Kate Harrington

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.

Making Headway

Making headway

Getting unwound

Seeds planted, Flowers found.

My last blog reported my writing process of “pondering” for thirty minutes a day. When that ended, I put my focus on sorting out notes and chapters. And of course, I found plenty of gaps that need to be filled. That realization led to my next course of action: Spiralling.

What I call spiralling (I’m not sure what other writers call it) is a technique I’ve used over the years. I circle an issue, or plot point, or a day, and see what ideas spiral out from there.

Also—being character-driven—I’ve added spirals around my main characters. What do they want or need? What are they going to do? This actually takes me longer because I have to worm my way under the skin of each, one at a time,.

But it is headway!

Getting unwound

My life, these last couple years, was a very slow constriction of time and energy. My subsequent unwinding is proving to be a poky process as well. But it is happening. Progress in writing builds an enthusiasm that spills over into the rest of my life.

With friend Rachel’s help, I worked out a list of jobs to tackle over the next months. (“I’ve got a little list,” sang Ko-Ko in The Micado.)

Rachel pointed out a couple phone calls I could make. I hate making phone calls. Years ago, when beginning my first librarian position, I learned that making calls would be part of my work. I told myself “You can always quit instead.” I didn’t quit.

So I groaned a bit, but picked up my cell phone and arranged for upholstery to be steam-cleaned, and for some of our rugs be picked up for washing. The steam cleaning happened the next day! And we’re awaiting return of the rugs. Sophie’s not used to a bare living room floor.

Seeds planted, Flowers found.

Last spring I scattered two packets of seeds in a triangular bed near the front door. Nothing came up. But just lately I’ve noticed a few shy cosmos blossoms appearing at the lower edge of the bed. Very shy. When I went out hoping to snap a picture, there were none to be found, but the plants are there!

This minor success has spurred me on to a related project. On my walks, I look for and collect seeds of flowers thriving along sidewalks: desert marigold, chocolate flowers, and other hopefuls. These I scatter in my side yard. It would be nice to have a patch of wildflowers mixed with the grass next year. I’m playing a long game—inviting lots of guests, and waiting to see who or what accepts my invitation.

Here’s wishing flowers in everyone’s lives.

When halted midstream—

or Out of the doldrums and into the current of life.

I haven’t arrived yet. I’m still chasing after that completed first draft of Quantum Quest. But I did find a way to make some headway in my upstream struggle.

Over the years, I’ve tried many methods when stalled on writing a book. They all worked — for a while.

One time I was stuck in the dreaded middle of a fairy tale retelling. That time, the action I took was to fill a small notebook with calligraphy. The fancy writing didn’t directly address the tale so much as worked out the background mythology. I eventually got my boat back into the current.

Sometimes I put too much pressure on myself, and can’t write at all. I have this fear of marring an unused notebook with sloppy writing. The remedy is to write on scrap paper. I collect one-sided newspaper inserts. On the blank sides, I can freely scribble or create spiraling diagrams or whatever is needed. No pressure.

My latest attempt to get moving again lasted for three and a half weeks—until the Fourth of July. My daily to-do sheet listed it as QQ Ponder. And I swore to do it every day.

The rules went like this: Find pen and notebook. Set my phone timer for 30 minutes. Sit and think about the story. For 30 minutes. I never failed to also get some words on paper, but that was secondary to giving myself permission to meditate on characters and story.

For those readers who are following this trilogy, I am currently cleaning up the middle chapters while sorting out notes of future events. And thanks to the weeks of pondering, I have a renewed enthusiasm for the story. Just watch how grumpy I get when prevented from working due to appointments and commitments!

One discovery I made—and thanks to one of Susan Dennard’s posts I learned I’m not the only one—is that my plot is totally character driven. I had failed to take into account all of my characters, including the AIs (the artificial intelligences). Pondering reminded me of their importance. Until I know what my people and AIs are up to, I can’t know how we’ll arrive where we need to be

Sophie minds her responsibilities well. She keeps a close eye on me. When I change rooms, so does she. And when I settle in the living room, she sits and stares until I lift her onto the couch where she can nap, secure in the knowledge that I’m there beside her.

I’m back to paddling along and enjoying the novel scenery, with Sophie at my side. Whatever your craft, happy sailing everyone!

Mindfulness vs Mind–Fullness.

It’s been a month since I wrote a blog. Often these days, my mind acts as a sieve, thoughts of what I should be doing flow out almost before they register. Meanwhile, my should-do list keeps growing longer. I’m told it’s the brain fog of grief.

A few months back, I blogged about my trickster garage door, which would reopen once my back was turned. That improved after I swept the debris from the bottom of the door to prevent triggering the sensors. But not always. My final recourse was to practice Mindfulness. I would back out and wait for the door to fully close before driving off. But again, I would forget to wait. Pangs of conscience would descend, sometimes soon enough to double–check, other times not. My mind was too full, overwhelmed with caregiving concerns. I’m calling that Mind-Fullness.

Nowadays, the garage door gives me no trouble. That’s because it’s easy to pause, to mindfully assure myself the garage is sealed before driving off.

Grief is a strange country. A strange country, indeed. I feel off-balance most of the time, overwhelmed by an entirely different kind of Mind-Fullness.

**Assured of my presence, she makes her bed and sleeps.**

Right now, Sophie and I are both suffering from too much alone time. Sophie’s humans have shrunk from two to one, and she stays very close whenever I’m home. In fact, sometimes so close that I’m in danger of tripping over her.

Yet, when I consider seeking out other people, I look at my untouched work and think, How can I desert all this? all the while knowing I won’t accomplish anything by staying home. But— Who wants the company of a stuck-in-the-mud creature like me?

Yesterday I gave up pushing my balky self to do what I didn’t want to do. What was the use? Instead, I paid attention to what was going on inside.

Once I stopped fighting my resistance to doing, something happened. My mindfulness translated into actually accomplishing four items. In the space of little over an hour, I visited the post office, had a dental check-up, picked up mail at my son’s house while he’s out of town, and—drumroll please!—renewed a project dropped months ago to have an outside door rehung.

MIndfulness works. It opens doors as well as assuring me of their closures.

Last evening, I left for a quick walk before dark and found my neighbor outside, in tears. Her grief is even newer than my own. Her presence was a gift, a reminder that I am not alone. What was I doing shutting myself away behind doors, not only house doors, but brain fog doors as well?

The two of us walked. We agreed that her once-a-month grief therapy and my once-a-month book group were nowhere near enough. We will begin weekly walks together, to the benefit of us both.

One more step back into the world.

Stuffing Grief

During our weekly phone conversation, my younger sister mentioned the benefits of “verbalizing.” She had complained about something to her daughter, and then the solution presented itself. All because she’d heard herself describe the problem. That resonated with me. I don’t talk about problems nearly often enough. Instead, I procrastinate looking for solutions.

Yesterday, I talked with a neighbor, both of us having recently experienced a major loss. We discussed grief, and I expressed my disinclination to join a grief group. But I also realized my own lack of clarity regarding feelings about anything at all.

I mulled over that conversation and during a restless night my problem became clear. At three a.m., I turned on the light to make a notation about stuffing my grief in my journal. I have been doing everything possible to not feel anything at all. And not merely one kind of stuffing, though food came first to mind, probably because it’s my most recent method of keeping feelings at bay.

Stuffing Grief for me includes—

filling my stomach with food, eating ice cream straight from the container, eating, eating, eating.

filling my mind with anything at all: DVDs, books, puzzles, anything to avoid stillness.

filling my body (but not mind) with stillness. No movement means no change.

filling my loss of caretaking duties with concern for Sophie dog, placing her needs over my own.

Okay! It’s definitely time to try something new. Even my morning horoscope agreed. “An obstacle will be cleared.”

The first thing I did was to make a to-do list placing my walk before Sophie’s. The days are warming so fast, that I’m disinclined to walk later. I pushed my feet to move faster on a somewhat longer route around the neighborhood. After all, Sophie was awaiting her turn.

But what a walk! My brain clanked into gear, giving me a glimpse of a new angle leading to my unfinished novel’s climax. And following that, words began shaping this week’s blog.

Get moving. As simple as that. To be repeated every day.

Learning People Words

It’s time Sophie had the spotlight in this blog. After all, it belongs to her—my file name for blog drafts is “SophieBlog.”

Sophie is familiar with the usual people words, though chooses whether to obey sit and stay. Of course she knows breakfast, supper, walk, ride, out. She likes all of those words.

Since her torn ACLs the year before last, she has learned the word UP. Her recovery took two months of being walked with her backend supported by a sling to take the weight off while her hind legs moved. Some fellow dog walkers consider her the “miracle dog” because she recovered so well.

During the time of the sling and ever since, she has been lifted up onto bed and sofa, and most of the time also lifted down. She does take matters into her own paws if people aren’t fast enough to lift her down (though she knows better than to jump off the bed, which is higher).

The Eyes have it

Her latest word is EYES. By that she understands she has to undergo eye ointment. Back in January, we took her to the vet because her eyes were so gummed up she couldn’t see. We were informed that it was “dry eyes,” a condition that would have to be treated for the rest of her life.

We began with ointment twice-a-day and occasional eye drops as well. My normal process is to lift her onto the loveseat, position her so I’m facing her back and can reach her head to pry open her eyes and deposit the bit of ointment on her lower lid, followed by praise for being a “good dog.”

On her next to last checkup, her eyes were producing tears so well that the vet wanted to try reducing her to ointment once a day, with a follow-up to see if that dose would be enough. So for 4 weeks, I applied once-a-day applications, though a few times I forgot and had to do it later in the day.

Alas, she wasn’t producing quite enough tears. We are now back to twice a day, but no need for added eye drops. Talking with the vet, I realized the easiest way for me to remember her meds would be to combine the ointment with her two daily meals.

The vet applauded the idea and said to put the ointment on first, then reward her.

Monday night we did just that.

Tuesday morning Sophie amazed me! I told her we were going to do her eyes and then she would get breakfast. Sophie literally bounced to the loveseat and positioned herself to be lifted up.

She’s one smart dog.