I always have high hopes heading into the last two weeks of the year. No matter what, I always look upon this time of year as my cherished opportunity to find a cozy spot in the house and just READ.
Mostly, I let myself read after I’ve posted for the evening. Believe me, I don’t get very far, since I usually fall asleep within about five minutes. But see, between Christmas and New Years each year, I actually bring my book downstairs! It’s allowed to mingle outside the bedroom, which increases its potential for being picked up and read rather significantly.
The fiction I’m reading at the moment is The Fifth Season by N. K. Jemisin. It’s the first in a trilogy, which means if I love the writing, I can look forward to months of delicious anticipation each night. So far so good.
Sunset 26 Dec 2021 – Photo: L. Weikel
Slightly Ragged Start
I have to admit that my experience of the book literally got off to a slightly ragged start. If you take a look at the photo of the book, above, you’ll see that the puppies discovered the joys of paperbacks a few weeks back. Luckily, I discovered their transgression before any words were harmed in the process.
Just in the past night or so, in spite of the ridiculously late hour I found myself sliding between the sheets and snagging a few minutes with my book, I actually managed to read enough to finally feel ‘hooked.’ Now I’m finding the book is calling to me – enticing me to ‘write already’ so I can return to the world so persuasively created by N. K. Jemisin.
Besides Reading
Besides the allure of spending unrestricted time immersing myself in another world, I’m also looking forward to breaking in a new tarot deck. It’s always fun to do a spread for the coming year, choosing a card for each month, just to get a sense of what that month might hold.
But first – during the days just after Christmas especially – it’s fascinating to go back to my notes and reflect upon the cards I chose last year. I’m finding my sense of time has been altered significantly by the pandemic. Nothing feels the same. Time doesn’t flow in the same way it used to. Not that this is a bad thing; it’s just vastly different in some ways. And I’m wondering if time will continue to feel this abstract and obtuse from here on out.
Wintry Mix
We’re supposed to get a ‘wintry mix’ of weather tomorrow. All the more reason to stay home and hunker down. I’ll watch the I AM Symposium, play some games, read some of my book – and maybe even write a little something myself.
I hope you’re giving yourself permission to do some of your favorite things this week too.
Although I’ve started a couple of posts this evening, I keep deleting them. Nothing seems relevant. Or maybe it’s more accurate to say that nothing I can think of feels worthy of my or your attention.
I’m feeling a bit distracted. I can’t put my finger on anything in particular, other than to admit that perhaps it just an overwhelming desire to lose myself in a good book.
I have about 30 pages left in the novel I’m reading, Ninth House*. I know I’ve said it before, but it just feels great every once in a while to immerse myself in story that has nothing to do with anything going on in my life at the moment. My problem (if you can call it that) is that I’m a really slow reader. If you add to that the fact that I almost never give myself permission to ‘read for pleasure’ during the day, it means it usually takes me f-o-r-e-v-e-r to finish a book. That’s especially true now that I’m writing these posts every night.
Honestly, I usually manage to read between one and two pages a night before nodding off. That is not a recipe for plowing through my list of wanna-reads at a decent clip.
Maybe if I finish this book and begin the one that’s been on deck for a good month or so, The Murmur of Bees (recommended by a dear friend whose taste I trust implicitly!), I’ll be inspired to write about something new or different.
Sometimes I find myself thinking about the way things used to be when I was growing up and I’m caught up short by just how much things have changed. For me, at least. And while I realize that’s a choice, it’s still an enormous comfort to every once in a while allow myself to experience an old-fashioned Sunday.
And actually, that’s not even accurate. I’m actually thinking about an old-fashioned summer.
I’ve written at least tangentially about some of my memories of spending summers on Cape Cod, and the lasting love I have in my heart for Nauset Light, in Eastham. Situated just down the sandy back road from our cottage, this lighthouse was (and will always be) known in our household as the “I-love-you” light.
But it occurred to me the other day as I was cruising down the potato chip aisle at the local Giant (obviously having taken a wrong turn, of course), that I don’t think I ever mentioned that the red and white iconic lighthouse on all Cape Cod potato chip bags is ‘my’ Nauset Light. It’s funny how you can look at something year after year and, because it’s familiar, somehow end up no longer seeing it.
For whatever reason, I suddenly saw it again – as Nauset Light – and a flood of memories came rushing back.
Perry Mason, too
Maybe it’s because Karl and I have been watching the new Perry Mason series on HBO that also has me strolling down this particular memory lane. (It’s a great series. I highly recommend it!)
My memories of summer from age 4 to 21 all include staying at that very same cottage on the Cape. During those intervening years, but especially when I was in those betwixt and between years of 12-13, I started to prowl through the myriad paperback books that lined the shelves of the cottage’s tiny, pine-paneled bedrooms. Amongst those shelves were a number of books by Erle Stanley Gardner, featuring Perry Mason.
I can honestly say I doubt I would ever have read any of those books had they not been part of the relatively meager selection of paperbacks available to my voracious appetite to read, read, read. (I ask you, can you think of many pleasures in life that surpass a beach read that you simply cannot put down? No. I thought not.)
And that’s part of the difference between then and now that catches me up short. Bookstores were few and far between. Access to books was nothing like it is today. This was before Borders and Barnes & Noble became ubiquitous parts of our culture, not to mention decades before Amazon was even a glint in Bezos’s eye. Indeed, one highlight I remember about the Cape was attending the local historical society’s book sale, just across the road from the (then) newly built Cape Cod National Seashore Center, where they would put out row after row of folding banquet tables in the hot sun filled with donated books of all sorts.
A Reminder Today
Which brings me to why I titled this post “Old-Fashioned Sunday.” Karl and I got up early today and mowed our lawn first thing, in spite of how dew-laden the grass was. We knew the day was going to become unbearable – and the forecast looks like tomorrow will be even worse.
After we got that task under our belt, I allowed myself to immerse myself in a book I’ve been nursing in the wee hours of the morning, after completing my blog post each night. Ah! What a great joy. I simply love giving myself enough uninterrupted time with a book to become completely consumed by the characters.
And that was my old-fashioned Sunday. A lazy, hot, humid day spent draped on our porch’s glider, ensconced amongst oversized pillows, listening to the birds and the wind chimes, entranced by a book.
It occurs to me only now that the only thing that might have made this experience even better would’ve been some Cape Cod potato chips!
That’s Merry Christmas in Swedish. I lived in Sweden during my senior year in high school. Being an exchange student was probably one of the hardest things I ever accomplished, but also one of the most fundamental to shaping who I am today.
But I’m not actually interested in focusing on myself or that part of my life tonight. I’m only thinking in terms of a Scandinavian language because I’ve been contemplating jólabókaflód, an Icelandic tradition you may have read about.
Jólabókaflód
Our family flirted with this a couple years ago, but we didn’t ensure that all complied. To be honest, I was the worst about actually permitting myself to just sit and immerse myself in the written word.
We all got books for each other that year, but only some of us spent Christmas Eve (or any other part of the holiday) reading. Others of us were still preoccupied wrapping presents and providing some technical assistance to Santa in the stocking department.
I mentioned to Karl the possibility of us embracing this again this year, but it just didn’t happen.
Realizing the Pattern
If I’m honest, I’ve known for a long time that I rarely give myself the chance to “just” sit and read. Pretty much the only dedicated time I allow myself to read (I’m talking a novel or memoir or something else that takes me ‘elsewhere’ and isn’t a newspaper or magazine article) is after I’ve written my post for the evening and crawled into bed. And the duration of that engagement is often far too short for my taste.
While it’s extremely rare for me not to allow myself to read at least a full page before falling asleep, it’s equally true that I’m often hard pressed to wedge in many more pages than one because I fall asleep mid-sentence.
I’m delighted when I hit my stride in a book and find myself unable to put it down. Yeah, man – that is the best feeling ever: finding a book you can’t put down.
Breaking Out
So, I realize my pattern. And I’m going to make a concerted effort this year to break out of that rut. I want to read more. And I want to write more. It’s as simple as that.
And while Karl and I may not have succeeded in embodying or practicing the essence (or even the superficiality) of jólabókaflód this year, I’m sensing that we may delay its implementation this year until New Year’s Eve or New Year’s Day instead. Just because we dropped the ball tonight does not mean we can’t pick it back up over the next several days and run with it.
I feel an aspiration coming on: 2020 may just be the year I do a deep dive into words.
My own personal (and perhaps enduring?) jólabókaflód.
I suppose, instead of titling this post A Stark Reminder, I could also have called it A Stark Realization.
Both the reminder and the realization have to do with the way life used to be. The really and truly completely different way we lived our daily lives before cell phones.
Good grief, I know; I hear myself! I sound like some old coot opining from her rocking chair as she watches life parade past her from the comfort of her porch.
<<Wait a minute…Too close for comfort…>>
Can’t Remember the Last Time
I can’t remember the last time I allowed myself to sit and read a novel, non-stop, for close to four hours straight.
As I’ve mentioned a bazillion times in these posts (that’s what happens when you write every day – you discover the shockingly limited repertoire of your daily thoughts), reading and writing are two of my top favorite activities in the whole world. And I used to read non-stop. And while it’s true, I take a book everywhere I go, (always have and always will – thank you for that habit, Mommy), I’m chagrined to admit that a vast amount of potential book time is usurped by those fleeting, yet oh-so-seductive siren calls, “I’ll just check the headlines first. And see whether I’ve received any emails. Oh! So-and-so texted me, I better write back…”
Anyway, today I was at a place where there is ‘no service.’ Yea! After making the strikingly uncharacteristic decision not to write in my journal before doing anything else, I planted myself practically in the middle of the creek, my perch on a boulder made more comfortable through use of a backjack, and r-e-a-d.
Unexpected Resistance
It was strange, too. I could feel my inherent discomfort in applying my attention to a long-term task . The first hour or so, I probably looked up, shifted my position, talked to myself, and otherwise distracted myself every five to ten minutes. It was ridiculous.
Eventually, though, it was as if my brain and psyche remembered ‘the good old days’ when I would sit and read for hours and hours on end, and I found that old groove again.
Heaven!
I’m currently in the midst of reading a couple of books at the same time. But the one I immersed myself in today would probably be loved by many of you: The Overstory by Richard Powers.
Ooooh! It’s so delicious. And like all great novels, the deeper you get into it, the more you find it nearly impossible to tear yourself away from it.
The coolest thing, I think, is realizing there’s a connection between the books I’m reading – even if, at first glance, one might think they’re going to be radically different. When you realize that the non-fiction book you’re reading is saying one thing, and the novel that’s begged to be read is pretty much saying the same thing, only displaying it via fictional characters – you know you’re being sent a message.
Where I Am
I’m in a state of bliss, having taken a deep dive into the essence of The Overstory and realized I’m getting a message. A consistent message. From a variety of sources.
But this day, I managed to slow myself down, remember the way life used to be when we weren’t tethered to the sugar-water bait of the cell phone, and immersed myself in other worlds for a while.
I didn’t mean to go off on a tangent about Nauset Light like I did last night. I guess it was a memory I wanted to savor again, as I haven’t thought about the “I – love – YOU” light and the delight it brought my mother for a long time.
Thank you for taking that little detour with me.
What I originally intended to write about was the delectable experience of having days upon days to read a stack of books.
It’s been a long time since I’ve honestly experienced that freedom.
And the freedom I’m talking about is, when it comes right down to it, internal freedom.
It’s not as if I have any outside authority forbidding me from reading or restricting access to books. It’s my own judgment on where my time would best be spent.
I’ve been reading the same book (Come of Ageby Stephen Jenkinson) for almost three months. That’s ridiculous, even for a slow reader like me. Granted, the prose is not light and breezy. It’s dense and ripe with perspectives that demand contemplation. It’s definitely not a summer ‘whodunnit.’ And I must admit, I’m enjoying the urge to ponder that this book engenders.
The truth is two-fold:
First, while I’m delighted that I’ve managed to write 244 consecutive daily blog posts, and I’m stoked that I’ve fallen into a reasonably predictable pattern of reliability, it’s also true that by the time I get everything written and ‘shared’ each evening, I only have the energy to read at most about two pages of my book before falling asleep mid-sentence. Given that the book is 388 pages, it’s no darn wonder I’ve been reading it for three months.
But the second truth is more damning. The second truth is that the apparent lack of time to read I now experience as a result of my writing is baloney. I’m simply expressing in quite an obvious manner my disdain for my own self. I am the warden of my own ‘no time for reading’ jail.
And the irony is that I aspire to write. Therefore, I know that one of the greatest assets to my career is allowing myself to read copiously. So my resistance to permitting myself to return to those languid days of endless reading is not even logical from a practical perspective.
It’s just mean. Mean to myself.
Quite obviously, I need to reprioritize my life. I need to put reading and writing at the very top of my list. For as much as I’m asking myself to be kind to myself, it’s not easy.
It’s almost the middle of July and we have no plans for a vacation in the foreseeable future. That fact, in and of itself, is not all that big of a deal for me. It’s not as if I’ve felt a sense of deprivation if we didn’t take a vacation every year – and there have been a decent number of years when we didn’t ‘go anywhere’ or ‘do anything’ of note.
No…
The dissatisfaction underlying my grousing is the distinct lack of an opportunity (either in the recent past or the foreseeable future) to languorously curl up with a good book and just read and read and read and read until I’m not quite sure who I am anymore. Then fall asleep. And then read and read and read some more upon waking.
My fondest memories of summer vacations were days on end spent reading book after book with no agenda but to move on to the next one.
Summers on Cape Cod
I was lucky enough, being the youngest of five kids, to have parents who, by the time they had me, were able to afford to take quite a lovely vacation. We rented a cottage from family friends near Nauset Light, in North Eastham, Massachusetts. We first started going to this cottage back in 1962 or 1963 – which would mean I was three or four years old – and I’m pretty sure we only stayed a long weekend. Or a week at the most.
It felt perfect to me, although I always, without fail, cried a bit when vacation would end (regardless of how long it had been), when I ‘had to say goodbye to the ocean.’
The Cliff
One of the most remarkable memories from those earliest of years is how the cottage was situated only yards from the edge of the sandy cliff that plunged – 80 feet? – down to the beach. Someone had affixed a rope to a spike at the top to help people climb up the cliff from the beach (a reality that would cause environmentalists nowadays to blanch).
Anyway, as a little kid, I remember easily scampering up the cliff without the aid of the knotted rope.
Another absolutely precious memory from those vacations (which extended right up to and beyond when I was 21 and went to that same cottage with Karl on our honeymoon), was Nauset Light. (Believe it or not, this is the very same light that is featured on all the bags of Cape Cod Potato Chips.)
Photo: Sandboard.com
Nauset Light
Back when we first started spending time at the Cape, every dusk, the light would come on. It would blink three times, then a ‘pause’ would occur as the lights rotated around, and then another three blinks…over and over again. The rhythm of the light was wonderfully reassuring, especially since my mother called it the “I – love – you” light.
I’m sure she started the tradition of watching those three strong beams of light gliding steadily and relentlessly out across the waves, one-two-three, then sweeping across the tops of the pine trees behind the cottage, and began the tradition of saying, “I…love…you!” while sitting with me. She soon extended that delightful while holding my nieces, as they gradually came upon the scene three and then four years later.
It became a maternal tradition within our family, whenever a baby or toddler would cry or become anxious in the middle of the night, to stand outside in the fragrant sea breeze, baby on hip, swaying in that way that just happens, listening to the waves of the Atlantic crashing on the shore. And we would wait for it, wait for it… then blink! Blink! Blink!
“I. Love. YOU!” Chortles of delight eventually gave way to murmured repeats of the affectionate declaration, then slowly, slowly eyelids would reluctantly close.
Reading
Finally. Before I took this meander down memory lane, I began this post thinking about the absolute indulgence of reading my fill of book after book while spending time at the Cape. Now I’m filled with memories of my mom. From my love of reading to the I Love You light, I miss her so much.
I can’t remember the last time I just had days stretched out before me when I could read to my heart’s content and not feel the pull to pay attention to anyone or anything other than what the next chapter might reveal. What a luxury. What an opportunity for indulgence in one of my favorite pastimes.
My Mood, due to frustration over not being able to get the photo at the end of this post to rotate to an upright position!
Photo: Green Renaissance
Random Thoughts
I’m feeling a little fuzzy or something.
No, fuzzy doesn’t accurately capture what I’m feeling, but at the moment I can’t come up with a better adjective.
Over the past several days, I’ve sent myself a handful of emails with links to articles I’d like to include in posts I’ve yet to write. It’s funny how that works. I’ll go weeks or even months without reading anything I’d think to share with you. And then there’s a spate of ten days or a couple of weeks when practically every other day there’s an article on something I was just thinking about or contemplating writing about.
But every time I’ve thought about taking one of those ideas and running with it lately, I’ve known in my heart that I would end up writing way too much. Believe it or not, I try to keep these posts short enough for you to get through with a cup of coffee. I realize I may have been long-winded lately. So…I’ll try to keep it short tonight.
The Allure and Distraction of Reading
I read a lot. Indeed, I think that’s the worst part about Facebook for me: all the links to articles from magazines and other sources that I never would have sought out before, but which I’m now so grateful to have access to: The New York Times (no, I wasn’t a regular reader – but now I’m a subscriber), The Wall Street Journal, The Atlantic, The Daily Beast, the New Yorker, etc.
So much to read, so little time. And that’s not even counting the three or four books I have laying about the house (beside my bed, beside the chairs I sit in most often, and at least one nestled in the woven bag I take with me whenever I leave the house).
Ugh, there’s nothing worse to contemplate than being stuck somewhere without anything to read! Of course, that’s almost difficult to do nowadays, what with the access our phones give us to everything. But that ‘fear’ of realizing I have a bunch of extra time (because I ran out of gas, or a client is late, or there’s a long line at the DMV) and have forgotten to bring something to read – is a terror that dies hard – and probably never will completely.
Being Prepared
I have to laugh. I head out for the grocery store and before I get in the car I inevitably have to gather up my journal, whatever book I’m reading that calls out to me to be included on the excursion (and I am astounded at myself by how I can vacillate on making a choice between my books), and sometimes my laptop (in case, you know, I’m suddenly overcome by a desire to work on the manuscript of my next book). In spite of this, I almost never (unless I stop beside the creek first – before venturing anywhere else) stop and allow myself some truly isolated ‘me’ time. Time in which I would actually have the opportunity to select from my traveling companions the book or writing repository that called to my soul in that moment.
I have to wonder about myself. Because nine times out of ten, I return home with a couple bags of groceries in the car and am then relegated to not only hauling the bags into the house but also schlepping in the woven bag with book, journal, and laptop stuffed into it. It’s as if I just took them for a ride.
So my fuzziness that I initially alluded to was a vague sense of dismay, I think, at having to choose which among the many topics I’ve been musing over to tackle tonight.
And so I chose none of the above.
I’m going to end this (mercifully for you) with a few quick thoughts.
A Tease About My Walking…and Then a Message
Since my birthday, I’ve been walking almost double what we used to walk – and sometimes far more than that – every day. I don’t know why. This activity-bordering-on-compulsion definitely deserves its own post. Perhaps even a couple of posts.
But today, as I was moving right along, I asked for some guidance. I pulled a card from my Crone deck that I’d never chosen before: The Emperor.
Without getting into it, and without even quoting you the deeply thought provoking text in the accompanying booklet, I will simply state that the card was all about setting up boundaries – and finding my power within that act. Creating order; claiming authority; establishing the world.
And then I encountered these clouds not five minutes after reading those words and contemplating the need to establish structure, discipline, and order to my world:
Oooh, Valentine’s Day. It’s never been a favorite holiday of mine, I have to admit. If I could forget it, I probably would.
From the very first ‘celebrations’ in elementary school, I could take it or leave it. (If you can even call the mass card swapping event, with givers’ names usually haphazardly scrawled without any personalization, words of affection, or even friendship, designed to keep everyone feeling good and no one left out, a ‘celebration’.) I never received a valentine that even vaguely resembled the hype we were taught or made me think there might be some classmate secretly hoping I would be their special sweetie.
And there was definitely the sense of impending doom given off by those who, in retrospect, probably never received a heartfelt expression of love or curiosity from a classmate, especially at that age. In fact, some were almost certainly living in environments that didn’t include being told they were loved by anyone, much less a secret someone their own age. There are a few kids I remember from those days, whom I wish I could go back and be kinder to. I had no idea some of my classmates had to endure cruelty and abuse every day. It was inconceivable to me that anyone’s parent could be mean and horrible to a little kid.
The Pressure Builds
In junior and senior high school the pressure only became greater; the hype more intense. In junior high school (7thand 8thgrade), a valentine could be monumental. It could indicate a willingness to maybe be ‘liked’ by somebody. <<shivers>>
But by senior high school, if you were in a relationship, the pressure was on.
To be honest? I cannot remember one single Valentine’s Day card or gift I received in my youth or young adulthood. Which is kind of sad when you think about how pressure-filled the days leading up to it often felt.
All of which leads me to the debacle that was my first Valentine’s Day with Karl. We’d met in September, right after I’d arrived on campus at Penn State, fresh from my year as an exchange student in Sweden. Karl was a ‘night receptionist’ in my dorm. Yeah, back then we needed knights waiting patiently in our lobbies, checking residents’ keys, making sure no males were walking around ‘unescorted,’ essentially acting as Guardians of our Virtue.
Anyone who knows us can just imagine the grief I gave him when the elevator doors opened and I first laid eyes on him sitting facing those doors – and noticed that his eyes were closed. And noticed his breathing was decidedly rhythmic.
“Hey!” I called out, startling him awake. “We’re all going to get raped and it’s going to be your fault.” Yes, those were the first words I lobbed at the man who would end up fathering my children years later.
The Stirrings of a Life-long Love
It took a while, I’ll admit. It’s not as though we swept each other off our feet immediately. (Although I fell way faster than I wanted – and expected – having sworn off long-term relationships after being dumped long distance while I was in Sweden.) But that night receptionist’s job of his gave us a lot of opportunity to sit and talk. And talk. And argue. And talk. And…really get to know each other.
Suffice it to say, by February, we were well on our way to having more than an inkling that our mutual future might hold great promise.
Cue Valentine’s Day.
Oh yeah. I felt pressure. What to get this handsome, sensitive, intelligent guy that would let him know I was really falling for him, but wouldn’t scare him away?
Well, one of the things that we could talk about for hours and hours and hours, indeed well into the wee hours of the morning, was our love of books. And this was before the advent of the big box bookstores such as Borders or Barnes & Noble. Or (obviously) Amazon. Back then people were much less likely to own a lot of books. Rather, they went to the library. So owning books was a treat.
Somehow or another, I’m sure as a result of our long and luxurious conversations (I could with some snark say, “…from listening to him…”), I knew he would love the Foundationtrilogy by Isaac Asimov.
Beginning an ‘Illustrious’ Tradition
When the day arrived, he came up to my room and we shyly exchanged our gifts. My heart soared. I could tell from the shape and size of what he handed me that he, too, had thought to give the gift of a book. “Mmm,” I thought. “We’re on the same page. We love the same things.”
Imagine my surprise, then, when I opened my gift.
Yes. This is the very first gift Karl ever gave me for Valentine’s Day. And not only was this his actual gift to me (I thought he was kidding – he had to be kidding, right?), he was not kidding; he thought it was cute.
Somehow, we managed to survive that debacle. (I have to admit; it floored me – for many reasons, as you might imagine.) And we began a tradition of giving each other books that has lasted many years.
Receipt of “I’m a Fridgit,” however, did begin a reign of terror that has haunted our personal enjoyment of the 14thof February. I say that, and it’s true to a degree; but honestly? It’s a great story. And for that, I love him. That and his quirky sense of romance.
Quirky. Yeah. That’s the ticket.
Tomorrow will be our 41stValentine’s Day together. I’m waiting with baited breath. (Not.) But maybe we’ll take a ride to the bookstore in Peddler’s Village, or Farley’s, or Doylestown Book Shoppe. At least we’re lucky to have small, independent, wonderful book shops near us!
May you celebrate your love with a sense of humor and a deliciously good book.
