From Here to There

Do you ever feel like you are heading off in too many directions? October feels that way to me.

And, yet, for some reason, it also feels right.

I will be leading two digital writing workshops for the Virginia Association of Independent Schools this month, one for teachers of younger students and the other for those who teach middle and upper school. Collegiate School in Richmond, Virginia has asked me to work with faculty interested in project-based learning. And I continue to develop programs for my writing studio, including a new Tuesday night workshop starting next week.

Oh, yeah. There’s also edcampisva, a professional learning opportunity I’m helping organize.

I’ve just returned home from a week in Rhode Island with my mom, who had knee replacement surgery.  The quiet time left me feeling inspired to write. And sign up for a class, which starts Monday.

And, somehow, my husband and I managed to commit to activities each weekend this month.

Have I mentioned a six-week boot camp at our gym? It’s a killer.

All this actually feels good, and I’m not complaining. But I know myself. I need to stay organized and focused, allowing time for my introverted self to breathe and be alone, too. A frenetic pace doesn’t work for me, so I’ll put time in each day for journaling, listening to music, and taking walks.

And art. I’ve started playing around with acrylics and color.

Fall has always meant a new beginning for this teacher. Even though I’m not in the classroom anymore, it sure feels like fall to me.

 

Gratitude

I understand this fellow.

I spend a lot of time staring at the ocean, too.

That might seem wasteful or self-indulgent, but to me, it’s time well spent. Some of my best thinking happens at the beach. The regular pounding of the surf lulls me into a kind of meditative state where my mind is clear.

Even the simple routines of anchoring the boat on the salt pond and then carrying lunch, books, and chairs across the barrier beach provide a way of grounding me. I step onto the hot sand, leaving my rubber flip flops at the end of the path. Block Island sits straight ahead on a clear day. Quonochontaug to the left and Weekapaug to the right flank the long stretch of shoreline.

Settling in, I am grateful beyond words for this opportunity to connect with the sand, surf, and familiar sights again.

Edited: I discovered a lovely wordfor this: Uitwaaien

 

 

 

On Aging

“We’re going to lose this entire generation of parents soon,” my cousin said to me last summer. My father had died a year earlier, and her father, my Dad’s brother, was struggling to walk and remember details.

The next death, though, was not his but the third brother’s wife, who died a few days before Christmas. Her funeral was a couple of weeks ago, and we gathered in Cleveland from across the country to say goodbye.

Our parents, all in their 80’s now, are leaving us one by one. And I think my cousins and I are struggling not only with overwhelming sadness but grief for a way of life that will be ending.

Our recent family history took hold at the turn of the century, when my great-grandmother built a summer house in a artist’s community near a beach in Rhode Island. Soon another family settled in, our grandmothers became friends, and the child of one married the child of another. Over the years, brothers and sisters, and cousins of all kinds grew up together, sharing a few weeks each July or August in or near the Carter and Wood compounds, which had grown to several houses and a cabin situated near a path leading to Quonochontaug Pond.

The gardens and fruit trees lay between the houses and the backyard wood shop, where our dads built boats under the direction of my stern but loving grandfather. As we grew up, we were also allowed in to use the potter’s wheel or build a bird house. Smells of turpentine and wood shavings are forever embedded in my brain.

Rhode Island became home for me, the child of an Army officer who moved his family around the world every year. Freedom, not easily accorded to children these days, meant taking the boat out at a young age, learning to navigate the pond rocks. We often ran (freely and without parents) between houses in the dark or even down to the dock to watch the lobsters crawling in the shallows.

Our grandmothers arranged summer activities, which often included putting on plays and fundraising for The Fresh Air fund. Fathers built stages, grandmothers and mothers sewed costumes, and cousins performed Peter Pan and Mutiny on the Bounty for the neighborhood. As we turned into teenagers, the activities changed to walks on the beach, games in the living room, or sneaking out at night! Time often stood still. Coffee on the porch, blueberry picking, or a sail on a windy day–these moments experienced year after year gave me a sense of place that I needed so much.

As we cousins married and had children, we brought them along from California, New York, Maryland/DC, and Virginia. For them, too, Rhode Island continues to hold great meaning as they hear the stories about their great-grandparents who painted in the art room, wrote books and articles for the local newspaper, built wooden furniture for the yard, and grew beautiful flowers in the garden.

The houses are now aging along with the rest of us. And it’s getting harder and harder to justify expenses since soon no one will be there to live year-round and watch over things. We know decisions will need to be made, and they won’t be easy.

But at the funeral, as we celebrated the long life of one, we remembered once more the gift our great grandmothers had provided for us– a way to stay connected and a treasure to call home.