that might somehow capture my gratitude and joy.