WordsRunTogether

A couple months ago I decided to take a sabbatical from my usual schedule to get ahead on a couple of major writing projects. I don’t know why this never occurred to me before. Actually, I do. I’ve never had a paid vacation day in my life. Such is the downside of self-employment. But the upside is I get to work in my jammies and slippers a lot, so who’s complaining?

For six weeks I’ve been fantasizing about February 1, first day of my new life putting my poetry manuscript and another manuscript front and center. My plan for Day One was something like this: Send the kids off to school, come home, grab a cup of coffee, sit in my favorite chair, journal and laptop at the ready, and then just…think. If I felt like writing private thoughts, I’d grab my journal. If I felt like tackling my manuscripts or blog, I’d turn on the laptop. The main thing was to start the day and then see what happened (in the midst of what was sure to be gleeful giddiness). Once the sun warmed the road, up the mountain the dog and I would go. I also was (can’t believe I’m saying this) jonesing to do some deep cleaning around the house.

On January 31, I worked from before dawn to after sundown, finishing projects for a client. I had a great sense of accomplishment, not only for checking off everything on my to-do list, but also knowing that I was leaving them well equipped for the future. The next day was Freedom!

No ski traffic, despite the $20 lift tickets at Loveland. Musta been the overnight low of -20 or maybe the -30 to -40 wind chill?

And then along came reality. About a week before my sabbatical start, my doctor had told me to quit caffeine, cold turkey. An arctic cold front moved in on January 31, shutting down businesses and schools. My youngest came down with a wicked cold. February 1 dawned at about 18 below zero. No coffee to help me peel my eyes open. School was closed. I spent the day helping my youngest tackle an overwhelming reading assignment of 100 pages, all while administering chicken soup and hot chocolate. The only thinking I did was wondering how so much dust and so many down feathers could accumulate under the bed, as I did manage to deep clean a bathroom and bedroom between making lunches, letting the dog out for 5 minute intervals so her paws wouldn’t freeze, and whipping up a dinner of pork chops, gravy, rice, and broccoli for my hungry peeps. In all, a good day. But I didn’t write a word.

I think it was John Lennon who said “Life is what happens to you when you’re making other plans.” So true. The trick, I think, is to recognize the need to surrender, go with the flow, and see the blessing you didn’t intend to enjoy that day but got to experience in spite of your grand schemes. I got to sit in a cozy chair with one of my favorite people on the planet. I got to experience Nature with her game face on. I cleaned my room and actually made it through the day without falling asleep. And I got to feed my brood some comfort food on a frigid winter’s night.

Not bad for an unplanned miracle or two.

Still a pretty good day!

So this is winter on the north side of the mountain I live on: Sun, wind, wind, snow, wind, sun, wind, wind, wind. The wind rages all day and all night. It blows when the weather turns warmer. It continues blowing to keep the temperature above freezing. It blows for so many days in a row, you start begging God for snow. Arctic cold. Any relief at all.

I’m not talking about a gentle breeze kept honest by a few mild gusts. I’m talking push-the-solid-teak-bench-across-the-entire-length-of-the-porch gusts. I’m talking it’s-a-wonder-the-six-burner-gas-grill-hasn’t-come-through-the-sliding-glass-door-yet wind. Thank God for locking casters is all I can say. 

When we first moved here my husband and I kept exchanging looks like “There must be some mistake.” What a weird winter, we’d say to one another, nervously. Wow, this is one for the books, eh?

But we knew. I think after the second year of the neighbor clocking 85-mph gusts on his rooftop, we knew. This was no anomaly. This was How It Is Here.

Some mornings we’d wake up and find half a dozen lodge pole pines snapped like 30-foot toothpicks and scattered across the property. Or swinging in the power lines. I told my husband, You know you’re a real man when you have to get out the chainsaw before breakfast just so you can get up the driveway to work!

From October to April, the wind often blows so hard at night, it shakes the bed. Our bedroom faces west, three stories up, and the assault is brutal. We now know the joists are reinforced with hurricane straps. We learned all kinds of interesting tidbits about architecture up here. We learned that a picture window that heaves in and out in a windstorm is one that won’t end up in your lap, even when your heart screams, “Here it comes, this is it!” We learned that no matter how many times you replace the sash on the sliding windows, if the frame was put in crooked, you have a leaky window for life, my friend. Better buy some extra-wide weather stripping.

We also learned that there hasn’t been a wind cover invented yet that can keep the gas fireplace lit on nights like these. We’ve learned that a wind cover sailing through the air at 65 mph can kill anything in its path. We learned that even the wind covers on the huge fireplaces on the McMansions up the street can tear like aluminum foil in the right conditions. Around here, the first thing you do when you wake up is relight the water heater. In spring, while other people are gathering tulips, we gather shreds of roof shingles.

Over time, I’ve learned to walk in this. If I didn’t, I’d go weeks without exercise outside. Yes, I’ve done plenty of time on the treadmill, but prefer fresh air—even if it’s coming at me at 35 mph. I have my nice-day route (the old narrow road) and my windy-day route (the wide new road, where the trees won’t fall on me when they snap). I know every squeaky tree along the way. A tree trunk that’s already cracked creaks in the wind and will soon be a roadside casualty. I give them wide berth.

And every year, right about this time, I start to think about summer. Deep inside, I’m all about Maui. That inner beach keeps me hopeful so I can quit whining about the weather. Because, really, I wouldn’t trade my problems with anyone. Life is, really, very very good. And brisk!

My neighborhood

A couple weeks ago it was 8 degrees when I set out for my walk with the dog. My family and I had just been skiing for a couple days, so I had pretty much become one with my ski pants and coat. It was a nice walk and I didn’t even notice that the temperature had a dropped a few degrees in the meantime. Same thing the next day, when we set out at zero degrees, although we did two short walks so Molly had time to defrost her paws and pick out the snowballs between her toes.

Then I really got into a writing project I’ve been trying to complete for some months. Let’s just say I didn’t step outside for a couple days. Part of the reason I did so well was no doubt those wintry walks. But then I got on a roll at the computer. So for two and half days I stayed in a chair.

What a difference a healthy habit makes. Three days later the temp was around 25 degrees and windy. Granted I wasn’t bundled up like before, but my tolerance was wimp-like at best. Moral of the story? Stay fit, my friends, and keep up your good habits.

But can I say this about that: What the hell? It seems like to make headway in one area of my life I have to lose ground in another. On the days when I do it all—exercise, write, clean, cook, work—I feel balanced but all I do is tread water. I don’t make any real headway in any one direction. Am I the only one who goes through this? It seems that in order to move ahead in one area of my life, I have to hit the gas and bear down on it like an escaped convict gunning for the border, racing past all other duties or projects, until I cross the finish line.

Maybe I have ADD and can only progress when I’m totally immersed in something. Maybe I have a feeble mind and am easily distracted by shiny objects. (Ok, the part about the shiny objects is definitely true, but come on!) Or maybe it’s just my creative groove, simply how I roll.

I have to admit, I hate being interrupted when I’m working on something. If a friend calls me when I’m really absorbed in writing, I answer the phone in such a voice that the first thing they ask is “Are you okay?!” Evidently I sound like I’m grieving. In a way I am grieving…that elusive thought that just turned to vapor when the phone rang! I like to think I’m quite attentive to my muse, but maybe I’m just getting too old to sustain a thought. Oy!

It could be that winter is no time for balance. If “to everything there is a season,” balance is probably better suited for summer, when the days are longer and you have a wider playing field. Instead winter is better for introspection, a good time to go deep within…your mind, your home or bed covers, or even a good book. Face it, winter is the best time to clean out closets—why waste daylight and warm weather on that chore? When the elements are harsher, it’s like nature is warning us not to venture out too far.

So maybe I just need to keep working in streaks and let the finished products pile up beside the undone and quit worrying about it.

Hmmmm, I’ll have to think about that tomorrow when I’m out for my walk.