Picture, Picture

New York

I know that it is a cliche to say that a picture says a thousand words. However, it is certainly true of the past week or so since I have last penned a posting to this blog.
But I got as far as the pictures above of Easter Sunday. And, now, I have added another picture of my newest grandchild, Ella taken at the Bronx Zoo.

But what is the context, you might ask, of all of these pictures? Easy. Since the first part of the year, I have been in SE Asia teaching Buddhist monks to speak English and traveling. Now that I am back home, I am enjoying catching up with my family and friends and beginning to sort out elements of the work I did in Thailand that I can adapt and apply here. One of those things is my commitment to continue writing, to continue pursuing people and opportunities to perfect my craft, to strengthen my voice and point of view. I've joined a terrific writing group of mostly younger writers some of whom are journalists or have been published ( the gold standard...).

The highlights of the past week including the visuals above?

*Easter Sunday with my sons, their spouses and my grandchildren. Dinner at the 100+ year old table that I love--especially since it has three extra leaves so that I could extend it from seating 4 to seating 12-- just so that family dinners in a smallish New York apartment can happen.

Ethan did a magic show after dinner--his first ever. Abbi, Ben's wife, was his assistant, holding the props as he produced coins and tiny round balls out of "thin air". Every once in awhile, in the middle of a trick, he would look over at his father, Chris, and say: " Now what, Dad." Chris would smile, chuckle and quietly tell him the next step of the sleight of hand. It was charming, fresh, magical.
Ben watched how airplanes work, a Discovery documentary with Edward and Ethan, their three sets of eyes glued on the big screen TV as the rest of us chatted in the living room.

The little boys hunted for the nests that Ethan had hidden the day before when he created the centerpiece for the table ( When he walked in on Easter Sunday, he ran over to the table and exclaimed: " Oh, Grammie, it looks so beautiful." Be Still My Heart, I have a grandchild that appreciates a pretty table--I'm in heaven! ). They both scurried around looking under, over, next to, behind...until... Then a squeel. Edward got a diesel train engine; Ethan, a cherry red convertible. Ella, a Pooh Bear rattle.

Ben brought pies. Chris brought eclairs. Dinner was Jenn's Mac and Cheese, and a French country roasted chicken with roasted veggies, asparagus, caesar salad. They ate every bit of it. Every bit.
It was a charmed gathering.


*The Bronx Zoo with my daughter in law and grandchildren. Who knew it was so incredible? And what a treat to watch the children's faces as they discovered one amazing creature after another. On the way home, Jennifer asked everyone what their favorite animal was: the boys, Ethan and Edward thought it was the giraffe ( the last thing we saw ); I said the guerilla who was huge and very human friendly. And Ella? She just smiled.


*Dinner with old friends at the BrickLane, a terrific Indian restaurant on the Lower East Side. The three of us have been friends for 20+ years, and every time we get together, we have too much to eat, too much to drink and lots and lots of laughs. Last week's dinner was no exception.


*My new writing group. I trudged to Cooper Village near the East River and 23rd by bus ( my new austerity move--no cabs ), then walked in the pouring rain. I had the name, address, cell number of a guy named Andrew. Cooper Village is huge with at least three buildings in a big green space.

The wind off of the river was biting, and I was just about ready to call it a day, turn on my heel and go home.Something pushed me on, though, and I tried one more building, holding my umbrella in front of my body to provide some shelter from the wind blasts mixed with cold rain.

And there it was 442. I pressed the code on my now wet information sheet, and was buzzed upstairs. The door was ajar, and inside were 30 people sitting on every available horizontal surface, already silent as they began to write. I put my shoes in the pile with the rest, propped my umbrella against a wall, draped my wet coat over a doorway, and began writing, too.

An hour later, we began reading ( 17 people had signed up to read their work for a five minute period; then listen to critique by the group ). I was #14. As my turn came closer, I could feel my body tighten, my mind reviewing the copy one last time. I wondered if the mostly 30 something crowd, closer to Richard Ford than to Wallace Stegner, would take to stories written about Iowa, the 1950s, growing up in a smallish town, attending one parochial school after another.

I read a piece about getting ready for church on Sunday--a process that was always funny, chaotic, tense--and, because of the circumstances--ultimately very sad. And, they liked it. More than like it, they could identify with it. That, of course, is every writer's goal: to create something however small, that can translate, that has universality, that is believable. All of a sudden, the rain didn't seem so bad.

So that has been my world, dear reader, since last I posted a blog.

Will I be more timely in the days and weeks to come? I think so. This was a week filled with new things and exceptions to the routine.

Now, it's back to business.
M.C.