Time to take flight

June and now half of July have rushed past. I’m afraid that summer will be a distant whistle before I get the chance to acknowledge her presence.

Still, I’ve enjoyed all the things that have kept me from those long, do-nothing summer days. The weekends have been packed with family, friends and weddings. The days filled with work, coffees, drinks, dinners and travel — all at a pace out of sync with the slowness of my writing. I need an expanse of time to form complete thoughts from words. For me it cannot be done during the 30-minute ferry ride across Lake Champlain or the 45 minutes between yoga class and my workday.

I’ve thought about slower and too-slow times in my life and wondered where the balance lies with my current constant state of motion.

I think of summers in Massena, N.Y., during my adolescence. The town had very little to offer me at 14. There were trips to the library and the beach on the shores of the Saint Lawrence River. But I didn’t care much for reading then and the river was far too cold for more than a dip. In the evenings I crossed the road and the park to my grandparents’ house to watch “Wheel of Fortune” and “Jeopardy” and on Saturday nights, “The Lawrence Welk Show.”

I remember being moderately depressed in the mornings by the expanse of time that lay before me. I tried to make the most of it. I read “Gone with the Wind” one of those summers and knit half an intricately patterned gray wool sweater. I also obsessed about irrational fears. After seeing “The Exorcist” at a friend’s house, I grew terrified of being possessed. And despite having a healthy dose of sex education, I worried that by pressing my bellybutton in just the right (or wrong) way I’d become miraculously pregnant. Without more engagement and structure, my mind roamed to dark places.

Bread Loaf blooms

It wasn’t until my mid-20s that I found the happy balance of purpose, structure and time. I started Vermont’s Bread Loaf School of English after a year of scattered work and unfocused writing. I got to the mountaintop campus in June as the fields bloomed with color. I took classes and worked as a server in the dining hall. The coursework nudged my mind away from obsession. Serving breakfast, lunch and dinner separated my days into workable bocks of free time. My writing took flight in the sunny, Adirondack-chair hours between lunch and dinner service.

My writing has come to a standstill in the past months, but thanks to those Bread Loaf summers I understand what I’m missing. Although I don’t regret the activity, I need more Adirondack-chair hours. I need to remove some structures from my day. I need to clear a runway for takeoff.

Bread Loaf path

Dragon Mama

My mother nursed all six of her children. She spent twelve years breastfeeding, sometimes two babies at once. 

In my early memories, Mama always has one of my siblings latched on for “baa baa” (like the sound of a bleating sheep). This was a name my oldest sister came up with and it stuck.

Mama was efficient and managed many things simultaneously, which was necessary with so many children and no shortcuts. She homeschooled, baked bread, sewed clothes, entertained friends. There was baa baa and spelling lessons. Baa baa and bedtime stories. Baa baa and adult conversations while her friends griped about work trouble and took comfort in beer and cigerettes. Mama listened. She never smoked and hardly ever drank.

Mama’s friends regarded her as an incarnation of the Madonna. And she could certainly be painted as the Holy Mother in broad strokes. But having been her child, I know that depiction to be too simple. While it shows Mama’s nurturing, it disregards her wrath.

Her anger came on swiftly and was over as soon as she made her point. Mama nursed us all through our teething phases and beyond. Inevitably, each of us tried out our newly cut teeth by biting Mama. 

Her reaction was always the same. She pulled away and unleashed the roar of a waking dragon. I witness the startled expressions on my younger siblings faces that gave way to scared cries. In a matter of seconds the dragon disappeared and the babies were comforted with the offer to nurse once again. They went back gently.

We were smart babies; we learned quickly and early how not to use our teeth.

Mama was a natural mother but not a saint. When I went to college, I studied Spanish in northern Chile. I learned about Incan culture and their mother goddess who reminded me of my own Mama. For the Incas, the aptly named Pachamama often appears in the form of a dragon. She invokes fertility, oversees planting and harvesting — and causes earthquakes when she feels disrespected

On fear

I dreamed last night that some one was spying on me while I lay in bed. They were peaking in my mailbox and then directly at me through a gap in my curtains. 

Upon waking, I wondered why that scenario arose. It's not one I expend much anxiety on anymore. As a child, I was much more fearful of people lurking just out of view. I spent a good bit of mental energy worrying about kidnappers. After my parents went to bed, I would sneak downstairs to make sure that the doors were locked. 

My mind could be particularly cruel. It created the Toilet Witch. She looked much like any other witch — long nose, green skin and warts — but was unusual in one regard. She lived just below the toilet bowl. The flush was her doorbell. When summoned, she would emerge and pull children down into her underworld. I got in the habit of opening the door before I flushed, and then sprinting from the bathroom like a hunted animal. 

I now tell stories about the kidnappers and the Toilet Witch. I laugh about them like they were silly juvenile preoccupations.  And they were. But those feelings of terror and anxiety have never left me. They've simply reattached to threats that seem more real to my adult mind. Current fears are always more difficult to discuss than the ones I've pondered, calculated the likeliness of and then moved to their rightful place in my hierarchy of things to fear. For example, the Toilet Witch no longer figures into my schema at all — she's not real, I've learned. And kidnappers appear near the bottom of my list. I'm well past the age of their target group. 

What's more difficult for me to discuss are the fears that have replaced those earlier ones. At 29, I'm afraid of discovering that my mind is in fact vacuous and of dying from suffocation. Both are tied to real experiences. As an asthmatic, I've had horrible, sleepless nights where I simply could not get enough air. The vice grip around my chest would not ease. I know that sweaty terror, but have always rebounded. I'm afraid that one day, especially when my body is old and weak, I  won't.

But my greatest fear lies in the suspicion that my mind is dull. This figures into the trouble I have starting big writing projects. I worry that I'll get halfway into the project and find out that I actually have nothing interesting or original to say. This anxiety drives me to avoid writing. It sends me in search of distractions like Facebook. It's the voice that tells me when I get home from work to be satisfied with just watching a movie and going to bed. 

I realize that fear will find me no matter what. It finds me in adulthood and in the world of my dreams. I think it finds everyone. It's customized. For me, it takes great courage to pick up a pen. I confront fear with every sentence I start that I don't know how to finish.

Party like the Medieval times

My favorite artwork in my childhood home depicted a Medieval wedding scene. The poster showed an entire village with a handful of weddings underway. A regal lady decked in white sat in a carriage on her way to the castle. Another couple was entering a church. But my favorite scene was toward the bottom of the poster and showed a Gypsy wedding.

A caravan was parked at the edge of town and colorfully dressed participants were roasting a pig on a spit. They looked like they were having the most fun to me. This image of community and a giant hunk of roasting meat has occupied my imagination all these years.

When my sister announced her engagement this Christmas, my first thought was that we needed to order a pig and roast it whole just like the poster. She agreed and my mother ran with the idea and ordered a rare-breed pig from an Iowa farmer. I can't wait for the celebration in June.

In the meantime, I dreamed of more meat-roasting festivities. Easter presented the perfect opportunity to buy a leg of lamb and invite friends over to partake. A week ago I started researching local Vermont farmers who were raising and selling lamb. I found the 3 1/2-pound half-leg of lamb that I was looking for at the Ayer Family Diversified Farm about 20 miles from where I live.

The farmers left the store, attached to the barn, unlocked so that I could pick up my lamb after work.  With only the light shining in from outside the window, I managed to find the freezer. Through the darkness I could hear animals trodding hay and breathing. Their nearness reminded me of biblical stories of thanksgiving and celebration associated with the slaughter of baby beasts. While many Bible stories don't make sense to me, these do. The death of one thing to nourish another. And the importance of amplifying the generosity of a young calf or lamb by generously sharing its meat with others.

I left with my lamb and spent the rest of the week plotting with a friend and soon-to-be dinner guest how best to prepare it. We settled on a simple preparation of garlic, rosemary, salt and pepper.

The carefully seasoned lamb went into the oven at noon on Easter. My guests and I cooked side dishes and drank wine while we waited for the meat to cook. A delicious smell of filled the room. When the lamb's outside was brown and inside still juicy, I sliced slabs from the bone and served. We toasted to friendship and spring — and then dug in.

When we disbanded hours later, all that was left was the bone.

Taste the world

I'm 29 today. Yes, that's 29 revolutions around the sun. The same number of years since I made my entrance into this world — tongue out, ready to taste it all, I'm told.

Here's documented evidence:

In that same spirit, I've been traveling to see and spend time with friends over the past few weekends, which also explains my absence from this blog.

There was a trip to Washington D.C. Although I missed the cherry blossoms by a week, I got to see my dear friends, Kevin and Harum, as well as the magnolias.

Then an overnight in Montreal with my friend Christine. We walked 10 miles through the city and ended the day eating cake in bed. 

Twenty-eight has not been all play either. It was also the year that I learned to stand on my own two hands.

I'm looking forward to 29 — to travel, friends and learning new things. Here's to passing go, and starting another revolution.

The voice of admonishment and comfort

I imagined a voice that sounded much like my mother's saying, "This is what happens when you overdo it and don't get enough sleep."

She's right of course, but I felt frustrated with that all-knowing voice rather than my lack of ability to scale back plans and let some things pass. There are times when self-loathing comes easily; this was not one.

In order to earn my sore throat, achy muscles and alternating sweats and chills, I woke up at 4 a.m. on Saturday morning to make the hour-and-a-half drive around Lake Champlain so that I would arrive in Essex, N.Y., in time for my friends' sunrise vernal equinox party. The bagel shop was open when I left and I bought a dozen fresh from the oven. Just as I drove into Essex there was a hot pink sunrise and my Uncle Louis was walking down Main Street toward the gathering. I picked him up and we went together to enjoy food, poetry and friendship — all well worth my while.

The rest of the day was spent with my uncle and aunt. We visited the local bakery where you can always find familiar faces with which to sip coffee and snack on cinnamon buns. We lounged back at their home in front of the wood fire. We watched "Kinky Boots," inspired by a drag show that my uncle attended on a recent trip to Florida. There is no time better spent than with this couple that has known me forever and with whom I've shared laughter, tears and many many hours of conversation.

In the late afternoon, I caught the ferry (which hadn't yet started running during my early morning commute) back over to Vermont and made plans with a friend to see a live band play at an area music venue. We danced until the lights went up and the band stopped playing. By the time I climbed back in bed, I had been up for nearly 20 hours.

Sunday passed quickly with my usual routine of yoga class, meeting friends for a late afternoon drink and catching up on household chores. It wasn't until mid-afternoon Monday when I was back at work that I started to feel hoarse and shivery. That's when I heard that voice telling me that I should have done less and gotten more sleep.

But when I got home from work at midnight with a bone-aching weariness, I wanted only one thing — to call my mother and hear her tell me that I would feel better in the morning.

A quartet

I spend a quite bit of time for work and pleasure thinking about how stories are made. I learned most of what I know from reading and writing, and some from just listening.

Saturday night, my friend Rick invited me to attend an Extempo storytelling event, a Vermont-version of "The Moth." Rick who is a poet and teacher also likes good stories and has studied their construction for more years than I.

The event was held in a coffee shop in Barre, Vt., and featured nine storytellers of various ages and abilities. The culmination involved a panel of judges choosing their favorites. Between Rick and I, we correctly guessed the second-place tie as well as the overall winner. 

Although not a winner, we both agreed that another storyteller had been successful. The heavyset, suspendered man had attempted the unconventional form (at least for this event) of offering a quartet of vignettes from his childhood. The scenes represented important moments of intimacy and personal truth.

Though none of the four stories attempted to illustrate large life lessons, Rick and I agreed their seeming simplicity disguised the storyteller's skill in selection and delivery. Though not a winner, he did a damn good job.

Here's a quartet of my own inspired by events from the weekend.

She carried lipstick and gum in her purse, and I loved her for painting my lips pink in a bathroom in Budapest. She showed the four-year-old me how to rub my lips together and then gave me a stick of gum to chew. I felt sophisticated for the first time as we rejoined my mother and baby sister at the tourist lookout. The lipstick eventually wore off and I'm still chasing the feeling. 

This particular path of devotion was a two-hour trip down a one-lane road to the town of Rutland, Vt. She suggested we meet for lunch at this halfway point between her home and mine. Delayed by a slow-moving truck, she was there when I arrived. Still taller than me, still wearing lipstick.

I went with the waitress' suggestion of cookie a la mode. She brought it in a cast iron skillet with two spoons. She took a scoop, then me. She, then me. I wasn't particularly hungry after the BLT, but still savored the sweetness.

Coffee done, bill paid, we walked up the street to her car. She pulled from it a western-style feather coat that had been her mother's. I tried it on. It felt warm and the silver buttons were engraved with patterns. I pulled up the fur hood and felt small and cozy in the puff of the coat, in the presence of this woman who will always be taller, always carry lipstick. 

Me and Marla