Kate Harrington

Rearranging a Life

Today the sunshine is glorious. Yesterday gloomed in both my inner and outer worlds. But both days, I caught glimpses of the Cooper’s Hawk at the park setting up his/her nest (I’m unsure of hawk responsibilities).

The night was cold so this morning I walked in my warmest blue coat, gold hat and red scarf, bringing to mind a saying: “Van Gogh loves red, yellow and blue,” which years ago my brother learned in Kindergarten. (Remember, David?)

I did a bit of rearranging last week—moving a ficus tree closer to windows, and a tall bookshelf that blocked my view into a new location. Shifting the shelves entailed emptying them first—and of course there were items that did not go back on.

Wayne was always Sophie’s primary care-giver. I was only her second “parent,” available for morning walks. Now, unless she’s napping deeply—which she does more and more—she keeps me in her sights. If I leave a room, she follows, even when I tell her I’ll be right back. (I don’t think she hears me.) And if I leave home, she keeps watch at the door or from her nearby bed which now provides a better view for her as well.

It occurs to me that this past year has been about rearranging my life as I come up to my first anniversary without a partner. To downsize, I should move more things around . Unfortunately, closets are a matter in and of themselves.

Our current government appears to be rearranging the world into the shape of 1984, the novel.They’re making a huge mess of things and it’s not going to work, but maybe the mess will provide the opportunity to rearrange matters better.

A fellow tai chi student, on a trip to Denmark, asked how they’d managed to get such a good government system going. The answer was that there had been nothing left after World War II. Britain began their national health service during that bankrupt time as well.

I’m catching up on reading Scientific American issues that have gone unread, currently November 2022. One article in particular caught my eye. “A More Perfect Algorithm, Computing citizens’ assemblies more fairly empowers democracy,” by Ariel Procaccia.

The article’s algorithms don’t compute in my math-deficient brain, but a citizens’ assembly is how Ireland arrived at legalizing abortions. The idea of decision making by volunteer representation from all walks of life , with no concerns for reelection, strongly appeals to me.

What would you like to see in your future?

Forward

Seeds are getting motivated. Indoors, marigolds are an inch high, and basil and thyme have begun producing little specks of green. Outside, both bachelor buttons and spinach are sprouting—though there is also a chance of weeds.

For the third week in a row, Sophie and I have enjoyed a Sunday stroll, where she rides and I walk. Well, I enjoy them. She doesn’t trust the contraption I stick her into. If she sees me bring it out, she turns tail and pretends to have something better to do.

On our first week, she stood for the entire ride, until we neared home and I paused to chat with a neighbor. On this third ride, she lay down immediately. Fresh air, smells, view, no work involved—what’s not to like? Just so long as she’s on the inside of that scary thing with wheels.

Writing, too, has taken a slight surge, thanks to last week’s critique session, which led me to resolve one sizable gap in the plot. Another chapter to amend, and we’’ll be moving toward the finish.

My word of the week is Forward. At Sunday brunch, we had a heated (but all on the same side) discussion of the state of our country. With people trying to tear down all the safeguards of government, now is not the time to go back. Now is the time to go beyond—to right current and past wrongs; to catch up with the rest of the world on healthcare and safety nets, to get money out of politics once and for all.

A statement by Eckhart Tolle, written more than a decade ago, says:

Acute crises and dysfunction always precede or coincide with any evolutionary advancement or gain in consciousness. All life-forms need obstacles and challenges in order to evolve.

Forward, I say.

Seeds and Sophie.

These two topics have nothing in common except their alliteration.

Seeds were duly planted on the first of February: spinach and bachelors buttons in the earth box. I do hope the seeds are compatible. I also potted indoors: thyme, basil, snapdragons, tomatoes, marigolds, and coleus.

The following day I bought and added eggplant seeds.

Wow! Here’s hoping something sprouts. And that the summer is not too hot. And that I improve my gardening skills to keep the plants alive.

Sophie. Meanwhile, it’s Sophie’s turn to shine in a blog. She is at least 13 years old and takes two supplements for her joints. On our walks, she plods. She trudges. Her slowness is increased by her tendency to sniff at every leaf or twig or rose hip in her path.

She’s also very hairy, having lost her groomer to retirement. I am now the giver of baths. After her second bath I attempted to clip her coat, but the set of clippers I bought were not up to the job.

Another sad occurrence was that after towel drying, the ancient pet dryer refused to blow. It definitely heated up, but exhaled no warm wind. So I brushed and brushed, as much as she would allow.

She wasn’t completely dry when I put her on the floor. She was impatient to escape that room, so I let her go. This plodding dog scampered up and down the hallway. What went on in her mind? Was she drying her still damp hair, or simply celebrating her freedom?

For months now, I prepare a twice-daily dish of food, leave it on the counter, wash my hands, and herd her into the living room to apply her dry-eye medication.

Once done, she knows her food is waiting. I grab her dish and set it down just outside the door. It’s actually shorter to circle in the other direction but for me that means turning back around once I have her dish.

After her meds, I make a show of racing to the food and Sophie chases after me. Then I had some poky days where I didn’t feel like quick-stepping my way to her food dish. She began taking the short way and waiting. I would congratulate her, “You beat!”

I thought she had gotten smart. But no. When I put on a little speed—or even simply look at her—she’s back to running after me.

I tell her “I beat!” As if she cared. She’s in it for the fun.

There’s a lesson somewhere in this. I should spend more time doing things because they’re fun. Maybe we all should,

Spring is on its way

Those stubborn geraniums on the front porch finally gave up in the face of the January chilly nights I complained about in my last blog.

But now, our days are warming and lengthening. I covered my Earth box with a protective garden cover. It should at least deter marauding birds and squirrels. I don’t know about the cold, but the box has a southern exposure and the seeds say to plant before the last frost date.

Just call me impatient.

By Saturday, I will have planted a few optimistic seeds. Call it an experiment. And if I do that, I also need to begin some indoor-starts as well.

New outlooks

Last week’s breakfast with two dear writer friends netted me a short term resolution: To pay some attention to my two languishing verse novels this last week of January.

I put Quantum Quest on hiatus to allow some fresh ideas to percolate. And already it’s paying off. Looking over notes just now brought up an idea for a very different approach to the epilogue.

Meanwhile, I’ve resurrected a verse novel project that’s waited patiently for two years. One section requires some major cutting and reworking in order to bend its arc into the required shape — and I’m seeing possible ways to do it. Hurrah!

Think spring, everyone!

Delays, Deliberations, Derivations

Delays: A cold blast has delayed my hopes of planting seeds. December’s warmth was a fooler. A friend told me this cold is necessary. I’m sure she’s absolutely right, but I can’t say it’s comfortable. I’m waiting for February to think gardens

Deliberations: Speaking with my older sister about my progress on the final pages of Quantum Quest, I said quite a lot remained. On further examination, I discovered the end is closer than believed. Just one more scene, which I began that same day. (And maybe another after that). Plus the epilogue. This tying up all the threads takes a lot of deliberation.

Derivations: As I’ve said before, my science fiction trilogy had its genesis fifty years ago. Over and over during the last half century, I’ve had to leap my imagination beyond new technology, to find the setting for an imagined future. Being an optimist, I gave free rein to my hopes, and not wanting to write a dystopic novel required jumping beyond looming issues, though there’ll never be a future without its challenges.

For instance, the Military-Industrial Complex—which has been growing ever since Eisenhower warned of its dangers—became my source of a villain (which I dismantled down to a single hold-out family, totally unrealistic!). But nowadays that danger has expanded into the tech industry, which wields even more power.

The health of the planet stands on the brink. It won’t be enough to dismantle the war machine. With a government run by oligarchs, I doubt their powers will be exerted on behalf of a feverish world.

Also, in my series, mentioned in both Pawn Quest and Ty’s Choice, fully one-half of Earth’s surface has been set aside for wild fauna and flora migration. My mind boggles at the struggle required for that to happen.

Yet hope lies in numbers. We the People outnumber the billionaires of the world—if enough people care enough about our planet Earth.

Winter is icumen in

to paraphrase an old song, but there are no cuckoos to loudly sing in this cold season. And yet, I bought a frost cover for my as-yet-unplanted Earth box. I’m waiting for a warm, encouraging day to put out a few experimental seeds.

Sophie’s wonderful groomer retired, putting me in charge of her baths. She’s had one, so far. As you see, she’s in need of pruning, which I’m putting off. After all, it’s winter.

At various times, she resembles a teddy bear or a round woolly sheep or simply something very huggable.

Winter Reading

For January, my book group is reading Richard Powers’ Bewilderment. I’m only midway through the book, but the unbearable sadness of a nine-year-old boy facing head-on the enormous ongoing loss of the wild creatures of this world has driven me to begin a different book—facing a similar topic.

Life After Doom; Wisdom and Courage for a World Falling Apart, by Brian D. McLaren. I’m only into the third chapter, but in a strange way, I find it more comforting to read a book by someone who is examining how we can face the approaching collapse of the world as we know it. He ends Chapter Two with:

“We need to face what we know. And we need to face what we don’t know. Only what is faced can be changed. That is why I say, and I hope you will join me, welcome to reality.“

Maybe it is the act of my awakening to one personal grief that makes me more ready to face a grief shared by the entire globe.

Will you join me?

Awakenings

The Texas Red Oak in my front yard clings to its leaves long after other trees stand bare. Lately, those leaves have appeared on the back patio. Somehow the wind plucks them, carries them over the house and dumps the load. I’ll sweep up one batch, and if there’s a wind, a new, neatly sculpted mound waits for me the next morning.

But yesterday the leaves were all blowing west, straight down the street. We’re expecting wind chills of below zero tonight.

I took Sophie for a walk after her supper, thinking she’d rush back inside. Instead, she put on speed (a speed this poky dog rarely demonstrates!) and rushed along in full enjoyment. This morning, back to her usual snail pace searching for smells, I decided the wind had been doing that job for her—like having her head out a car window which she never gets to experience.

The New Year has blown in too—and I feel my brain slowly coming alive, my life gradually taking off in new directions.

For much of last year I felt half-asleep, spending long hours lulling myself reading familiar fiction or watching DVDs, especially TV mystery series that go on and on. How else to bury my pain. How else to mask my helplessness over Gaza, and the evils of all the meaningless, wasteful destruction of lives. Wars provide a way of ignoring the change needed to heal our feverish world.

On New Year’s Day I watched my old car get hauled away to auction for a local NPR station. I hadn’t expected to grieve. After all, I’ve been wishing to upgrade that noisy vehicle for years!

But then came that great wash of sorrow. We purchased the car together; it regularly carried us both around town. I had to honor its memory.

My grief group, begun in October, has done a good job of helping me keep losses at the forefront of my mind—rather than letting me tamp them down. Now, when something triggers that sense of loss, I welcome it. I indulge it, because the pain reminds me of the good times we shared, and of how fortunate I have been.

Friend Rumi says it so well in The Guest House, as translated by Coleman Barks:

This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they’re a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.

May it be so.

I RESOLVE TO PLANT SEEDS

First seed: I made an early resolution to return to my weekly blogging. I’m now three weeks into that promise.

Second seed: One of my Earth Boxes now sits by the back door. I’ve resolved to plant flower seeds there as soon as possible. It faces south and will be warmed by the brick wall, but I’ll need to wrap it in something, since recent years have taught me the tragedy of a squirrel eating all my flower sprouts. Once well established, they’ll offer less of a treat and I’ll unwrap them.

I might even add some chard, since that’s the only vegetable the squirrel left alone (other than the nightshades).

Third seed: Along with flowers, I want to grow more love in my interactions with people. Building and maintaining community is crucial to facing the challenges ahead.

The good thing about seeds is there’s always a season for something new to plant. I’ll be looking for more opportunities as the year progresses.

2024’S GOALS

Having failed to complete a draft of Quantum Quest by December 31st, 2023, I am now claiming victory for 2024. There’s still the matter of an epilogue, but those words will come when they come. Meanwhile, I’m done.

Of course, the term “draft” implies improved drafts to come. That’s okay. It’s more fun to revise than to write.

I also wanted to welcome in the New Year with a completely clean house. That did not happen, though I did run the vacuum around. So there.

HERE’S WISHING YOU ALL PEACE, HEALTH AND LOTS OF FLOWERS

Christmas bloom

I still have ups and downs. At times I bury myself in reading fiction and don’t emerge until finished—or until Sophie needs a meal or outing. But all in all, we are both thriving in this emptier house.

Last spring I planted geraniums in the porch planter. They were very unhappy all summer. Too hot. Too much sun. Mostly they hunkered down and struggled. Certainly they didn’t bloom.

But three geraniums are still there, still hanging on. I always thought geraniums to be more feeble, more fragile, but here they are, insisting on staying alive.

And one of them is actually thriving in these freezing nights and warm days of New Mexico December. Something about the bricks in that corner of the porch that hold daytime warmth. One plant decided to bloom and hasn’t stopped.

I have a lot to accomplish before New Year’s Day: sorting and storing sewing goods from the room I’m going to be renting, drafting the last pages of Quantum Quest, doing an end of the year house cleaning . . . I’ll let you know how all that comes out.

Here is Sophie right beside me, eternally vigilant to her duties.

May all your holidays of choice bloom for you.

What ifs

If I were to say anything about grief (or my current stage thereof), it’s that connecting with other people helps the griever feel real. Every face-to-face, heart-to-heart encounter is something I am grateful for. Such encounters are happening more often, maybe because I recognize and welcome the healing they provide.

Taking Sophie for a walk this past weekend, we were passing the yard of our greenest-thumbed neighbor, and she invited us inside the fence to visit. We sat within a semi-circle of vegetables and flowers and trees—amazing how much she can grow in one normal front yard in high desert New Mexico. She explained that she’s trying to replicate her semi-tropical Chinese origins.

While Sophie barked at her cat, we exchanged origin stories of our dogs. My neighbor remarked on how much we like to feel that our pet is meant for us.

I told her how Wayne was volunteering at Animal Humane, and one day he walked past the glass door behind which Sophie was on show, waiting for a new home. When she saw him, she scrabbled at the door demanding his attention as if in recognition. I came to meet her the next day, and her desperate need belong somewhere brought me to tears. Of course, she had to join our family.

Sophie was about two when we adopted her. She turns thirteen this summer. After Sophie and I resumed our walk, my mind went into what if mode. It had been at least three years after losing our previous dog, Taz. that we adopted Sophie.

What if Taz had been reborn as Sophie? Sophie and Taz are very similar in coloring and size. She doesn’t have his impulsiveness, but is equally outgoing and friendly. Sophie is a good water drinker, where Taz suffered two bladder operations from never drinking enough.

The times I feel closest to Wayne are when I wake in the night. Then I realize it’s Sophie’s warmth nearby, and not Wayne’s. Sophie is a link between us, whether there’s anything spooky about it or not.

Writing What Ifs

What ifs are a staple of writing—like the time I’ve spent pondering, the time I’ve spent spiraling (mentioned in previous blogs), and middle of the night times pondering the novel’s climax.

It was a further leap of imagination when I came home from our walk and turned to my spiraling. I added one more What if that turned into a Why not?

Serendipity comes into play when normal conversations bounce against my other world, raising aha! moments. Each aha! adds another link, or piece to the puzzle. I set them on the board and ask myself what will hold these together?

That’s one more great reason to value human-to-human interactions.