Kate Harrington

Reaping the Whirlwind

Well, maybe I don’t wish for any whirlwinds, but I have been harvesting, some even edible.

Potatoes: That rotten potato I planted in the spring—in four pieces; each plant produced one potato before fading away. The longest surviving one produced a potato with two little ones attached. Knowing nothing about potato growing (yes, I should research before next year), I want to do it again, though maybe more scientifically.

Eggplants: I wondered why my three eggplants kept blooming but not producing, so I got out a fine-tipped paintbrush and tickled all available blossoms. In so doing, I discovered one small fruit. Since then several more fruits have appeared. As I can’t claim credit for the first one, I don’t know how much credit I’m owed for my pollination attempts.

Mystery grass: Several times, I’ve picked up a pointy grass seed attached to three long, very fine propellers? usually stabbing into my shoe. I finally located the source at the edge of my driveway. An internet search to ID it was unsuccessful, and my attempts to photograph the flying seed came out poorly. Any ideas?

And finally, harvesting self-discipline: Most days, I do some desk work but other matters suffer. PT exercise, for instance— though PT takes no more than 20 minutes, I tend to shunt it aside. By evening, I thoroughly begrudge having to exercise. Meanwhile, many unregulated hours fly by with nothing to show.

So, this past Sunday, I took a hard look at my slipshod ways.

I have to use August well, since I’m traveling with a sister in early September. For that, I need to: Prepare the house. Weed and mow the yard. Pack. etc. etc. And besides my normal commitments, I registered for two 2-session zoom classes, one on poetry and one on revision.

Having done no work on Sunday, I was highly motivated on Monday. I set out a schedule, alternating activity and desk time. Walk in the cool. Revise for no more than an hour. Do PT! thereby using it as a break. Prepare for a critique meeting. Run errands. Home for lunch. Draft an email to a potential copyeditor. You get the idea. In spite of a jigsaw puzzle pulling me in a couple times—Yes! I felt productive. And tired.

Tuesday, a repeat—but only in the morning, since the afternoon brought a critique meeting and the first of my zoom sessions.

Wednesday morning, I’ve already slipped up. I went from revision straight to blogging. I’ve got to go do PT right now!

I hope all your harvests are profitable. Sophie is harvesting the ZZZs.

Going for Change

My life has felt stuck for many months. This second year of loss has been, in ways, more challenging than the first. You can excuse a lot about what you’re doing, or not doing, that first year. But right now I’m tired of being in limbo, yet finding it really hard to break out.

One difficulty stems from having too much open time. It’s so easy to put off errands and exercise and writing. And without exercise or writing, I sleep poorly.

**I don’t need to change. I’m perfect the way I am.**

In an earlier blog, I mentioned reading a book about psychotherapy which made clear to me that change has its own process. So when I got back to revising a verse novel (languishing for three years), in which my heroine spends three years in a tower while her father’s endless battles finally come to a tragic finish. During her long isolation, she must learn to know herself.

I looked online for a list of steps necessary for bringing about change, wondering if I could apply it to the manuscript, and then couldn’t help but compare those steps to myself. Here’s an example of how they might work over the course of time (weeks in this case):

Precontemplation: Hmm, the desert willows are dropping their dried up blossoms all over the driveway.

Contemplation: Oh, look how they’ve piled up by the back door. The door mat is full of them.

Preparation: That mess really ought to be cleaned up. (I should put it on a list).

Action: I’ve got to leave at 10:00 am. There’s time right now. I’m going to sweep up this mess.

I’m finding that taking action works best when combined with a deadline or a second errand. Last week, realizing that I needed to go to the grocery story, I had an aha moment. The gym was nearby. I could run to the gym (something I’ve put off for months) and then do the groceries.

I was home scarcely an hour later. Friday mornings now have a shape they haven’t had before.

Like going to the gym, I keep thinking about swimming—but the thought of venturing into cold water makes me give up on the idea. I needed to dare myself to do it. I called a friend in my grief group who participates in aquatic exercise. We how have a date to meet at the pool. Meeting a friend to accomplish something is akin to combining errands. I have a timeline to show up. And I’m not about to cancel a commitment to a friend for anything short of dire circumstances.

How about you? Have you executed any changes lately?

Wrestling with the Sun

I did enjoy those few days after my initial Covid miseries, having cancelled appointments and commitments. I felt like my time was my own to be lazy in. Consequently, I dug deeply into my revision work , and also began a new project.

When I mow the lawn, a different kind of grass appears here and there, grass that grows so closely that across the yard are little tufts that look like they’ve had a crewcut. Now that summer is upon us, those same crewcut heads are turning yellow. It finally dawned on me that l was seeing ornamental grasses acting on a take-over plan.

I didn’t think. They had to be stopped. I grabbed bucket and shovel and began digging them out. The first day I managed two bucket loads—it’s a big bucket. Since then, I’ve stopped at one a day. But this job got old really fast. Dig, bend, pull, shake off roots . . .

The next step will be to add a bit of dirt and some buffalo grass seeds where the holes are most evident. That needs to be done soon, since buffalo grass likes to sprout in the heat. But I’m dragging my feet.

The sun doesn’t help. There’s so little time to work without baking. I love our New Mexican sunshine, but summers can turn into wrestling matches, trying to hold back the heat that prevents working outside. Nor does it help that Sophie’s walk takes precedence over other jobs.

So the last few days have passed by with little forward momentum in the yard. I need a break!

But I also need to get that seed in the ground and begin a little watering project to give the buffalo grass seed a chance.

Thanks for listening! Having talked about it here, I’m ready to act while there’s shade. I’m going to work on one small area: rake out acorns, fill holes, sprinkle in seed and then water. I’ll be back to report.

Okay! One little corner of the yard has been dealt with. It’ll be interesting to see if any oak seedlings sprout. They never have before, but who knows what is awaiting these daily watering can visits.

The work made me realize I had been envisioning the whole project and resisting. Much like the way I face my PT exercises. My resistance to the first reps is so high, I often begin with the last, easier ones. Then, warmed up, I’m always amazed at how fast the remainder gets done.

Writing, too, requires narrowing down one’s scope. Just plan to set down a few words or revise a few pages. Save scoping out the big picture for vacations, when there’s time to ponder themes and arcs.

Give me a break!

Here I am, back to my blog—a week later than planned. It was hard to dig myself out of the house, but I also welcomed the chance to get away. A writer can only do so much before needing to refresh one’s creative spark.

Flying out on the first leg of my journey to visit my daughter, I looked over a long-neglected verse novel that requires revision. I re-read the first pages and made notes; then took a further step back, and considered how to reorganize the entire first third of the manuscript to bring it into alignment with the remainder.

No further work happened during the week away. Never before having been on the big island of Hawaii, there was too much new to admire and enjoy. Think papaya for breakfast and acai bowls and fish dinners. And waterfalls and botanical gardens.

Even so, it was really good to get home to Sophie. Somehow, I need a way to take more frequent breaks from routine that don’t require me to leave my dog—at least not for days and nights.

Gimme a second break!

Last fall, everyone I knew who traveled had gotten sick—either during their time away or on their return. My neighbor even got sick before she left; she cancelled her whole journey. So when I made my own quick trip at the end of September to visit family, I masked up for airports and planes. And all went well.

I did the same this time. But where I’d traveled alone before, this time I traveled with my son. We don’t know where it came from, but midway through our visit, he came down with a “cold.” He masked up again, but somehow I picked up the virus and incubated it until arriving home. The next morning, I tested positive for Covid.

It’s been years since I had a cold. Having Covid was one big miserable head cold. And for three evenings I grew chilled as my temperature rose, only for it to dissipate in the morning. I’m sure that’s how colds got their name—but I don’t remember having a fever with one in like forever. Probably not since I was a kid.

But, you know? Having Covid was also a second break in routine. I had to cancel my schedule, which left me free to pursue that verse novel revision that inspired me on the flight out. The focused time for the remainder of the week was so rewarding, I decided I need to give myself a break every week.

I’ve got an idea. More on that topic next week.

Be well, all!

And if you can’t be well, make the most of your breaks from routine. It helps slow down time itself!

Timing is Everything

Hearing the garbage trucks and realizing I haven’t put out the bins yet, before stepping into the bathtub.
Having done the research ahead of time, I mixed up a small batch of compost to cook. My husband was always composter-in-chief until it got to be too much for him. And then I realized the date: his birthday! I believe he was with me, guiding me through the project.
And oops, letting the day get away from me, so that I’m late posting.

Hooray for Deadlines

Anticipating change is hard work. These last weeks I’ve spent more time throwing stones at what needed to be done than actually attacking the jobs. And after that “struggle”, I would settle down with something escapist so as not to think about the work. Or else, I did something entirely different, like switching furniture around in my den, which now does feel more comfortable—except for the stack of materials waiting to be sorted and not returned to the room.

I’m about to leave home to visit my daughter and son-in-law and have arrived at the one week mark. The immovable deadline is looming, almost at hand.

And what have I done?

Met with my house sitter.
Continued adding to a growing list of to-dos.
Followed my enthusiasm, which means I’ve (finally) been inspired to work really hard on revisions (which I won’t be taking with me—or is it because I have to leave it behind?).
Made appointments for Sophie: groomer on Friday, vet visit on Saturday. That will distract her before she sees the suitcase and frenzied last minute preparations, so that when she appears on Jane’s doorstep she’ll know she’s leaving home again—for a while. Jane says she always starts looking for me a day or two before I finally show up.

Sorry Sophie. I wish you could come too.

I’ll be back blogging in a couple weeks. Y’all stay well.

Second thoughts

Low moods, indecision, lack of forward momentum—everything seems to have me down-in-the-mouth this month. As my father pointed out once, there’s always more than one cause for any emotion.

June carries a lot of baggage: anniversary, birthday, annual vacation planning, a recent memorial service for someone we both knew, a departing minister and on and on.

I’ve concluded (with others) that the second year of loss is harder. In the first year, we’re advised to not make any sudden moves. But with the second year, nothing is telling me to take it easy and everything pushes me towards taking charge of who I am and where I’m headed.

Thank goodness for friends! Jane visited me for another discussion over tea and helped bring my struggles into context.

I’m in transition.

Transitions are neither easy nor comfortable.

I’m doing the best that I can.

As one who has trouble accessing my emotions, I love fiction. It’s so much easier to feel for—or even create—a fictional character, allowing me to indulge in vicarious feelings. And especially to cry.

Some recent media that have brought tears are:

The Trouble With Heroes (2025) a verse novel by Kate Messner. (The author is the source of a chart mentioned in a recent blog, and I decided to sample her work). This book is so beautifully constructed with interlinking themes that cohere into a brilliant picture of heroism and its costs. It takes climbing 46 Adirondack peaks for 12-year-old Finn to come to terms with his father’s life. As Finn says in a sonnet:

“The nightmares never leave. They never fade.

And heroes aren’t allowed to be afraid.”

West Side Story. I know the music so well, but did I ever watch it? I have no memory of doing so. A DVD found in the local Goodwill Story brought tears. Maybe I should reread Romeo and Juliet after all these years.

And finally The Human Comedy by William Saroyan was almost the victim of a recent book purge, but I set it aside to reread. A copy sat on my parents’ shelves when I was a kid, and I’m sure I reread it when I paid a dollar for my own copy (receipt still in the book) but even so, I’d forgotten just how much gentle philosophy and human kindness are imbedded in this wartime tale of a 14-year-old telegram deliverer. It’s a keeper.

Lost and Found

One of life’s lessons I keep relearning is that when I’m confused or down, the answer is to pick up pen or pencil and start writing. This will always be my answer—so why don’t I remember? Over and over, I lose sight of the doing, preferring to indulge in gloom and doom.

Or maybe the answer is to indulge in something that allows tears to flow—and then start writing!

Try it yourself if you feel the need.

It takes enthusiasm.

I’m trying to remember how all this began. A framed photo fell behind my desk (my immovable desk) over a year ago. Other than attempting to rescue it without moving the desk, I did nothing. It was too much effort.

In my last blog, I mentioned the chart to track Quantum Quest’s themes and characters. Once finished, I got enthusiastic about the prospect of—again—going through and revising the book, section by section. (The sections equal chapters, though I don’t call them that this time around.)

The charting was done at a table in another room because my desk was a mess. And no way could I begin to revise until I sorted out all those scattered notes that cluttered up that immovable object.

I could clear off the desktop. Or (trumpet sounds) the whole thing could be emptied out—so that the desk could be moved. Enthusiasm struck again.

On Saturday I cleared the desk and drawers. I also emptied out a filing cabinet because that had to be shifted too. Once the desk was dusted, I went off to the other room with that pile of loose papers to be reviewed, tossing most of them. Whew! I was tired!

On Sunday my moving crew (my sons) arrived. In no more than five minutes the desk was shifted, photograph rescued, floor swept, and it was back in place. The rest of the day was devoted to shifting furniture and restoring contents to drawers. Except—

I found a better spot for my printer—but to move that required the further emptying of two tall bookcases, shifting them a few inches, dusting and restoring the books. I even managed to cull a box of giveaways in the process.

On Monday, I dragged myself to do the final floor sweep. There are still some empty boxes and a pile of empty file folders to be sorted, but they will have to wait.

I am so tired! What took me so long to move that desk and rescue a photo? A lack of enthusiasm.

And now for the whole reason for all this—those book revisions. The enthusiasm for it is still inside somewhere, waiting for the energy to emerge.

Maybe next time, I’ll stick to cleaning off the desktop.

Breaking out of a Mold

In aging, there’s a tendency for one’s life to become humdrum, every day the same. And that’s all wrong! The last thing we want or need is for one day to duplicate the previous, stretching back and back ad nauseam. It sure messes with my memory when I can’t remember something because it’s exactly what I’ve done every day . . .

The older we get, the more we need to break patterns, not get stuck in them. I feel like I’ve been stuck in this house for a long time. So yesterday, I went hiking.

Wayne and I last really hiked back in 2019, while visiting a brother in Washington State. That was a tough climb, and it was hard for Wayne. Then Covid struck.

**Our view looking back towards the city**

Yesterday’s climb was my first since then, “our maiden hike” as my hiking partner called it. Like me, she’s newly widowed, though her last hike was much more recent. The trail we aimed for was closed off for some reason, so we had to drive to another.

We didn’t go that far, but we did get up into the Sandias bordering Albuquerque. And oh, how peaceful to be out of sight and sound of the city, under a blue blue New Mexico sky.

Breaking other molds

A critique partner introduced me to a way to chart characters and themes in my novel, which she learned from a class taught by writer Kate Messner. Once I’ve finished with the initial analysis, I want to go back and refine the depth of each check mark. I love this confirmation of accomplishment and am revising with renewed enthusiasm.

Larkspurs

Ever since our first volunteer larkspur, I’ve encouraged them to return. This year there’s a small crowd—most not yet in bloom.

And Sophie?

Hmm, lavender and essence of . . .

My aging dog eats the same food and follows the same routine every day. For her, I think her nose provides new daily input. That’s certainly what she focuses on in our walks. Visiting the park may feel same-old, same-old to me—but I’m betting that Sophie feels otherwise.

Continuing Education

I’ve taken too few classes in recent years, but last night I attended a Zoom session (through SCBWI) taught by Caroline Leech on “Tell Your Story to Sell Your Story.” She spoke of the different audiences one might address, and how we adapt our back stories to suit our audience, whether children, parents, or agents and editors. And she encouraged us to contemplate our stories.

So, since I had no idea what today’s blog would be, I’m posting what I came up with.

Here’s my Story:

We none of us has a choice about what age we’re born into, but we can choose how we deal with the life we’re handed. I am someone who dived into marriage and family before really knowing who I was. I might have been a wiser mother had circumstances forced me to wait.

In my life-long love of fairytales, I look to those heroines, and heroes too, who are given the gift of time to know themselves. Told in verse and vignette, still unpublished, are two tales in which I re-envision heroines given that gift of time.

SKY’S DAUGHTER (The Goosegirl + animistic age)

Willow was born into a time when queens rule and every pubescent child is expected to link to an animal spirit to hold them close to the natural world. Willow rejected the terrifying creature that came to her, and so she finds herself unready to be queen and unable to defend herself against her rival. The time she spends as a goosegirl allows (or forces?) her to come to terms with what she fears, so that when she achieves her position as queen and partner to the former queen’s son, she can lead her people in respecting all of Mother Earth’s creation.

THE HIDDEN TOWER(Maid Maleen + war)

Maleen was born into a time when women are losing their position as rulers. Her father’s greed for more land causes destruction and chaos, wreaking a heavy toll on women and children. Maleen judges that her great fury and frustration with her father render her unfit to wed the boy she once loved. Placed in a tower away from her father’s final battles, Maleen finally has a chance to claim her own inner peace. When the time comes, she walks alone to find her love, now a king. But there she finds a tyrannical cousin who will stop at nothing to wed that king, rivaling Maleen’s own father in her greed.

**How does your garden grow? Note lowly eggplant in center front.**

A Life in Transition

**Two-year-old snapdragons are taking off , along with salvia.**

A few weeks back, I went on a reading binge. It also meant I was watching a lot fewer DVDs. I took a week off to read YA novels—and I haven’t stopped reading since. Browsing available library ebooks, one title caught my eye.

Maybe You Should Talk to Someone, by Lori Gottlieb, a psychotherapist.

Gottlieb, in a highly readable narrative, tells her personal story mixed with client interactions, and of her interactions with her own therapist. She clarifies the stages we go through when making personal changes. Okay, I thought, let’s try reading about therapy. The book gave me a kind of measure to look at myself and where I am in my own stage of adjustment to being on my own once more.

I saw psychotherapists many years ago, preceding a divorce from my first husband. That’s exactly what I was feeling the need for right now—that sense of being heard, being understood, and above all a sense of clarity about myself. But I hesitated. To begin therapy with a stranger would take so long just getting acquainted. Did I have that kind of time?

So here’s where serendipity comes in—though I disagree with the word. Would clairvoyance fit this situation?

On Saturday morning, as always, I went out to breakfast and then on to grocery shopping. In the Coop, I ran into my dear friend Jane. We stood chatting in the middle of the dairy aisle. I admitted to my need to talk to someone. We both agreed we’d hesitated to call the other, believing her life too busy to interrupt, but it turned out we are neither of us that busy.

So much better, faster, easier to talk to an old friend. And though she’s not a therapist, in her retirement she does do somewhat similar work.

We got together on Monday and I remarked on the good fortune of our running into each other. Jane, who doesn’t usually shop that early, said she’d felt this powerful urge to go to the Coop “right now.”

I tried to find a term for something that goes so much deeper than the implications behind serendipity. I just could not find the right word. Jane provided one. “It’s love,” she said.

Love is such a short word, an underrated and undervalued word to encompass such a far-reaching power.

But I agree. It’s love.