Category Archives: Writing

A week without (other) humans

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For as long as I have been an adult I have not had any qualms whatsoever about going to lunch or dinner by myself, going to a movie or museum alone, or even exploring a new city on my own for a long weekend. I’m not saying I don’t ever want to do any of those things with a friend or my sweetheart, but if they aren’t readily available I would rather go with myself than sit home.

The last several weeks I’ve spent several Saturday mornings with a plate of Eggs Benedict at a sunny window of my new favorite diner; it has been absolute heaven. Sure, the copious amounts of Hollandaise sauce may be contributing to a tightening pants problem, but the calm, bright diner with huge windows looking into a wild, blooming rose garden has done such marvelous things for my soul that if I could I’d move in permanently, bringing a slightly more comfortable/lounge-y chair. (Scandinavian food and design are hard to beat, but their cheap-enough-for-a-small-diner chairs leave a lot lacking in the lounging department.)

The other day Britt, a woman I thoroughly adore and admire, wrote about what she would do with seven days completely by herself, and I liked the idea (and the day dream) so much I am snatching it for the rest of this post.

I would want to spend this week in a space with high ceilings, lots of windows, fresh flowers, and lots of white with a few bright colors. I want comfortable furniture that I can curl up on, nap on, prop my feet up on; no spindly little legs and hard lines. Sure, that “design-y” furniture can make a lovely aesthetic, but–in the words of Joe Fox/Tom Hanks–I do not want an “exquisitely uncomfortable mohair episode…which is NOW ALL OVER MY SUIT.”

This roomy paradise should be located somewhere with gorgeous mountain views–mountains that are thousands and thousands of feet tall with craggy, rocky tops covered in snow and partially shrouded in clouds, and dark green skirts covered in trees. I want the weather sunny but only in the low 60’s; I like to be snuggled up with something cozy (blanket, hoodie, peppermint tea) but with blue sky and bright light streaming in.

I would catch up on my sleep–goodness, it feels like 12 hours is just not enough lately…probably because I get something closer to 6 or 7 hours on weeknights and need about 9 per night to function properly. (No, I’m not a teenager…not really, anyway.) I would crank up the white noise machine, pop on a silky eye mask and relax into 1,000 count sheets swathing a larger bed than is necessary. I want to stretch my arms and legs in every possible direction and not touch a damn thing.

I would write, scribbling away in my notebook and then transcribing anything good into a word doc or blog post.

I would spend hours reading; my current towering To Read pile could easily topple from my nightstand and give me a pretty serious concussion, which doesn’t even begin to tackle the supplemental To Read list.

I would paint with some familiar and comforting movie on in the background. I am still very very new at this oil painting hobby, but it has been so satisfying to see how much I’ve improved in just a dozen or so paintings. I would love to spend some time trying new things and just getting more familiar with how my paints and brushes interact with each other. (Ultimately, I’d love to take some studio lessons, but not this summer, and not during this “no humans!” experiment.)

I’d eat wholesome, healthy, and probably not-so-simple meals at least a few times, but not necessarily three times per day. I love trying new things in the kitchen, but I also really love a plate of fruits and snacky things. Either way, in this human-less universe, I’d need a temporary house elf to do all the washing up.

Once upon a time I worked out for three hours a day for a short–but intense–period. No, it was not pre-wedding or pre-reunion or anything, I was just trapped on a cruise boat with some people who are incapable of fun I didn’t have a lot of fun with, so three-hour workouts topped off with double desserts was my normal. I kind of loved it. And despite double desserts and a lot of time lounging around with a book, I came back 10 pounds lighter than when I left (and promptly stopped working out for long stretches of time). If I had oodles of time by myself I think I’d throw a few hours of yoga or running or something into the mix. And double desserts. Of course.

Honestly, I could fill an entire month with that schedule, although I think I would miss the lack of human interaction. This post is almost convincing me to take a week off and do this whole list, maybe I should start with a long weekend instead, vacation days are hard to come by and must be doled out carefully. What about you? What would you do if you had a full week stretching in front of you with no people, no work responsibilities (I assume your work requires interacting with other humans on some level), and a certain level of control over weather and location?

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Deep as a River

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Tetons River_feistyharriet_May 2014

When I was an angsty teenager I wrote a book of poetry, 64 pages carefully copied into a beautiful notebook with pages lined in gold. The first poem was dated April 7, 2001 and the last is June 28, 2002. I did not compose in this book, the rough drafts and scribbles of my thought process have long been lost, but the final versions are there in my best handwriting.

Those pages are an interesting study into my 18-year-old psyche. I was angry, suffocated, broken, and desperate for recognition, understanding, and unconditional love. I also wanted nothing more than to be free of the life that brought on all those hurtful feelings. I wanted someone to see me, not for who they thought I should be or who they wanted me to be, but just for me, as myself. I was anxious and desperate for space–space to breathe, space to move, and just space to be.

I told you: angsty teenager.

Which doesn’t invalidate my feelings or make them somehow wrong. They were, and I was, and that is all historical fact, carefully recorded in a golden notebook.

There are several pages dedicated to deep, wild rivers constantly on the move, belonging nowhere; lyrical paragraphs about roads to anywhere; ballads about ocean waves crashing into a shore only to race back to the comfort of the sea and throw themselves back on the sand; poems of thunderous rain clouds sailing over dark, moody mountains with angrily flashing lightening; stanzas of shooting stars; a haiku about racing the sunrise across the sky;  verses of a bitterly cold but terrifically strong northern wind whipping snow into the sky and exposing craggy granite peaks; prose about value and worth and distancing oneself via emotional canyons.

Goodness, I so wanted to be simultaneously lost and found, to be loved and appreciated yet on my own and free to make my decisions. I was willing to accept any consequences as long as I could also revel in my own successes. I think, to some extent, all people go through a similar period of being caught between adult and child, independent and also protected.

When I was 21 I signed a lease on a small one-bedroom apartment, left my abusive husband, and felt–for the first time–that I was finally free.

My new-found freedom was intoxicating, exhilarating, sometimes frightening, but I owned every minute of it.

I was finally that dark river, full of secrets and hurts, determined to keep going, to live a life “passing through” until I found somewhere safe to rest. The need to move, the constant churning, that is still there inside of me, a fierce independence that demands her freedom. However, right now–and for the last little while–I am content. I don’t expect this contentment to last the rest of my lifetime, but I also am better equipped to “run” without actually leaving. All it took was a couple of years of testing my wings to learn how to fly, but also to learn how to return home, wherever that home existed.

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If we went to lunch…

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I love going to lunch with friends, catching up on all the good (and difficult, and crazy) things in our lives and spending an hour or so having a genuine heart-to-heart chat. In that spirit, if you and I went to lunch today, this is what I would tell you (this post idea is blatantly hoisted from Nilsa over at SoMi Speaks, btw):

I would complain about the pollen and my insane seasonal allergies and the cost of prescription strength (but not covered by my insurance) medication. I love the springtime blossoms, but I love the rainy days even more because it keeps the pollen on the ground where it belongs and not in my nose, eyes, throat, and sinuses. I may also tentatively suggest that winter stick around just a little longer; I hate the heat, am no fan of the sun, and definitely don’t mind snuggling up with some peppermint tea and a good book.

I would gush about how much I am enjoying my job. It’s not something I thought I’d get in to, or stick with for so long, but after 4 years I am dedicated and invested and I really love it. I have consistently asked for additional responsibilities and projects, and have been given the opportunity to prove what I can do. My to-do list is miles long, I stay late many evenings (balanced by no-work weekends and a few early-off Fridays), but I am happy; happier than I’ve ever been from an employment situation.

I would confide that learning to live with a boy full time has been…an adjustment. We are fine, that’s not what I’m trying to say, but I didn’t realize how much of a change it would be having Blue Eyes home every night. We are living together, really, for the first time, only without most of those honeymoon-y butterflies. They have been replaced with humorous (but also, sometimes kind of annoying) statements like “Why is your hair always clogging the tub?!” and “Is it so hard to just throw your dirty socks 2 more feet so they land in the hamper!?” and “Why is my towel wet? Did you use my towel?” We are learning and adjusting, but, um, it’s a lot of adjusting. Apparently we were both pretty set in our individual ways (and sock-throwing habits).

I would announce that last year I gave up sugar and carbs for Lent and I’m trying it again this year (but not for Lent, just, you know, for the last little while). It is both harder and not nearly as bad as I remembered. The harder part comes from the days where my planning leaves a little to be desired and I’m trying to eat on the fly and find something that fits into the “no pasta, no bread, no rice, no cookies, no corn, no carrots, no fruit, no sugar of any kind” restrictions. The easier part is that, oh yeah, this isn’t actually as bad as it sounds. Lots of veggies, protein every day, a small snack between breakfast and lunch. It takes planning, but it’s not difficult planning. (This is a short-term “cleanse” type of thing, not a forever diet change.)

I would sigh and admit that as much as I enjoy my job, I sometimes daydream about being one of those ladies of leisure, the type that goes to mid-morning yoga (or can go to yoga AND the gym any given day without making working out the only other priority in her life outside of the office), or sign up for a weekly painting studio session, or a cooking class, or go to long lunches with other leisurely ladies, and volunteer for a Good Cause more whole-heartedly, and sometimes, to be completely honest, to spend several days parked in front of Netflix with a bevy of sweet and salty snacks and a never-ending supply of Diet Dr. Pepper. I know that after a little while I’d crave the structure and workings of an office and co-workers and the projects I’ve spent the last 4 years contributing to; and I also know ultimately that a life of leisure would not make me happy. But GOODNESS, sometimes it just sounds so wonderful.

I would let you know that being a stepmom is hard. Not that hanging out with Blue Eyes’ kiddos is difficult, nothing like that. In our situation (kids live out of state, I see them every couple of months for a weekend and then a longer chunk of time in the summer and at Christmas) I see my role in many ways as closer aligned to that of a favorite aunt than that of a parent. And I’m really good at being the favorite aunt. No, for me the kids are not the difficult part. It’s Blue Eyes’ x-wife. For years she has been the biggest cause of angst and anxiety and rage for both of us (and, sometimes, between us). She is truly a piece of work; I try and keep most of the bullshit off the internet and in my therapist’s office, but DAMN, she is a particularly nasty brand of CrAzYtOwN. If you recall, this is the woman who told outrageous lies about me and my writing and, ultimately, bullied and badgered me into shutting down my old blog completely. I tell you, she’s a gem. And SHE is what makes being a stepmom so damn difficult, not Blue Eyes, not his kids, not the child support and other payments, not any of that kind of stuff, just her. All by her (nasty) self.

I would probably swoon over the fact that without necessarily intending to, Blue Eyes and I have taken a page from RA’s book on not scheduling social things for at least one or two evenings per week. Last week Blue Eyes and I had zero social obligations; we both worked late here or there, but there was no rushing to somewhere else, no faking happiness or lack of fatigue when we’d really just prefer a nap, and no trying to one obligation early to tray and catch the tail end of another one, and no pinchy pants or shoes. We’d come home, change directly into pajamas and just…be. To end the day with snacks and books and conversations and Netflix in jammies and fuzzy slippers for SIX DAYS IN A ROW…ohmygoodness, it was the most refreshing thing. Dear Self: Please Create More Evenings Free of Obligations. Love, Harriet.

How about you? If we went to lunch (or out for coffee, or whatever), what would you tell me?

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For Daniel

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In the first half of 2012 I went to 6 funerals: Blue Eyes’ grandmother, a co-worker who lost his battle with cancer, one of Blue Eyes’ best friends and his young son, a dear neighbor from my hometown, and my grandfather. It was a rough six months, oy.

In 2013 I only attended one funeral, a young man just about to graduate from college whom I had met several years earlier. More than perhaps any other funeral, my own grandparents and relatives included, his has stuck with me; Daniel’s funeral was a year ago, but I cannot stop thinking about it, or him. I met Daniel when he was 16, a Junior at the high school where I volunteer in the theater department; he was trying to wrap his head around a difficult Shakespeare monologue, rehearsing to perform at a national competition. He was soft-spoken, smart, determined, and willing to try just about any suggestion to better portray Richard III, the hunchback villain. He was brilliant. Over the next 2 years I coached him on a few different pieces and when he went to college I made a point to go and see the plays in which he performed. His command of language and emotion and his dedication to his art was impressive when he was a teenager, as he learned more about acting it was hard to pay attention to anyone else on stage; that kid was a natural powerhouse.

Daniel was a hipster before it was hip or trendy—he wore skinny colored jeans and black dreadlocks halfway down his back. He had square glasses with dark frames, wrote poetry and played the guitar, and did not care what anyone else thought of him. He rode his skateboard everywhere and I often saw him around my neighborhood which is adjacent to his University. I always honked, and he always waved (usually followed up by a Facebook message thanking me for saying hello). Despite a somewhat rough-looking exterior, Daniel was the kindest, most humble kid I think I’ve ever met. He never put himself above others, I never heard him mock or make fun of a fellow student, and he would do anything to help make a play or competition piece better for everyone involved. Man, that kid was a sweetheart.

I’m still not sure how he died, although because it wasn’t ever announced publicly I imagine it was some kind of drug overdose, either intentional or accidental. He died halfway through his last semester at the university, just weeks before his graduation ceremony.

Daniel’s funeral was unlike any I have ever attended, and I’ve been to probably 25 or 30 in my lifetime. The room was packed with people from all walks of life, the service and remarks were in English and Spanish with translation of both languages. There were beautiful stories, hilarious stories, poems and songs and tributes from family back in Colombia and his fellow University cohort. Daniel was spiritual but not religious, his family acknowledged his position while still maintaining their own hopes to see him in an afterlife. His brothers and cousins sang “Wish You Were Here” by Pink Floyd, his friends quoted huge sections of Shakespeare’s Richard III and Henry V. His aunt read a few stanzas from a Shakespearean sonnet and the final tribute was a Beatles song, sung by anyone in the audience who wished to participate.

It seemed to me a true celebration of a passionate life cut short, as well as a time for grief and mourning of a son, grandson, nephew, brother, and friend. Even though Daniel and I weren’t terribly close, I feel like I will always carry a small piece of him in my heart. And I will always remember the Shakespeare-loving teen with dreadlocks who lived life according to his own rules.

RIP, Daniel.

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On Writing

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For most of 2013 I was unable to write. Part of my dilemma was circumstantial, but most of it was a gigantic case of writer’s block. I felt crippled, unable to form words or sentences that had any meaning. It has been terrible.

I tried a half-dozen different ways to unblock myself, but still, my cursor would blink on an empty screen. It was like I was in a contest with that damn cursor, a contest I had no hope of winning.

And then, just a few days ago, I found a revolutionary-to-me solution. A notebook. Not a pretty notebook, not one that was bound in leather, or with gold gilt on the pages. Just a regular, $0.99 cent spiral-bound single-subject notebook and a black, Bic pen. Nothing fancy, nothing special. Suddenly, the pressure is gone. I can write pages and pages! Sure, my hand gets crampy and my writing is mostly illegible, but I’m okay with that. I can read it well enough to copy it onto my laptop if it’s something I want to share. And if it’s not something I want to share, I’m not “messing up” a page in a beautiful notebook with scribbles or drivel, nor do I feel like I need to remove a less-than-perfect page from a spiral notebook (as, admittedly, I have done in many a pretty one).

I didn’t realize this, but I must have felt that a beautiful notebook or journal only deserved beautiful, meaningful, long-lasting writing in it. And that, my friends, is crippling. To feel that everything you produce must be perfect on the first attempt, or at least, only need minor edits. Gaah, it’s ludicrous! How could I be so….so stupid!? So shackled!? So tied to this supposition that anything less than perfect was not worth attempting?

As I thought about this (while writing this post, long-hand, on page 17 of my started-yesterday-but-filling-up-nicely notebook) it occurred to me that, just maybe, my scribbly notebooks may be worth more than a hardcover published work. The thought processes, the frustrations, the attempts, the marginalia…there is intrinsic value in that type of writing. And I knew it, but didn’t think it applied to me. Sigh. Sometimes, I really surprise myself at my own obtuseness.

I have missed writing.

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