The Long Goodbye

New York


In the past few weeks, dear reader, I have been beginning the long goodbye to my beloved house in the country. It has become too much to keep as beautiful as I insist it be. And my other loves are calling--New York with all of its lure--the arts, friends, my children and grandchildren, the arts... Writing. Travel.

In the midst of shredding and organizing 30 years of things from Little League fielder's gloves and fishing tackle to mountains of tax returns from the 1990s, I found the poem below.

Don't Expect Applause

And yet, wouldn't it be welcome

at the end of each ordinary day?

The audience could be small,

the theater modest. Folding chairs

in a church basement would do.

Just a short earnest burst of applause

that you got up that morning

and, one way or another,

made it through the day.

You soaped up in the steaming

shower, drank your Starbucks

in the car, and let the guy with the

Windex wipe your windshield

during he long red light at Broad Street.

Or maybe you were that guy

not daring to light up

while you stood there because

everyone's so down on smoke these days.

Or you kissed your wife

as she hurried out the door, even though

you were pretty sure she was

meeting her lover at the Flamingo Motel,

even though you wanted to grab her

by a hank of her sleek hair.

Maybe your son's in jail.

Your daughter's stopped eating.

And your husband's still dead

this morning, just like he was

yesterday and he day before that.

And yet you put on your shoes

ad take a walk, and when a neighbor

says Good morning, you say

Good morning back.

Would a round of applause e amiss?

Even if you weren't good.

If you yelled at your kid,

poisoned the ants, drank too much

and said that really stupid thing

you promised yourself you wouldn't say.

even if you don't deserve it.

Tibetan Buddhist maxim

M.C.

Homecomings

New York

Since I can remember, the week before my birthday somehow finds me in the still water of reverie. When I was growing up in Iowa, my birthday was invariably greeted with a blizzard. Even without a blizzard, the solitude that weather suggests is a perfect metaphor.

My dear friend, Yvonne, brought me a book of blessings the last time she visited from Dublin by the beloved Irish poet, John O'Donohue. This morning when I picked the book up, it fell open to the blessing below.

To Come Home To Yourself

May all that is unforgiven in you,
Be released.

May your fears yield
Their deepest tranquilities.

May all that is unlived in you,
Blossom into a future,
Graced with love.

John O Donohue

M.C.

Dinner With Friends

New York

This reverie began with a taxi coming within 24 inches of my right thigh before coming to a screeching halt on Fifth Avenue last Saturday morning at 9 a.m. I completely lost my composure with the driver who sat in his cab a captive ( since I was raving while I stood at the car's hood screaming " What were you thinking?" He wasn't thinking, just driving too fast through the 79h Street transverse between the west side and the east side of Manhattan.

Here I am, four days later, and still thinking about it. About my brush with death. February is tough without near death experiences. But I'm beginning to get punchy. Bring 'em on, part of me says. I can take the predicted "snow hurricane" that is supposed to visit the northeast in two days bearing down with multiple inches of snow, gridlock and inconvenience. But the other part of me wants to find a beach. Last year at this time I was just about to find a beach in the middle of paradise in southern Thailand. ( For those of you who are new to this blog, check the archives for all the vivid details. )

The past months have been spent running down rabbit holes in search of the work I want to do for this next decade. And there have been more dead ends than underground mansions in my quest to " make a difference" during what is arguably the last full tilt of my career. Even so, I have gotten a tour of New York's healthcare, not for profit and humanitarian sectors. What an immense playing field. What amazing talent. What enormous challenges/problems/barriers.

And I continue to have one foot on the dock with another on the bow of the boat, trying not to do the splits. I continue to want a presence in Pennsylvania where I have had roots for almost 30 years--and still mine the richness that New York offers in so many things that I value--the arts, possibilities doing work that might make a difference with the healthcare of the marginalized, a chance to live in one the most interesting places in the world right now ( recession or no recession ). And, then, of course, there is my family here, my beloved grandchildren, my nephews and their children--and a new grandchild soon to be born.

I look out my windows toward the darkening western skyline dotted with the lights of thousands of others' homes,where others dream, nurse their disappointments, navigate their worklife. We are all having our dinner hour in some way or another. Some out of a can, some served by a domestic, some drinking it. Some skipping it.

But for some reason, tonight it feels to me as if we are all in this same soup bowl together trying to find our way. Measure success by the small steps, I say to myself. Focus on "other" as the Dalai Lama teaches.

******************

I went to Sarah Lawrence last night for my first creative writing class of this semester. "Write about an ordinary day" our teacher had assigned in an email earlier in the week. One of my classmates who was diagnosed with ALS two years ago at the age of 56 did just that.

It is his written words that stay with me tonight.

"Ten inches. That is my view of the outside world, the ten inch space between the bottom of the window shade and the sill, the slight vista I can make out as I lie propped up in bed. I wake periodically and monitor the progress of the night. Before I was sick, my wakefulness tortured me as I tossed and turned. But now I am content to stare out through my narrow portal while I listen to the shallow breathing of my wife and the dg lying across the foot of our bed, their rhythmic ins and outs synchronized like a pas de deux. I have learned just to be. "

Beginnings

New York

Christmas is a distant memory. It has been over a month since I have recorded my thoughts, learnings to this blog. But I have been drilling down for oil, focused on keeping on task.

January has a frigid stranglehold on New York. And yet, I cannot remember a January that I have found so interesting. Since November, I have been poking down a lot of rabbit holes as I discern what work I want to do with this decade of my life. My skill sets have always deepened in two broad areas: communications and, I suppose, social justice ( although I think that might be a little lofty for just trying to do the right thing with folks who are marginalized!). So, whether I was teaching nursing, conceiving and executing program materials with my communications company--those were the areas that make up the map of my work life.

In the process of running down possibilities to use these skills, I've had a chance to see just some of the people and projects that are helping people in New York City--from the YMCA of Greater New York with its 14+ branches to the incredible Hartford Foundation at NYU that offers practicing nurses accessible tools in their busy lives to deal with our aging population. There are lots of people making organizational change.

And new beginnings seem to be everywhere on a more micro level. Last Monday, I stood at the end of the 25 meter pool, getting ready to begin my 50 laps when a 30 something woman with a black two piece suit stretched to accomodate a very big belly. I smiled at her and said: "You look so beautiful!"
"Do you really think so?" she asked, smiling back.
"When is the baby due?"
"Two days ago."
We talked for little bit about this, her first baby, her excitement and the unknown.
"I guess this is the beginning of worrying about this child for the rest of my life," she said, her brow wrinkling as she spoke.

Talking to her, I felt that invisible bond that mothers seems to have. We talked a little about my babies and my vivid memories of those last days before their births back in the distant 60s and 70s. The first time I felt each of them move, their first gasp, their first day home.

Wednesday, I read my son, Ben's blog ( BenjaminWagner.com ) and read his account of the 20 week ultrasound for the new baby that he and Abbi are expecting in June. He wrote about the thrill, the awe of seeing this new life forming before his eyes. He wrote about the mix of angst and absolute joy. It moved me to tears.

Thursday, I visited a senior center on the Upper West Side that is open 6 days a week from 8 until 5pm. The director grew up in the neighborhood 40+ years ago and attended Booker T Washington middle school that is now behind the center. Mickey multitasked between talking to me, answering her phone, and waving center members into her office for a chat in rapid Spanish. But the best part was the feel of the place. This neighborhood houses naturally aging, generally poor population of many Latinos who, without this place to create community, might be isolated in their apartment-- without knowing what services are available to them--health screenings, legal help, transportation.

In many ways, this winter seems to be offering me a mini course in miracles.

M.C

This I Believe

New York

This week marked my last creative writing class at Sarah Lawrence. For the second semester, I have made the weekly commute from New York's west side beginning with the M86 crosstown bus to Lex, then the #6 train to 125th Street, and finally the MetroNorth Harlem line to Bronxville. Once in this quintessential college town with its brick streets and cozy main street, I would either walk the mile to campus or, sometimes, one of my classmates would gratiously give me a lift. All tolled, it is about a two hour proposition from my door on the UWS to the Wrexham Road classroom.
There have been times this semester when the sun has set before I got on the first bus, times that I have questioned what I was doing making this trek since there are at least three major universities within 15 minutes of my apartment.
But last night I knew once again why I make this pilgrimage. It's the calibre of the writers. I have been in writing workshops off and on for the past decade or two, and I have never worked with such good writers--or such good faculty. This semester, Steve Lewis, our intrepid leader ( whose work is featured in publications such as the New York Times), prodded, quipped, and cheered as I wrote and wrote about Iowa in the 1950s and 60s. It became a running joke that my mostly Eastern-born and bred colleagues were learning more about threshing and Herefords than they had ever expected. I knew I had them when, in one class not so long ago, after I read a segment of The Red Bicycle, they were guessing where I had landed by plane to begin the trek along Interstate 80 toward Waterloo, Iowa, my childhood home to visit my frail mother.
" Well, she landed in Chicago, of course," declared Mel. "No, I think Des Moines is closest," said Lauren. Finally, Steve ( a Long Island boy who went to the University of Wisconsin at the height of the 60s student movement ) announced: "Iowa City, she landed in Iowa City." Close enough.
As our last assignment, Steve asked us to write an essay on the model of the "This I Believe" contest on public radio--and send it to him a couple of days before class.
We met at Lisa's house in Dobbs Ferry for a party and a little literature on Tuesday night. Steve had made a chapbook entitled Writings from the Edge of all of our essays about our belief systems. I was the first to read.

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Hopscotch

A couple of years ago, I was sitting on the beach with my best friend and her daughter Elizabeth. My friend and I were talking about what we were looking forward to in the next six months. Somehow, the conversation drifted toward our goals for the next decade—our dreams, really. Elizabeth was lying on her back, her lanky, bronzed, 25 year old body shiny with Coppertone deep tanning oil. She turned onto her side to face us, opened her eyes, and declared earnestly: “ I didn’t think people your age still had all of those expectations of the future.”

When I was 25, I probably believed that, too. But I think the amazing thing about growing older is that I don’t feel that old. Surely it must be true that I’m not the same in my sixth decade as my mother was in hers. It’s true that I look in the mirror more fleetingly now than I did at 25—or even 40. But I see the foundation of the same woman I saw in the mirror then. And aside from the paraphernalia of age—reading glasses, a must-take pill or two a day, and the fact that I lean in to hear some conversations---I am 25 in the land of my dreams.

My life and my career have been a working draft. Divorced at 35, (something I never ever dreamt would happen to me) with two pre-adolescent boys, I constructed a life for us from scratch. We moved to a new part of the country, and I set about getting my career back on track by accepting a position on a Ivy League faculty as an instructor (even less rank than a TA). I rented a little white cape near a good school, put a regulation basketball hoop at the top of the driveway, and stocked the refrigerator. It was a second chance.

Ten years later, I was an empty nester-- a term I hate (it always evokes a forlorn and feather-bare blue jay cawing in an oversized, untidy nest in the crook of a lifeless tree). By that time, I had left academia for business, found out what it is like to be fired (my gut said don’t-do-it the minute I walked into that ad agency to interview for the job), and started over once again. Because of career choices that I made during those decades, I have a resume today that is a mix of science and humanities. It looks unfocused to the unwashed who aren’t right brained, I suppose. And has cost me an easy fit into either the world of academia or business.

But recently, I realized that the hopscotch of my career is, in some ways, true to my ambivalence about what I really want to do.

So what do I want to do? My working answer is I want to do something in this coming decade that makes a difference. Maybe it is in healthcare reform. Maybe it is helping promote the little psychiatric center on 34^th Street and 9^th Avenue that counsels homeless clients, shepherding them through their recovery keeping them out of the hospital, out of the cold, and on their medication. Maybe it’s writing one truthful story that resonates with a yet to be found editor who publishes it.

I don’t know if any of those things will happen. But I believe in the timelessness of possibilities. I am just not done yet.

Can Winter Solstice Be Far Away?

New York

It's still dark outside my window at 6am. This time of year as the smack of cold air hits my face, the winter solstice always seems too far away, too hard to hope for. How did people stand it in the days of caves and clubs, wondering if the sun would ever warm their soil and souls again?

Slowly, from my window, I see the sun begin to paint the distant buidlings' windows a shiny orange, basking in its reflected glory.

Below, I've posted a favorite poem of mine. A little morning gift for all of you.

The Journey by Mary Oliver

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.

Who Knows Where The Time Goes...

New York  

Dear Reader, 

It has been weeks since my last post. Life right now offers me so many things to write about, it is difficult to stop long enough to comment on any of them. I find myself savoring them and frantically jotting down notes. In gratitude.

I continue to work on my writing at Sarah Lawrence. Every week, I gather with 12 other writers, men and women, and our (ponytailed) writing faculty at a conference table in Bronxville and sometimes read, sometimes write, sometimes

just listen. 

I continue to be dazzled by all that Manhattan's richness: At the Metropolitan Museum of Art, Vermeer's The Milkmaid, an 18 inch wonder that was loaned by the Dutch museum in Amsterdam to celebrate the 150th anniversary of Henry Hudson's sail down the Hudson River right past my backdoor; Robert Plant's quirky black and white photographs of unvarnished America in the 1950s--not portraiture or Adams' landscapes--but people, just people living our culture from coast to coast. Phillip Seymour Hoffman's performance at the new NYU theater of Othello ( he could read the NY phonebook and I would show up! )

I continue to be dazzled by the importance of the arts in my life: art films like the new wonderfully written and performed An Education; or the new, stunningly written Gates at the Stairs by Lorrie Morris. Both are smart stories about young women who are coming of age and grappling with the universal question---What the ....?

Writing is consuming much of my time right now. So, if I am absent for longer periods, don't' give up on the site! I'll be back with more stories, more insight...maybe even a manuscript or two!

In the meantime, enjoy the abundance of the arts that is at our fingertips wherever we are.

M.C.

From What We Cannot Hold The Stars Are Made

New York

A dear friend in Ireland emailed me yesterday worried that I had not been posting for so long.

It is true, of course. It has been weeks. Weeks spent trying to discern what was wrong, cajole secretaries to let me talk to a physician to discuss what was wrong, and trying to manage the infection that has been a constant since I returned from SE Asia. 

I hit the wall a few days before Labor Day when a specialist told me he wanted to do surgery as soon as possible to do a biopsy to rule out cancer. Stunned, I did the pre-op lab tests, tried to make arrangements for friends to take me to the hospital on the morning of the scheduled

surgery. The surgeon had not given many details about the rationale for ruling out cancer in this way especially since the infection was still raging with very high bacterial counts when I was cultured. I called my sons, listed as next of kin,  in case something untoward happened.

The following day, I changed my mind about surgery and decided to postpone it, and deal with the infection. I wanted to consult another specialist for a second opinion before I moved forward--an infectious disease expert.  That all took nearly two more weeks to arrange and during that time, I began feeling more and more fatigued.

The meeting with the specialist, Leigh Kennedy, was last Monday. After looking at the five sets of lab tests outlining my bacterial count, she ordered a super drug, Merrem, to be administered every 8 hours for 10 days via IV. So one week ago, a home care nurse threaded an 8 inch Midline catheter  from my elbow to my shoulder through one of the brachial veins, brought me syringes filled with heparin and normal saline, dressing change kits to protect against infection, and lots of alcohol swabs.

Now, seven days later, I am still fatigued as the drug tries to stop the virulent bacterial strain that is so smart that it walls itself off from many incoming antibiotics. There are some other strong antibiotics to try if this fails to kill the strain, but not many according to the lab.

So, my time has been spent setting my alarm so that I can keep to the 6am, 2pm, 10pm schedule of infusion which requires taking the medication out of the fridge two hours prior to administration so that it reaches the right viscosity, then infusing for an hour followed by a a heparin flush so that the line does not clot off which would require re-insertion into the other arm. Add contacting Blue Cross every time something changed, or I needed something in New York instead of Pennsylvania, contacting home care agencies who will transfer care in the two locations, lab work, and this has been a challenging time.

I won't know for another week whether or not the bacteria have succumbed to the powerhouse antibiotic. Uncertainty is never the same as possibility. And the question of cancer will have to be addressed after this problem has been resolved. Then, on to the hip surgery that will probably occur next spring--a labrum tear--the scourge of athletes and ballet dancers.

It's too early for me to make many sage comments about what I've learned. But, like my experience in other periods of crisis and need, I have been surprised and moved by the unsolicited, genuine concern and support of people who don't have any family ties to me who consistently come through for me-- friends who have their own issues and concerns to deal with but who had known about the illness, and found a moment to respond just about the time I had reached another hurdle. Without them and their  support, I don't know what I would do with the angst that accompanies being alone and sick without the benefit of someone listening to the options, helping review the potential for what could go wrong. 

It raised the question for me from several years ago when I decided to do patient advocacy for elderly clients. Who can you trust to listen, then to advocate for/with you when you are alone?  I was amazed at how little energy for decision making was available to me in the thick of it. Being sick really is a battle. All of my nursing skills, all of the patients I have cared for, students I have taught to care for patients, still doesn't translate to the  of trying to decide alone what is best, who is trustworthy, what is the smart path to move me forward.

Finally,  I am reminded that being young, something that I do not particularly want to revisit developmentally, has its physiological merits. Three years ago this November, I ran the New York Marathon. Today, that seems impossible. ( I use the lanyard that I had for my ID at the Javits Center registration, to hold the IV bottle for my infusion. I believe that is what we call irony! )

M.C.

Meditation

Nantucket

The same thing happens every year.

Sometimes it's the first day. Sometimes it takes a couple of days. But it always happens.

I waken early to see the dawn's blood orange color grazing the eastern horizon as the blinding sun tries to rise above the low scrub, the boats bobbing in Hither Creek. Flags mark the morning's breeze.

And then a tiny bit of the crust of life just gives way to gratitude; a deep, abiding understanding of why I exist beyond my children, grandchildren, career accomplishments, existential journeys.

Simple. I find myself quieter in this place, happy in my solitude.

This drink of the elemental, the ocean's heart beating right outside my window will have to last, will have to sustain me through the coming months of unknowing, its constancy a good metaphor.

This year, it took until the last day for this place to touch me.

Sitting on my bed listening to the sounds of my son and his wife laughing in the next room, all I needed was a little nudge from Barber's Adagio for Strings, its harmonic journey rising, the volume reaching a crescendo then ending in a whisper.

Can this be all there is? A single morning of beauty seen from my Wedgewood blue and white room with a view of the sea out of every window for as far as I can see?

Probably.

M.C.

Reaching For Heaven

Nantucket

My entire life I have wanted to be in the cockpit of a Cessna or Lear Jet. Whatever. In the perfectly perfect contradictions of life, yesterday was that day.

All I wanted to do when I woke up was get out of the rather creepy hotel that touted a harbor view ( marketing ploy--think views of rusting tankers and eroded pilings ) in East Providence, get some gas for my rental car so I could avoid the $5 a gallon surcharge for refills, and get to the T.F. Greene airport on time for my 35 minute flight to Nantucket. Oh, and to do all of that without getting lost or colliding with notoriously crazy New England drivers. Got the gas. Didn't get hit. Got to the airport. Got in the security line, e-ticket receipt and license in hand, laptop out, sweater off, quart size baggie ready for inspection, proper size Tumi carry on rolling along side of me. There were only 10 people in line. It was Saturday, not even 9am. In Providence.

First bump. "I'm sorry Miss ( why do they call me "Miss"? ), the seated, full bodied guard began." But you'll have to go back, find Cape Air--I'm not sure where they are this year...they move their location alot." She shifted her weight on the high stool where she was holding court, and added. " Can't go through here until she give you a REAL ticket." OK, I'm thinking already irritated. Whatever.

I scour the rest of the check in area for Cape Air amidst Continental , US Airways and Air Canada. In a far corner, I find a counter with the Cape Air logo in the far corner. No agent.

I wait. And wait. Finally, a thirtyish blond woman arrives. There is a family of five ahead of me with at least 10 pieces of luggage ( don't people read the surcharge info about checked bags? ).

I waited, checking my watch, noting the exponential increase in the security line.

Oh, and have I mentioned that Hurricane Bill at the time was careening up the coast line, skies were overcast, and there was a little bit of get the milk and bread it could be a big storm mentality in the northeast?

Victoria, the agent, checks my return flight. It is incorrect. Fifteen minutes later, Victoria gets the Cape Air office ( think 300 sq. ft. space in Hyannis ) on the phone ( can't access it by computer ), makes the change. Back to the line. I set off the security screening device. Please don't stop me for a search, I just want to get on the plane.

The screener pulls my bulging handbag off the conveyor belt and approaches me with it clutched close to her chest."Ma'am, you've got a water bottle in here," she says waving with her latex gloved hand. Damn. She's right.

The 30 people behind me are not happy. Can't blame them. Head for the gate, show my ticket, give her my weight, weight my carry on ( Always comforting to know that these small planes want these calculations to be sure we don't take a nosedive over Nantucket Sound. ) And I wait and watch the clouds thicken, the passengers ( all twelve of us ) arrive. The agent ( no mike ) announces the flight and we follow her like ducklings down a long hall, two flights of steps to the tarmac and our little Cessna. I take one last worried look at the cloud cover hoping that we get off the ground before the Nantucket airport is socked in.

I am first in line to get up the four wobbly steps to the plane. The guy in the orange vest, our escort, looks at me: "Ma'am, we need someone up front today. You wanna be the co-pilot?"

"Absolutely. Yes, yes, yes", I laughed. "I have always, ALWAYS wanted to be in the cockpit of a plane." The captain nodded as I climbed into the right hand front, strapped myself in. I could hardly contain my absolute delight.

I turned to the other passengers now sitting quietly in neat rows behind me. " Does anyone have a camera, " I asked scanning their faces. No answer. " Mine's broken. And I have always, always wanted to do this." The woman in the seat behind me poked her husband. " I'll take it on my Blackberry and send it to your email," he offered.

The man next to me ( he lived on Cliff Road come to find out which overlooks Nantucket Sound with stunning views ) gave me paper and pen to jot down my email address. The wife of the photographer handed it to her husband ( they are in Madaket where the surf is always up and the sunsets are brilliant ). "It's on its way to you," he said with a big grin.

"By the way," the photographer began, "are you serving drinks after takeoff."

Fred, the pilot, took off into a soupy sky talking to air traffic control. Minutes later, we had climbed to our assigned altitude and were heading almost due east, the hum of the motor comforting. From the cockpit, I had an 180 degree vantage point with windows on either side and windows above my head.

Fred stopped talking to the tower, settled back. We were over water now, and coming into the biggest, puffiest cumulus clouds I have ever seen. Certainly that I have ever seen this close. I imagined how it would feel to be able to slide my arm through the thin layer of metal that separated me from thin air in some kind of virtual experience, and touch them as we flew by. Just then, a shard of dazzling sun split the cloud with light. It was just like an old Cecil B. deMille film.

And, yes, I did feel, just for a moment, as if I was able to imagine the infinite.

Isn't that how life works? Just about ready to brace yourself for disappointment--a missed meeting with an old and dear friend, a numbing estrangement from a sibling or child, an injury that turns out to be chronic, possibly a disability. And then, on a dime, a wish come true.

( Note to self: look at the picture above ( thanks to a stranger ) and remember.

So what do I know today that I didn't yesterday?

That it pays to remember the singular moments that move me. Savor them. Store them in my heart for the winter-grim times that are sure to come. Maybe life is really mostly about persistence. Not being willing to give in to disappointment.

Could the quest for meaning be that simple?

Summer Reverie

Philadelphia

The etymology of nostalgia is homecoming. If we didn't believe in homecoming, we wouldn't be able to bear the day.

W.S. Merwin

I have been postponing this post for several days. Up until today, I wasn't sure why.

For the past few weeks, I have had this growing sense that everything that I require in the world is right at my feet. That is not to say that it is everything I want. But whoever said that would happen anyway?

This summer is folding its tent. The cicadas return at dusk signal the beginning of the fall cycle, the end of long days of white light, the return of crisp cool days with brisk winds.

Most summers I am in my best physical shape, running at least a few races, and, for sure doing the NY triathlon in September. Most summers mark my family gathering in Nantucket for a week or two together, and at least one other journey to visit old friends or new ones.

But this summer has been different. I have spent it largely in the country where my days have been spent trying to meet some very specific goals: writing every morning ( 80% ); repairing/preparing the house for winter; taking care of a new set of mostly nuisance physical symptoms to be sure they are not going to become chronic ones; completing a video module on medical ethics for Villanova; pitching and beginning an article on finance for an journal geared toward trustees; submitting a short story manuscript for publication ( my personal deadline is this coming Friday ); and finally, organizing a mini summer book group to read and discuss Olive Kittredge by Elizabeth Strout which occurred on this past Tuesday night.

In the midst of those personal goals, my new granddaughter, Ella, was christened, my old and dear friend whom I have known since we were 13 and I had lunch at the Metropolitan dining room, then strolled across the park so that she could see where I lived, and I planned another journey for the winter--this time to spend two months in Africa to work in a hospital in Tanzania south of Dar es Saleem, then go on safari in the shadow of Kilimanjaro.

But what has been most interesting to me about this summer is the small things that I have seen or heard or felt. Deeply. The turtle who showed up near the deck after a big storm. The

heron standing silently in the stream beneath my bedroom window one morning like a sentry.

The hummingbird's faithful return. The look of my grandson's face at the opening sequence of Lion King as all of the animals parade across the Minskoff Theater's stage singing a thrilling African chant. The night settling into Central Park as the backdrop for the superb staging of Twelfth Night.

Or the touches of strangers. The woman from Continental Airlines who tried desperately to help me change reservations back from Nantucket without incurring a fee so that I could attend my son's birthday party. At the end of the conversation, I told her that our conversation reminded me of Olive, the protagonist in the Pulitzer prizewinning book, who had often meaningful moments ( although she steeled herself from any real connecting with others unlike this stranger and me ). " It's nice you're going to change things so that you can be there for the birthday. How old is he?" I think she thought he might be, say, 19 or something. "Soon to be 38," I answered, chuckling under my breath. " Even better," she began. " I wasn't much of a mother, actually," she continued. " But they're good kids, adults now, in spite of it, I guess."

Regrets. Moments of connection. It is the essence of Olive Kittredge which is its brilliance. It's the essence of life. Strout takes the day to day lives of ordinary people in a tiny town--people who don't go to Africa or Asia. They don't even go to Minnesota. But their stories are real, their heartaches as big as an ocean, and their struggle between hope and despair, palpable.

This summer, for me, has been just that. A chance to try to accomplish goals, meet obligations, prepare for the coming darkness, cold challenging winter. And a chance to take in the early morning light or noticing the dappling of the afternoon's yellow light on the garden as I sit by the stream. Trying to stand in one place. Even when I can't stand it.

All of that is what grownups do. Or what we aspire to do.

To be on our way in the day-to-day while we watch out of the corner of our eyes for the moments that move us, define us. The moments we've been waiting for. The non-showy moments that evoke little, tiny bubbles of silent gratitude.

The moments that whisper, You are alive.

M.C.

On the Appalachian Trail: A Happy Little Stone

Philadelphia

I love stones. Always have. One summer when I was growing up in the midwest, we went on a very infrequent vacation as a family. To Minnesota, Land of 10,000 Lakes. And the Mesabi Range which is packed with iron, and other precious commodities that were deposited there compliments of glacial melting.

We were headed for Bob Dylan's hometown, Hibbing, where we stayed on Lake Vermillion (a deep red due to the iron content ) and stopped by one of the mines on the way. I begged for a mounted chunk of iron ore. And, somehow, I also was allowed to purchase what was basically a geology starter kit for kids that contained small samples of common rocks. Like mica. I still have the set somewhere in an old foot locker that belonged to my father. I haven't thought about those two treasures for years.

Until yesterday.

I was hiking the Appalachian Trail near Allentown, Pennsylvania with a wonderful group of hikers organized by Jules Geday who I met on Amtrak. Jules was returning to Pennsylvania, backpack and all, after having taken a group of local hikers to the Andes to climb the Inca trail. We struck up a conversation on the two hour train ride from New York, and Jules invited me to join the hiking group. I hesitated since I haven't really done any hiking for several years. The last challenging hiking for me ( and, some would say the extent of my hiking prowess ) was the Camino Santiago, a spiritual and physically challenging journey across a couple mountain ranges beginning with the Pyrenees near Pamplona, Spain. I hiked for four weeks, sometimes alone, often with new international friends, ending my hike in Lyon which lies right in the middle of the northern tier of Spain. Each night I slept in hostels, sometimes convents, sometimes pensions depending on what the tiny villages along the old pilgrimage route had to offer.

When we began the hike yesterday, I was right up front with this group of varied ages ( read younger, mostly! ). But something like ten minutes into the hike, I reminded myself that this was like any race I'd ever competed in during the past ten years ( including the New York Marathon which I completed two years ago ). The first half of any strenuous race or physical challenge, it's important to pace yourself, hold back, acclimate. All three of those verbs are against type for me, however. But, I've never run any race where I could pick up my time in the second half without practicing that discipline.

So, I had to physically stop myself, step aside and let other hikers who were moving at a pretty good clip, pass me.

It was a good decision. I fell into a spot somewhere near the middle and made new friends--Herb and Justin. We covered all the background data, occupation, and years/months hiking with the group. But at some point, we just began walking and talking about any manner of things.

We had just left the trail head on a 9 mile, 5 hour hike that involved fairly challenging terrain. The payoff, of course, were the vistas from the ridges after trudging ( there were 28 of us in total ) along flat areas of cleared brush that snaked up the mountain, the light falling daintily along the path. Or uphill in thicker canopy, negotiating boulders with care as we moved.

For me, when I wasn't watching every foot fall on steeper stretches, I could feel the rhythm that comes from walking with others with a common purpose, from having nowhere else to be for the next few hours, and sharing an unspoken belief that this mountain aerie was exactly where we belonged on a summer Saturday in Pennsylvania.

" See those wonderful stones that are everywhere underfoot?" I asked the men who flanked either side of me as we marched along, lock stepped. " What are they called? I forget."

Justin ( or was it Herb? ) had the right answer: " Mica. It's bits of mica embedded in the stone."

The flecks of mica along the meandering path seemed to mark our way like breadcrumbs in a Grimm's fairy tale; the stippled sunlight hitting many of them randomly so that they sparkled underfoot. I picked a small stone of the forest floor and slipped it in my pocket.

Last night, I put my red pack back on the shelf, my boots on the porch to air. As I emptied my pockets of tissues, used wrappers, a slip of meet-up directions, I found the little stone.

I couldn't help thinking of Emily Dickinson's poem as I put it on the counter for safekeeping.

How happy is the little stone

That rambles in the road alone,

And doesn't care about careers,

And exigencies never fears;

Whose coat of elemental brown

A passing universe put on;

And independent as the sun,

Associates or glows alone,

Fulfilling absolute decree

In casual simplicity.

Emily Dickinson

M.C.

On Seducing Hummingbirds in Eden

Philadelphia

In a Garden

When the gardener has gone this garden
Looks wistful and seems waiting an event.
It is so spruce, a metaphor of Eden
And even more so since the gardener went,

Quietly godlike, but of course, he had
Not made me promise anything and I
Had no one tempting me to make the bad
Choice. Yet I still felt lost and wonder why.

Even the beech tree from next door which shares
Its shadow with me, seemed a kind of threat.
Everything was too neat, and someone cares

In the wrong way. I need not have stood long
Mocked by the smell of a mown lawn, and yet
I did. Sickness for Eden was so strong.

Elizabeth Jennings

This summer, I am spending more time in the country for several reasons. 1. There is maintenance, maintenance, maintenance to be done. And summer is the time to do it. 2. There is a recession going on which makes spending time there an appealing option without all of the cost of, say, a month in Nantucket. 3. I love my gardens filled with flower,s vegetables and herbs--and they need care. I have faithful help of the adolescent next door, Shea, who waters and weeds when I go to New York. All that is to say, the grounds look like the Botanical Gardens right now. Everything is mulched, growing like mad thanks to the twenty days of rain recently--thriving.

Earlier this week, I realized that I hadn't seen a hummingbird all summer, and certainly they had made their annual pilgrimage from the south long before now. What is it about hummingbirds? The fragility? Their industriousness? Their beauty? Their nimbleness as they dart from stamen to stamen in search of fuel?

The salvia, that beautiful fire engine red stemmed trumpet flower, had been eaten by the deer all the way down to the soil. And when I got to the nursery, there was no more to be had. So, the nurseryman suggested cuphea, a red trumpet flower with a tiny purple lip. " This will bring you a hummingbird," he promised. I planted both pots on the deck with the flouncy annual. And waited. That was Saturday. I waited and watched on Sunday, anxious to see this enigmatic creature once again in my very own backyard.

I watched from the breezeway, from the lawn chair on the deck. Nothing. Until I was just about to return to New York on Monday afternoon.

Writing in the early morning at the bay window overlooking the backyard, I caught something flickering out of the corner of my eye. And there it was, beak inside the slender flower just like last year. I sat there watching, amazed at how much joy it gave me. It is such a metaphor for the intersection when yearning for something meets wishes fulfilled. A memory, a lost photo, a disconnected friend from time past, a goal sought that had fallen short long ago, then preparing for its return/ another chance, and, then hoping against hope that the work of moving beyond wanting something would reap success.

I watched for the minute or two that the bird fed on my offering and, too quickly, flit away, disappearing into the thicket beyond.

It was that fast. Just a moment.

Sickness for Eden is so strong.

M.C.

A Trifecta: Duke Ellington, Bobby Short and Central Park on a Summer's Night

New York

Last night I watched 14 jazz pianists, all the calibre of Frank Owens, play simultaneously on grand pianos that had been placed back to back on stage. Behind the pianists was a full big band complete with drummer, a terrific horn section and even a percussionist.

It was a tribute to Bobby Short, the famous cabaret singer who was an institution at The Carlyle, my ultimate, all time favorite venue in town for its understated elegance and beautifully appointed public spaces. Short, who died in 2005, played piano and sang many of Duke Ellington's compositions.

July 1,1995, Short dedicated a statue of Ellington that sits on the Promenade a minute's walk from the bandshell. So, on the spur of the moment, a mix of folks including Mercedes Ellington, the eldest of Duke's grandchildren who produced the show, garnered financial support and musicians to celebrate both Bobby's genius night after night at Betelman's Lounge to the delight of New Yorkers, and Duke Ellington's magic with both lyrics and musical scores.

I was in the very front of the venue with my friend and neighbor, Michael. We arrived early and planted ourselves on my kelly green beach towel on the hard courtyard. The wonderful thing about New York and outdoor concerts in general, is the people that show up. This was impromptu, so only about 300 people gathered, sitting on benches that surround the bandshell or on the ground with us. It was almost like being a voyeur at a private party as Ms. Ellington bustled around ordering sound checks with the pianists, and chatting with photographers.

The show started late, but no one seemed to mind. It wasn't raining for one thing ( it had been raining every day for 20 days of the month of June ), and everyone had a picnic of some sort.

When the music began, it was still light out, the sun sinking overhead, the sky a Maxfield Parrish blue. I stretched out on the ground, totally immersed in the sound and the stunning beauty of the night. This same bandshell housed Duke Ellington and his band years before, and folks like us, no doubt drank in the sophisticated sound he made his trademark.

Walking home, Michael and I stopped at Bethesda Fountain. He motioned for me to follow him to the edge of the terrace. In the darkness, there were six towers of famous West Side buildings like beacons in the night framing the fountain including the San Remo and the Beresford.

Elsewhere in Central Park, Anne Hathaway and a terrific cast were in the midst of Twelfth Night and giving another 300 New Yorkers a summer evening to remember.

I mused to Michael as we walked by the
Museum of Natural History in its
grandeur that I wonder if Olmsted
and Vaux had any
idea how many people would be
enriched bytheir brilliant conception
of Central Park?

John Lennon, Michael Jackson: Where's the Center?

New York

Thursday was one of those perfect New York days with low humidity, no rain ( a minor miracle ), and blue, blue sky. I spent the morning at my little library ( where Wendy Wasserstein wrote Heidi Chronicles so I hope it rubs off ) surveying various magazines that accept short stories. My course is over at Sarah Lawrence, and I have a real, honest-to-god manuscript ready to submit for possible publication. Or so said my( published) austere faculty person as I finished reading the final pages of the story that I have crafted over the past month. I also reviewed criteria in Writer's Market 2009 that reports things like the percentage of manuscripts received that are actually chosen ( from 1% to 50% ), the magazine's rule about simultaneous submissions, and the amount of money they pay if they publish the piece.( range from two copies of the magazine free to $750 ) Oh, and the length of time you can expect before they read and respond to the submission.

Three hours of that was enough. So, I went to Times Square of all places to hand pick tickets for West Side Story, one of my favorite musicals of all times. On the way back up Central Park West, I walked through the very busy park and headed out toward the street on 72nd after passing softball games, bikers, runners, lovers, families and many, many non New Yorkers.
As I angled toward the access road near the Dakota, I could hear music beyond the bushes. I followed the sound into Strawberry Fields. The famous mosaic, Imagine, was in the middle of a small shaded area flanked on either side by green park benches only half full.

On a bench at the far side of the mosaic were four men of various ages--three strumming Gibson guitars and a drummer with his snare drums. An open guitar case at their feet signaled their hope from the crowd. An all Beetles repertoire. Surrounding the mosaic were a dozen foreign visitors posing, some inside the circle, some lying right next to the letters, some respectfully moving only along the perimeter. Lots of people were coming back and forth from east to west side on their way home from work. Some would linger, some would rush on by, some would walk slowly, humming along on their way. One wool capped, longish haired, lanky adolescent looked disinterested in the whole thing until he turned his back on his parents and suddenly began " whisper words of wisdom, let it be" before he turned back toward them, again looking detached.

I didn't realize at the time that Michael Jackson had died in LA earlier that afternoon.

These two men and their lives couldn't be more different except for their exceptional talent and their impact on the music of generations, The thing is though, I think both of them paid dearly for their contribution. It's tough to be gifted, no question.
It's hard to be the center of all people's expectations, I'm told. That from Lily Tomlin a decade ago when I was running a major fund raiser for the homeless, and Lily was the featured guest/performer. Before she went on, we were chatting in a makeshift green room in Philadelphia. I said something about how much the audience was going to love her no matter what she did. To which she replied: " Don't believe it. the public expects alot of performers."

I guess that's true. But they both paid a high price for that fame, for meeting up to those expectations. The situation is more complex than one quick blog, of course.

But I came away from Strawberry Fields amazed at how Lennon lives for many people as if his death were yesterday. And when I found out about Michael Jackson, I felt a deep sadness. Another Elvis? Marilyn Monroe? It is as if he could not sustain his center. Or find it.


MC