Kate Harrington

When Friends Show Up

I’m thinking of a phone call that came on a day I was feeling particularly glum. I like that word, meaning “gloomily sullen or silent,” from the Low German meaning “turbid, muddy”. That fits. To me, glumness holds vibes of living in a colorless world. This particular caller was also grieving losses, the first time we’d talked one-on-one. It was a lovely, lengthy chat. Afterwards, I felt much more alive, the world a brighter place. (I hope she did too.)

One thing I’ve discovered about glumness is it’s symptomatic of a suppression of feelings. For me, I suspect it’s a lifelong habit, but I am learning that our feelings are better served if they are recognized, no matter how sad or painful. Sadness is a reminder of a love shared, of a cause for gratitude. I am a different person because of my marriage.

Contacts with people move me to be more proactive. A recent sermon emphasized the need for self-care, even as we take action during these stressful times. Those Covid years made me even more of a homebody than normal, but it is past time to break out of my ingrained, in-walled, and unproductive routines. Sophie doesn’t really require me at her beck and call every minute—comfort creature that she is.

One recent night, my mind was circling around a particular action (one of many I’ve been putting off), and the underlying message was Do it for yourself. So the very next day, I did. I took steps to get on a waiting list for possible future living quarters—sometime in the vague future, when I no longer have a dog. (And when I’ve downsized myself).

I’ve had book friends all my life, but downsizing includes letting go of some of them. I’ve successfully donated a number, mostly books with no emotional appeal. Some of my well-worn old friends have been waiting to go to the library box at the park. Since it doesn’t hold many books, I only take a few at a time from a batch waiting near the back door.

Last week I pulled out one tale to revisit— Maria Escapes. I spent the rest of the day re-reading and chuckling over the forgotten humor. No way could I feel glum while following this Victorian era orphan as she runs away from school. She ends up being tutored—and having escapades—with three neighboring brothers in Oxford, England.

No, no, no! I can’t let Maria escape me. In fact, my wi-fi was down, so for two days I had no way to search out more books by Gillian Avery. Maria Escapes has proven her staying power. The British copyright was in 1957, and the U.S. edition occurred more than 30 years later, in 1992.

Having returned Maria back to my own shelves, I then pulled out a couple other old friends from my giveaways . . .

Downsizing is going to take a while. As that old song says,

Make new friends, but keep the old . . .

Blue

In her journals, Anne Morrow Lindbergh wrote about her grief in losing her first born child —the famous Lindbergh baby kidnapping. She spoke of focusing on high-reaching objects (I don’t remember specifically what) but I picture trees or mountains.

And in fact, I’ve done a lot of looking up this past year, but recently I realized it’s not so much the tall elms in the park as it is the sky beyond. That bluest of blue at the highest point of the sky, and it seems to take on an even greater intensity when contrasted with tree limbs.

Wayne had blue eyes. There was a time, back before we were a couple, when we were walking in a group. And he looked at me. I don’t know how to describe it, but there was a flash of blue, somewhere between us. I started collecting blues and eventually wrote a poem.


I love blue.

Once I saw a sky so blue
it was new to me.
I love blue.

Once in the Rio de los Frijoles
blue sparkled,
uncatchable blue.

Once your eyes flashed blue at me.
Long before you saw me, 
I saw you.

**Since Sophie’s haircut, she has not objected to wearing a coat on chilly days, or in this week’s strong winds.**

Pantsing or Outlining?

So. I’ve been writing a science fiction trilogy plus companion tale (It didn’t start out that way, but that’s how it’s ended up) for the last 50 years. I didn’t know where the story would take me, and it was only by self-publishing the beginnings that I could free myself to bring the whole shebang to a finish. Or rather, I’m working on the finish!

In one of my critique groups (I belong to two) we were discussing the benefits of outlining before writing. The biggest benefit is time savings. You know what you need to cover in a chapter, you know the goal of your current chapter, etc.

Yes, that’s all wonderful! But it implies you know where you’re going before putting pen to paper. And you know the theme of your story. So what happens if your mind doesn’t work like that? What if you don’t know what the story is about until you write it down?

I don’t always know what I’m thinking. Here’s a personal example. Quite some years ago, I went to urgent care with a relatively minor but uncomfortable matter and waited for a long time, while others were triaged ahead of me.

Finally I dug out a pad of paper from my purse (always carry something to write on) and started scribbling. What did I write? I don’t remember, but my words pretty much told me to get up and go home. And I did. I went home and made an appointment. I often don’t know what I’m thinking unless I write it down,

That’s how my creative mind works as well. What comes out of my pen are conversations. It might be a dialogue between me and a character, or more often, it’s two or more characters talking among themselves. I’m merely their stenographer.

One of the critiques I’ve gotten has been a complaint that I include too much dialogue. That tells me I’ve done a poor job of translating “overheard” talk into proper scenes. There needs to be interiority, tension, action, decision making, not simply talk-talk.

I’ve arrived at the time for revision. I need to revisit my characters, especially the secondary ones, and bring out their stories a bit more. And I’m enthusiastic about doing it! It gets me up in the morning.

That’s important. Be enthusiastic about whatever you’re living for.

Sophie: Before and after. Just like in writing, there’s a before revision and an after. Let’s hope my edits make as impressive a change as Sophie’s haircut.

Retrieving what was lost

Lost Patterns. I never returned to my pre-Covid early morning walks to a coffee shop, that contemplative time for examining the writing day’s direction.

Nowadays, there’s a dog to feed. Other routines have erased thoughts of getting out on those predawn streets, like: eat breakfast now; page through the newspaper and do the NYT crossword, sudoku, Cryptoquip and Jumble puzzles; take the dog for a walk; and morning stuff, before I ever get to my desk.

Replacing Patterns. Meanwhile, I’m looking to create new routines. For instance, a way to overcome my laziness on Sundays is to wheel Sophie along on my walk. It offers a different slant to the same old routine, and hopefully Sophie enjoys it well enough—though she still walks the other direction when her carrier rolls out of the garage.

And this past Sunday I also hied me to the gym to ride the bike. That effort improved my attitude about coming home to do my PT—after a soft cone at Dairy Queen. Some rewards are necessary! While consuming ice cream, I jotted some notes, so it was time well spent.

Ongoing losses. I do try to remain hopeful for the future of our country—but a resolution will come with a great, and probably lengthy, struggle.

Meanwhile, on the home front, I’m looking at the little losses, minor though they seem in comparison. With the one year anniversary of losing Wayne, I allowed myself to not do anything for a week. But that week grew longer, followed by a loss of writing momentum. Time to return to revisions.

I had reconciled myself to being a year behind on finishing up the Pawn Quest trilogy, but yesterday’s critique session left me with a realization of just how much more revision remains to be done.

Normally I love to revise, but when it comes to shaking up whole chapters, I’m going to need a clear focus and a great deal more imagination. Do I have it in me? I’ll let you know.

(Next week’s post—a discovery I made about Pantsers vs. Outliners.)

**Spinach, bachelor buttons & assorted weeds.**

Seeds of Thought

The phrase “Grassroots Resistance” started me chewing over the idea of seeds. Seeds grow slowly.

The vegetable and flower seeds I planted indoors may not all have sprouted yet, but all species now have representation, even the coleus that definitely prefers warmth and the reluctant (I don’t know why) eggplants.

When the first seed of my sci-fi trilogy was planted so many years ago, I had no idea what it would become. The only questions it planted in my mind were Who? and Why? Who are these kids? and Why are they on that planet? The answers took years and years—and a lot of mind play, something to toy with while busy with kids and later with career.

What? and How? were the next questions. What was really going on? and How were they ever to get home again? That original seed evolved, needing a lot of cross-pollination and subsequent generations. Even now, I’m having to cull weeds to present a clear set of pictures leading up to the finale.

Then there are grassroots. My lawn of buffalo grass, planted by my husband in stages over three summers, holds the dirt down, helps soak up any water offerings from sky or sprinkler, and prevents weeds from overwhelming the yard.

Which brings us back to that original seed for this blog:

Grassroots Resistance

the collective action from volunteers at the local level to implement change.

The mark of a good leader is to be out in front leading people where they really want to go. On the day of this writing, I noted two separate websites carrying the same message:

People power is pushing at the leadership to act.

We’re all in this together. We are none of us DEI or we are all of us DEI, and I vote for the latter.

We’re all human, of every size and color and origin and ability and sexual orientation. We are all one species. Together we can prevent the weedy spread of billionaires trying to take over our country for their own gain.

C’mon Congress! Wake up! Get with the real world of the people you represent! That goes for Republicans too.

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.