Not five days ago, the dribbles and drabs of fall: the gradual gilding of the walnut trees on my parkway, the sudden appearance of marauding magpies and squirrels as the few walnuts hit the ground. I was scrambling to get the perennials cut back and the garden harvested of the last of the tomatoes, zucchini and broccoli. And scrambling to eat all those fresh veggies. Such a bittersweet challenge.

The weatherman warned of cold and wet and maybe, even snow. Time to dig carrots. All summer I had barely looked at the row of carrots, except to thin them the first time. I never did get around to thinning them again, as I wanted, so I never did look too close at the row out of guilt of my neglect. Besides, we had all we could do to keep up with all the bounty of vegetables we had: broccoli, chard, lettuce, radishes, green onions, spinach, cabbage, tomatoes and zucchini.

My husband ended up doing the digging in the rain. After washing and sorting them, he left them on the lawn until I returned from taking my mother shopping. I was so surprised at the simple beauty of that pile of near perfect tangerine-colored carrots. We’ve planted carrots every year for decades and never have we had such straight, perfect carrots.

For years and years, we’ve gathered the rocks up from the soil hoping to eliminate all the crocked, deformed carrots. We’ve fought ants and bad germination and just not growing. (last year).

I could write an ode to the carrots. They are that beautiful but all I can think of is carrot cupcakes with cream cheese frosting.

I’ve been so busy the last couple of weeks working on my writing, half the time I feel out of breath. I’m doing another great workshop with Melanie Faith called Following the Golden Thread: A Tapestry of Poetry and it is marvelous. Deliciously inspiring and the book we’re using for our text just like my carrots. Simply perfection. Each chapter is a gem. The Try This sections giving me so many ideas I’ll never get to the all.

Poetry always kicks up my energy and my productivity in my writing. I need to remember that and always have a poem going.

The workshop opportunity didn’t come at the best of times, but I wanted to do it and my husband said something so smart. “You get feedback here, where you don’t get a lot of feedback from the novels and even when you do, it is so delayed that it almost doesn’t count. You need this to feed the rest.” Smart man.

Still, because I’m determined to finish, Ellie and the Tie-down Man and get it out there in the world, (It’s a principle or goal or…One more thing I promised I’d accomplish, if I got better. It near broke my heart when I packed all the research, drafts, notes and copies away. I wasn’t sure whether I would ever finish and the novel was right there at the spot of needing just a bit of tender care to finish.) I’m working on the novel, too. It means working on the novel in the mornings and the poetry in the afternoons and still doing my other jobs. (Those jobs don’t pay either—you know, chief cook and bottlewasher, caregiver, go-to person.)

And above all, don’t stress. Do I look stressed?

I feel—spun. Good, but dizzy. And that is seed of my poem for this week.

Interruptions and Distractions

All writers deal with interruptions and distractions, but writers who write from home are in guerilla warfare.

It happens, sometimes once a week, sometimes many more. That interruption, the one that breaks your concentration and stops that flow, so hard-won.

Distractions are roadblocks, out to derail. They’re sly and chameleon-like, masquerading as something important or tantalizing. That e-mail could be important, that breaking news, significant. It’s true. The ‘just-one-game’ does sound fun, relaxing and harmless.

I’m not sure exactly what I battle most, myself or outside sabotage. I want to write. When I’m writing, I know I’m doing what I was born to do, what all my little cells came together to make: a writer. But I also know: that was not exclusive. It was never intended, that that was all I would be. I was supposed to be a mother, too. So, that sort of follows, I was supposed to be a wife. And when I came into this life, I was a daughter, a sister, an animal lover.

All these different roles I play are important to me. They are where my soul lives.

But that is what a writer is, isn’t it? Someone who is plopped down in this world to record. Whether fiction or fact. A writer observes and writes that observation down the way they see it—fiction or fact. That is the writer’s unique viewpoint. (and boy do all those roles give me golden grist.)

I usually know exactly what I intend to write, too. Finding a subject has never been the thing that keeps my fingers from flying across the keyboard. It’s more insidious that that.

Interruptions do come, sometimes once a day, sometimes they pile up. The phone calls, other’s thoughtlessness, others ‘emergencies.’ You know the ones I mean—Dear Abby, even got a letter about a writer’s husband calling from the office, asking this writer to bring him something he forgot from home. Abby had tough answers, too.

This is what I’ve figured out over the last thirty years of writing from home: It’s choice. The writer has full charge of what she/he lets into her job area. It’s about making boundaries, priorities and choices.

Life is a series of interruptions and distractions, especially now, with all the technology that also makes it so much easier on writers. (Can you imagine not being able to cut and paste, copy, and move about on the page at will?) So, the real trick is harnessing all the helpful stuff and putting all the distractions and interruptions in priority order.

You have to know and act on what you really want to do.

Interruptions use to make me angry, which like domino’s dropped minutes of productive writing one after another while I fumed. I was good at fuming. Had it down. Thing is, fuming did worse by my writing than any interruption.

Some interruptions are better dealt with immediately. Then, move on. Some interruptions are really an opportunity for a teaching session to the interrupter and some interruptions are best ignored. The writer has to figure out which is which, depending on their priorities.

Learning to accept interruptions, the ones that must be dealt with immediately, can get you back on track and focused. That’s the ultimate goal, isn’t it?

Making firm written lists of priorities and goals helps with choices when tempted by time-wasting distractions.

Those who learn to focus, who honor their priorities have the edge.

Happy are those who dream dreams and are willing to pay the price to make them come true. Anon

Keep writing. Keep doing it and doing it. Even in the moments when it’s so hurtful to think about writing. —Heather Armstrong.

Walking for the Cure

It looked like a flock of flamingos. A sea of pink headed for a pink and white balloon arch as the five-mile walk got started. I’ve wanted to join the walk for six years, since my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer. I thought it would be something I could do: walk, donate money, join others in the group.

I didn’t expect it to be emotional, still. I thought by now, emotions had burned away. The worse was behind us. My mom had won the battle, given her age. She will likely die of old age, not breast cancer. As Lynn Redgrave said in an old ad for breast cancer awareness, she wants to die of anything other than breast cancer. Me, too. Old age sounds good.

We got through surgery and recovery, drains and doctor visits and fear and worry. We’d come out on the other side, tattered, yet we’d done a good job darning the holes. They’re still there, but one would hardly notice.

As I looked at the faces of the other walkers—I already knew the faces of my loved one—it struck me. Mine and my daughter-in-laws stories were personal, but the walk put hundreds of faces to hundreds of stories as personal as ours.

The four sisters with a picture of their mom printed on the back of their pink shirts. The woman pushed in a wheelchair, her hair wrapped in a bright pink scarf. The four members of Creative Wigs walking in outrageous pink wigs, looking marvelous from behind until I realized they were, all four, bearded men supporting their clients. The women sporting bright pink feather boas. The woman who walked the whole way pushing a walker. The large group walking in memory of Gary. (Yes, men can die of breast cancer) Those who walked for their friend, for their co-workers, their teacher.

Even the team names tell stories: For the Girls, Cheering for a Cure, A Little Help From My Friends, Save the Ta Ta’s, Save the World, Fight Like a Girl, Doin’ the Walk for Dot!, Saving Second Base, Good Karma. (Their mom's name was Karma)

It was sobering. It was uplifting.

Such a huge crowd behind one enemy and this was just one of many walks or fundraisers going on around the country this month.

Best weapon is still getting checked. Do it. Tell your mother, sister, grandmother, aunt, best friend, neighbor to get checked. Remind them, offer to take them, go with them.

As my t-shirt said: I wear pink for the fighters, the survivors, and the taken.

Words are important to me. I’m a writer; I strive to use the exact right word. Taken is the right word.

As I was thinking about why I wanted to do the walk, I thought of the true reason, my true reason:

For the Warriors, the Survivors, the Taken. For Maude, Dona,
Valentine, Candi, Erin, Jen, Amanda, Alyssa, Talia, Dani,
Marilyn, Mary, Tami, Connie, Sherry and me.
For Women Writers and Readers. For Poets. For the Supporters and the Caregivers
and all those who love them.

Fleeting Glory

Between posting my last blog and now, a mere twenty-two minutes later the rains came. A deluge, really, and the Morning Glory has melted in the rain like fine silk. I'm so glad I savored.

Savor More than Writing

October and my Heavenly Blue Morning Glory is only now coming into its own. The cool spring and early summer delayed my Blue. Though all Morning Glories love heat and need nighttime temperatures of fifty degrees or more, Heavenly Blue and the Moonflower seem to be the sticklers. My Grandpa Ott Morning Glory thrives, cropping up just about anywhere. The purple flower vines through the tomatoes, up the old metal baby crib headboard leaning against the retaining wall and through the Rose of Sharon. I love its’ serendipitous nature. I do, but at times, it’s too much.

I was afraid I wouldn’t get even one start of my Heavenly Blue coming and until just a few weeks ago, I was certain the vine by the shed door would turn out to be another Grandpa Ott. Oh, I planted Heavenly Blue seed there, but far too often, I’ve ended up with dark purple flowers where I envisioned sky blue. And there really is nothing to compare the impact of those satin-blue palm-sized blossoms—like pieces of sky twining on the shed trellis.

The blooms are so fleeting. Each bloom only lasts a day and the plant flowers so late I always feel the need to capture the glory with a camera. I gaze at the silky flowers as storm winds toss their edges, knowing the coming rain will be their ruin.

I’ve tried to preserve the blossoms by pressing them in my flower press, but the results are disappointing. I’ve tried to plant seed indoors so the starts are ahead of the game by the time the night temperatures are to their liking. That, too, has had mixed results.

The Morning Glory show is so welcome, so worth the wait. The rest of the garden looks tattered and shabby. Mildew has muted the zinnias. Petunias are tired. The vegetable garden has wound down which makes for some interesting vegetable heavy meals. I don’t mind, at all. Well, a bit, as I’m an elk-hunting widow this week and I can’t possible eat all the vegetables the garden is still producing. Fall lettuce is coming on, late radishes and green onions make for a great salad when I add homegrown grape tomatoes and olives.

Zucchini is wonderful sautéed with garlic and olive oil. Broccoli is at its’ best, steamed with brown butter sauce drizzled on it. And my favorite lunches is tomato salad made with sliced grape tomatoes, sliced string cheese, green onions with Italian dressing and French bread. Sometimes, I add sliced olives to the salad and toast a slice of French bread under the broiler with any cheese I have on hand on the top. A simple feast that eaten at my desk as I take advantage of the quiet. I hope to get tons of writing done.

Yet, this morning Heavenly Blue Morning Glory pulled me outside, whispering of poems and coming rain. Worse, whispering of coming winter. So, I savored.