There is a hole in our porch screen. It is not the kind of hole you might see after years of wind and rain and harsh winter weather. No, this is a purposely formed opening made by folding the screen corner back into a perfect triangle.
The day before the hole was made I was sitting on the porch, reading. As is often the case this time of year, I heard a bird flitting and tweeting and rustling about. As the noise came closer, I looked down and saw a small bird coming in through one of the floor-to-ceiling screens that had pulled from the silver latches that once held it in place.
This particular screen had come completely out of its socket, and was held precariously upright by a porch chair. I tried to quiet myself, taking in the tiniest of breaths so as to not disturb the bird. I watched as it moved in an unusual combination of flitting and hopping from the floor to the wicker chair to the hanging basket, and then finally, up to the ledge in the corner of the ceiling. It was there that the bird had built its nest.
I watched the bird bob up and down, up and down, and wondered what it was doing. Was it stuffing a small stick or seed into the nest, or perhaps feeding something to little ones snuggled inside? The bird then reversed itself, flit-hopping from the nest to the basket, to the chair, to the floor, before making its way out the opening in the screen.
A few minutes after I’d returned to my book I heard the bird’s tweeting grow loud, louder, and then saw it again appear through the screen opening. I watched in wonder as it repeated its routine flitting from floor to chair to basket to nest. It bobbed up and down as it did its work, and again made its way down and out as before. During the next fifteen minutes, the bird repeated its routine at least a dozen times. Needless to say, I did not get much reading done.
Later that day my husband announced, “I’m going to Home Depot tomorrow to get some duck tape and finally fix those porch screens.”
“No, you can’t do that!” I said, panicked, and then seeing the confused look on my husband’s face I explained the whole thing about the bird and the flitting from floor to chair to basket to nest. Though my husband got the duck tape, he adjusted his fix-it-up plan. He smoothed the tape around the edges of all the broken screens. And then, with the care and skill of an expert architect, he carefully pulled back the lower left corner of the bird’s screen creating a perfect triangle opening.
That afternoon I watched from the kitchen window, looking for the bird. Though the new opening was plenty wide, I wanted to be sure that we’d not disturbed its routine. I soon heard the familiar tweet. The bird was back. It easily made its way through the triangle-hole, flitting from floor to chair to basket to nest and back down and out again.
We are all on lookout these days—watching and waiting, wondering what’s next.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com May, 2007)
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Thursday, May 17, 2007
The Trees and the Forest
There are two kinds of people—those who focus on the forest, and those who see the trees. I am a tree person. I always have been. It’s not that I don’t value the forest or appreciate its importance. Quite the contrary. I’ve spent a good part of my life trying, as best I can, to be more of a forest person. And though over the years I’ve become better at viewing the whole, it is not something that comes naturally to me. I suppose it never will. But oh, I see the trees, with such ease…
I’ve always felt that my tendency to drift to the minutiae in life was a shameful flaw, something that required correction like blurry vision or crooked teeth. The old saying, ‘you can’t see the forest for the trees’ implies that those who attend to details miss the critical global picture. While there may be some truth to that, the reverse is also true. Those who focus solely on the larger perspective miss the important little stuff—the ordinary snippets that make up life.
My fascination with detail goes way back. As a school kid, I felt great satisfaction when, after countless mistakes, I finally solved an algebra problem. I remember my obsession with a particularly tedious high school art project where I copied the pointillism technique of painter Georges Seurat, dabbing hundreds of tiny dots with the tip of my brush to create a picture. And while I can’t say I enjoyed memorizing dates and useless facts, it is something that came fairly easily to me.
Even now, in my professional life, I have to gear up for work that requires a broader mindset. For the most part I manage this forest-related work quite well. But the things I most enjoy require steadfast attention to detail—proofreading, editing, developing work plans, coordinating events, writing proposals and project reports—dull, thankless tasks to many people, but not to me.
In my personal life, I enjoy organizing things, making lists, tidying up chaos. Attention to detail has its positive side, as I have a complete photographic record of my family life—first feedings and steps, birthdays, school concerts, snowstorms, Halloween, Christmas, family vacations to places like Puerto Rico, Wellfleet and Acadia, Nova Scotia, San Francisco, and the Grand Canyon.
The inner workings of my meticulous mind are preserved in my journals—one for jotting amusing quotes from my kids, another for copying favorite passages from books, one for my attempts at poetry, still another (kept in my purse) to capture ideas that come to me throughout the course of the day. I am at the peak of bliss in these moments. What could possibly be better to a tree person than to mull over details, pore over phrases, wonder over words? To spend endless hours writing, revising, editing, getting everything ‘just so.’ To conjure up, not just an adequate word, but a preeminent one—the one that was meant to be written, the one that perfectly, wholly expresses.
But of course a person’s focus in life isn’t really as simple as forest vs. trees. There are many intriguing shades in between, and shifts at different points along the way. The extremes are merely tendencies, the way we might view a situation, tackle a problem, notice (or ignore) something that crosses our path. As for me—I tend toward the trees, I bend into branches, I lean into leaves. I suppose I always will.
I’ve always felt that my tendency to drift to the minutiae in life was a shameful flaw, something that required correction like blurry vision or crooked teeth. The old saying, ‘you can’t see the forest for the trees’ implies that those who attend to details miss the critical global picture. While there may be some truth to that, the reverse is also true. Those who focus solely on the larger perspective miss the important little stuff—the ordinary snippets that make up life.
My fascination with detail goes way back. As a school kid, I felt great satisfaction when, after countless mistakes, I finally solved an algebra problem. I remember my obsession with a particularly tedious high school art project where I copied the pointillism technique of painter Georges Seurat, dabbing hundreds of tiny dots with the tip of my brush to create a picture. And while I can’t say I enjoyed memorizing dates and useless facts, it is something that came fairly easily to me.
Even now, in my professional life, I have to gear up for work that requires a broader mindset. For the most part I manage this forest-related work quite well. But the things I most enjoy require steadfast attention to detail—proofreading, editing, developing work plans, coordinating events, writing proposals and project reports—dull, thankless tasks to many people, but not to me.
In my personal life, I enjoy organizing things, making lists, tidying up chaos. Attention to detail has its positive side, as I have a complete photographic record of my family life—first feedings and steps, birthdays, school concerts, snowstorms, Halloween, Christmas, family vacations to places like Puerto Rico, Wellfleet and Acadia, Nova Scotia, San Francisco, and the Grand Canyon.
The inner workings of my meticulous mind are preserved in my journals—one for jotting amusing quotes from my kids, another for copying favorite passages from books, one for my attempts at poetry, still another (kept in my purse) to capture ideas that come to me throughout the course of the day. I am at the peak of bliss in these moments. What could possibly be better to a tree person than to mull over details, pore over phrases, wonder over words? To spend endless hours writing, revising, editing, getting everything ‘just so.’ To conjure up, not just an adequate word, but a preeminent one—the one that was meant to be written, the one that perfectly, wholly expresses.
But of course a person’s focus in life isn’t really as simple as forest vs. trees. There are many intriguing shades in between, and shifts at different points along the way. The extremes are merely tendencies, the way we might view a situation, tackle a problem, notice (or ignore) something that crosses our path. As for me—I tend toward the trees, I bend into branches, I lean into leaves. I suppose I always will.
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
Best Time to Be a Mom is Now
The other day my 16-year-old son and I were driving down our street when I spotted a young boy scooting along in his Little Tykes car. The sight of my now-driving son alongside the toddler-driver no doubt struck me. “Oh look, how cute,” I cooed. The boy looked up at us, brown eyes peering from under shaggy bangs.
My son looked over and smiled. “Do you ever wish I were that small again?” he asked. I said that while I remember with fondness the days when he and his sister were little, I like where I am now, where they are now. “No, I wouldn’t want to return to those days. Too much work,” I said. My son didn’t get it. “You mean you wouldn’t ever want to go back?” he asked, incredulous. I told him I’d go back for a day—that’s it. I wouldn’t want to relive my life.
For me, the best time as a mother has always been “now.” It was now when my children were newborn, curled up soft and sweet and warm in my arms. It was now when they first smiled and talked and took their first steps. It was now when they boarded the bus for school, and when they went away to overnight camp. It was now when I read to them at night, and when they learned to read by themselves.
It was now when they wrote a story, painted a picture, kicked a ball, sang a song. It was now when they had playmates and when they developed deep, lasting friendships. It was now even through the bad times—the tempers and tantrums and worries and stress—those challenging moments that made everything seem better by comparison.
Everything I’ve lived through, everything I’ve experienced as a mother to my children over the years has prepared me for now. And this current stage, having grown or almost-grown children, is about as good as it gets. I love seeing my children in the midst of life—experimenting, challenging, learning, growing. I love watching and wondering what’s next for them—friends they’ll meet, careers they’ll choose, places they’ll visit, families they’ll have. I love how my children and I can talk about anything, how we can be serious and funny, quiet and loud. I love all of that.
Yes, for me, the best time as a mother has always been now. I think I’ll say the same thing next year, and the year after that, and all the years that follow. At least I hope I will.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com May, 2007)
My son looked over and smiled. “Do you ever wish I were that small again?” he asked. I said that while I remember with fondness the days when he and his sister were little, I like where I am now, where they are now. “No, I wouldn’t want to return to those days. Too much work,” I said. My son didn’t get it. “You mean you wouldn’t ever want to go back?” he asked, incredulous. I told him I’d go back for a day—that’s it. I wouldn’t want to relive my life.
For me, the best time as a mother has always been “now.” It was now when my children were newborn, curled up soft and sweet and warm in my arms. It was now when they first smiled and talked and took their first steps. It was now when they boarded the bus for school, and when they went away to overnight camp. It was now when I read to them at night, and when they learned to read by themselves.
It was now when they wrote a story, painted a picture, kicked a ball, sang a song. It was now when they had playmates and when they developed deep, lasting friendships. It was now even through the bad times—the tempers and tantrums and worries and stress—those challenging moments that made everything seem better by comparison.
Everything I’ve lived through, everything I’ve experienced as a mother to my children over the years has prepared me for now. And this current stage, having grown or almost-grown children, is about as good as it gets. I love seeing my children in the midst of life—experimenting, challenging, learning, growing. I love watching and wondering what’s next for them—friends they’ll meet, careers they’ll choose, places they’ll visit, families they’ll have. I love how my children and I can talk about anything, how we can be serious and funny, quiet and loud. I love all of that.
Yes, for me, the best time as a mother has always been now. I think I’ll say the same thing next year, and the year after that, and all the years that follow. At least I hope I will.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com May, 2007)
Monday, May 14, 2007
The Downside of Distance
One of the most shameful moments in my childhood occurred on an otherwise beautiful spring day. Though much is lost to time and memory, there are some things about which I am certain. I know it was spring because cherry blossoms lined both sides of the street, one brilliantly blooming tree after the other. I know it was afternoon because I was walking home from school with my friends. And I know my silence contributed to a young girl’s pain.
A group of boys walking ahead of me spotted a girl across the street, a classmate who was often picked on. They yelled cruel taunts, then laughed and yelled some more. The girl turned briefly toward the boys and shouted something back. She was far enough away that I couldn’t clearly see her face. But her slumped shoulders and quivering, cracked voice left no doubt that she was crying. I continued to walk and look and listen and breathe in the scent of the blossoms, and then turned the corner up the street to my house.
I’m not sure what brought this sad childhood memory back to me after all these years. Perhaps it is because I’ve been thinking how distance makes people do and say things they wouldn’t otherwise do or say.
Distance made it possible for radio talk show host Don Imus—hidden behind his headphones—to spew sexist, racist comments about the Rutgers women’s basketball team. He would have never dared to say such things directly. His face-to-face meeting of apology, though of questionable sincerity, was no doubt far different in tone from his disgraceful on-air behavior.
Distance makes drivers do things they’d never consider if they were not in their cars, safely removed from the target of their rage. Can you imagine someone cursing and yelling at a person for moving too slowly on the sidewalk? It just wouldn’t happen. But people feel free to rant and rave, speeding along anonymously down the highway.
The distance of modern communication enables people to say things better left unsaid. When I was a kid I was told if you can’t say something nice about someone then don’t say anything at all. That rule still applies, but these days we need to add another one— “don’t e-mail, instant message, blog or text message anything you wouldn’t say to someone’s face.”
It is far too easy to send off an angry e-mail from the safety of a computer screen. It happens so quickly, takes little thought. I would have forever damaged friendships had I had access to a computer growing up. I remember times when, after fighting with a friend, I’d scribble a letter in a fit of anger. But by the time I’d poured out my feelings, folded the note, stuffed and licked the envelope and made my way to the corner mailbox, I no longer felt the need to send it.
I got a break from distance this past week, spending some slow quiet time walking around the block with my husband, taking in the beauty of these early spring days. Though there are no cherry blossoms on our street, the forsythia bush is starting to bloom and the tulips are beginning to poke through the beds. Up close, I notice things—a cardinal resting on a branch, a man raking his yard, a little dog running down the street. I see the smiles on my neighbors’ faces, I stop to say hello. Up close is different than distance. Up close I can see and hear and feel so many things.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com May, 2007)
A group of boys walking ahead of me spotted a girl across the street, a classmate who was often picked on. They yelled cruel taunts, then laughed and yelled some more. The girl turned briefly toward the boys and shouted something back. She was far enough away that I couldn’t clearly see her face. But her slumped shoulders and quivering, cracked voice left no doubt that she was crying. I continued to walk and look and listen and breathe in the scent of the blossoms, and then turned the corner up the street to my house.
I’m not sure what brought this sad childhood memory back to me after all these years. Perhaps it is because I’ve been thinking how distance makes people do and say things they wouldn’t otherwise do or say.
Distance made it possible for radio talk show host Don Imus—hidden behind his headphones—to spew sexist, racist comments about the Rutgers women’s basketball team. He would have never dared to say such things directly. His face-to-face meeting of apology, though of questionable sincerity, was no doubt far different in tone from his disgraceful on-air behavior.
Distance makes drivers do things they’d never consider if they were not in their cars, safely removed from the target of their rage. Can you imagine someone cursing and yelling at a person for moving too slowly on the sidewalk? It just wouldn’t happen. But people feel free to rant and rave, speeding along anonymously down the highway.
The distance of modern communication enables people to say things better left unsaid. When I was a kid I was told if you can’t say something nice about someone then don’t say anything at all. That rule still applies, but these days we need to add another one— “don’t e-mail, instant message, blog or text message anything you wouldn’t say to someone’s face.”
It is far too easy to send off an angry e-mail from the safety of a computer screen. It happens so quickly, takes little thought. I would have forever damaged friendships had I had access to a computer growing up. I remember times when, after fighting with a friend, I’d scribble a letter in a fit of anger. But by the time I’d poured out my feelings, folded the note, stuffed and licked the envelope and made my way to the corner mailbox, I no longer felt the need to send it.
I got a break from distance this past week, spending some slow quiet time walking around the block with my husband, taking in the beauty of these early spring days. Though there are no cherry blossoms on our street, the forsythia bush is starting to bloom and the tulips are beginning to poke through the beds. Up close, I notice things—a cardinal resting on a branch, a man raking his yard, a little dog running down the street. I see the smiles on my neighbors’ faces, I stop to say hello. Up close is different than distance. Up close I can see and hear and feel so many things.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com May, 2007)
Sunday, May 13, 2007
Running For My Life
This spring marks a major milestone in my life. It has been 10 years since I joined the ranks of runners, those nutty souls who brave wind and rain and cold, pounding the pavement just to break a sweat (and keep sane.)
I was late coming to this madness, well into midlife before the running bug got hold of me. It wasn’t as if I’d never been active. As a child I took swim lessons and diving, modern dance and ballet. Mostly I did the kind of non-structured activity—i.e. play—more popular back in the old days. I rode my red Schwinn around our cul-de-sac, and played kick-the-can, hide and seek and four square with the neighborhood kids from dawn till dusk.
Though active, I was never a real athlete. While I made my eighth-grade basketball team, I spent all but a few minutes of the entire season sitting on the bench. When I think about it, my stint as a bench warmer was the beginning of my more-or-less sedentary lifestyle that carried into adulthood.
I made meager attempts at establishing an exercise routine. In college, I joined a group of friends on weekend runs around the reservoir near Boston College. That lasted a few weeks. Senior year, my roommates and I took a jazz dance class. After some initial self-consciousness—it was hard dancing in front of a wall-sized mirror wearing a body-hugging leotard—I actually enjoyed it. Jazz dance, though, was not something I continued on my own, so after the class ended I reverted to my slothful ways.
In the early ‘80s I wore my Flashdance outfit, complete with white Reeboks and leg warmers, for my twice-a-week aerobics class. I jumped and kicked and sweated and twirled to the tunes of Wham. I felt the Jane Fonda burn. That routine lasted a few months.
Years later after the birth of my second child, I finally reached a day of reckoning. I knew I had to do something to get in shape. I began by walking—not the arm-pumping, power crazed sort—but the old-fashioned kind, one foot in front of the other. I’d finally found a routine I could stick with, and for years I was fairly consistent, walking several times a week. One day out of the blue, I persuaded myself to run to a tree in the distance. I walked for a few minutes and then ran to the next tree. By the third day of my walk-run routine, I was running three miles without stopping.
Once I had some running success, I actually enjoyed it. I felt energized, fit. Unlike all my previous attempts at exercise, running didn’t feel like a chore. It had become a part of my life. A few months later, I ran my first 5K race, and ran several 10Ks after that. Four years later I trained with a group of runners for the Boston Marathon raising money for a community mental health center.
Since I was sidelined with a knee injury six weeks before the race, the longest training run I was able to complete was 16 miles. When I stood at the starting line on Marathon Monday I hoped to run a few miles while taking in the excitement and cheers of the crowd. Somehow I managed to finish—a mind over matter thing, I suppose.
Though I’ll probably never run another marathon, I haven’t ruled out some shorter distance races in the future. Mostly I just feel lucky to have found a physical activity that I love. On cold or wet or oppressively humid days, I sometimes have to talk myself into getting out the door. I usually manage to do it, especially when I know my running partner is waiting for me. I run for all kinds of reasons—my health and my heart and my head. Mostly, I run for my life. Sometimes I regret all I missed out on in my younger, sedentary days. But being a late bloomer has its advantages. Spared from years of pounding the pavement, I may just have another thirty years of running left in me.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com April, 2007)
I was late coming to this madness, well into midlife before the running bug got hold of me. It wasn’t as if I’d never been active. As a child I took swim lessons and diving, modern dance and ballet. Mostly I did the kind of non-structured activity—i.e. play—more popular back in the old days. I rode my red Schwinn around our cul-de-sac, and played kick-the-can, hide and seek and four square with the neighborhood kids from dawn till dusk.
Though active, I was never a real athlete. While I made my eighth-grade basketball team, I spent all but a few minutes of the entire season sitting on the bench. When I think about it, my stint as a bench warmer was the beginning of my more-or-less sedentary lifestyle that carried into adulthood.
I made meager attempts at establishing an exercise routine. In college, I joined a group of friends on weekend runs around the reservoir near Boston College. That lasted a few weeks. Senior year, my roommates and I took a jazz dance class. After some initial self-consciousness—it was hard dancing in front of a wall-sized mirror wearing a body-hugging leotard—I actually enjoyed it. Jazz dance, though, was not something I continued on my own, so after the class ended I reverted to my slothful ways.
In the early ‘80s I wore my Flashdance outfit, complete with white Reeboks and leg warmers, for my twice-a-week aerobics class. I jumped and kicked and sweated and twirled to the tunes of Wham. I felt the Jane Fonda burn. That routine lasted a few months.
Years later after the birth of my second child, I finally reached a day of reckoning. I knew I had to do something to get in shape. I began by walking—not the arm-pumping, power crazed sort—but the old-fashioned kind, one foot in front of the other. I’d finally found a routine I could stick with, and for years I was fairly consistent, walking several times a week. One day out of the blue, I persuaded myself to run to a tree in the distance. I walked for a few minutes and then ran to the next tree. By the third day of my walk-run routine, I was running three miles without stopping.
Once I had some running success, I actually enjoyed it. I felt energized, fit. Unlike all my previous attempts at exercise, running didn’t feel like a chore. It had become a part of my life. A few months later, I ran my first 5K race, and ran several 10Ks after that. Four years later I trained with a group of runners for the Boston Marathon raising money for a community mental health center.
Since I was sidelined with a knee injury six weeks before the race, the longest training run I was able to complete was 16 miles. When I stood at the starting line on Marathon Monday I hoped to run a few miles while taking in the excitement and cheers of the crowd. Somehow I managed to finish—a mind over matter thing, I suppose.
Though I’ll probably never run another marathon, I haven’t ruled out some shorter distance races in the future. Mostly I just feel lucky to have found a physical activity that I love. On cold or wet or oppressively humid days, I sometimes have to talk myself into getting out the door. I usually manage to do it, especially when I know my running partner is waiting for me. I run for all kinds of reasons—my health and my heart and my head. Mostly, I run for my life. Sometimes I regret all I missed out on in my younger, sedentary days. But being a late bloomer has its advantages. Spared from years of pounding the pavement, I may just have another thirty years of running left in me.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com April, 2007)
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