Kate Harrington

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.

Lost Anchors

For the past several days, I’ve been trying to identify a coherent theme for this week’s blog, This morning, a friend, her grief fresher than my own, said, “I feel like I’ve lost my anchor.” That was it exactly!

She too had a husband with dementia, and had been making the decisions for them both. These last few years, every action not related to writing was directed towards keeping Wayne’s and my mutual boat afloat. The responsibilities came on gradually. I could feel them weighing more and more heavily, but each new load was something I could handle.

With Wayne’s death, I clung to the idea that at least I had a clear purpose—that of finishing my writing projects. And I had Sophie to take care of. But on Saturday, after buying groceries and walking Sophie, I felt in limbo. I had plenty to do, but no will to tackle anything. My boat that morning was anchorless and directionless.

Along with that came a vague sense of anxiety. It was the anxiety that spurred me into action. I sat with a sudoku puzzle in a kind of meditative state and found a sense of inner quietude. Then I went to scrawl in my journal. After putting down my wayward thoughts, my hand went on to make a list:

Not only did I have my to-do list in hand, but I did them in that exact order, along with a few interruptions. I mowed, did a little weeding, made a quick trip to Trader Joes, changed my bed, took my walk . . . And finally at bedtime, ran through my physical therapy exercises.

This feels like it’s going to be a long siege of me against my own inertia. My only recourse is to stay in dialogue with myself. Either that or find a therapist, but the way I constantly delay taking action, journaling has to come first. Otherwise, how will I know what to do?

Who am I? seems to be a question that recurs over and over in a lifetime. I’m on a quest to see if I can get my boat propelled in the right direction.

Meanwhile, the garden is thriving. Potatoes are in the foreground.

Escapes

I indulged myself last week—removed myself from time and space—especially time, since I blanked out an intended visit to a friend on Saturday and only remembered Sunday afternoon. I sent abject apologies, of course. Actually, I haven’t really stopped escaping now, simply slowed down.

There was reason behind my reading binge. I called it research. The research part: How do mature teens behave, think, act, react? And, how do authors convey those same teens in action?

But in truth, it was pure escape.

I browsed my iPad for the library’s holdings of young adult ebooks, and the name Louis Sachar caught my eye. I loved his Holes, and here was a title new to me, though published in 2010, The Cardturner, a book about duplicate bridge. I know little about playing bridge, other than Barry Rigal’s daily column on the newspaper puzzles page, and I only pay attention to that because of the quotes he inserts, which have nothing to do with the game (as far as I can tell).

Reading The Cardturner was a lot like reading a book about a sport I don’t indulge in, where my interest is in who wins or loses, and what one learns about people by playing the game. Seventeen-year-old Alton gets the job of reading the cards to his blind, very rich great-uncle, who never forgets a hand. Family drama, romance, and even some channeling of ghosts add tension to the plot.

The next title that caught my eye was Robyn Schneider’s The Beginning of Everything, 2013. This many-starred read is the opposite of a sports novel. Ezra’s accident puts an end to tennis and his place among the jocks. I’m definitely planning to re-read this one, being a person who is still wondering who I’m going to be when I grow up.

After those two, I read three other YA novels and am now reading a very old collection of Sharon Lee and Steve Miller’s shorts, Double Vision.

**Flowers Sophie and I pass in the morning**

And finally got back to work on my own visions.

Walking Sophie this morning, I was reminded that any time a deadline presses on me, such as preparing for company or a trip, I first escape into other worlds. It always used to worry me, and I still don’t know the psychology behind it—but there it is, if anyone can explain it.