Amateurs Have Way More Fun!

I feel like a forever amateur in many areas: blogging, gardening, surfing, writing...however I kinda like it that way. There is something about the excitement of always having something to learn, and the anticipation of the unexpected. When one is a novice, there are fewer expectations, and so more often than not, I am thoroughly pleased and excited about the outcomes.

Lets take surfing for example. Michael signed me up for a surfing competition/fundraiser a few weeks ago. My initial reaction was panic, followed by a reluctant smile and brave face. I couldn't wear the cool t-shirt if I didn't participate. He assured me it was casual and fun.  I wasn't convinced. I have never surfed with many people at once, competing for a wave. I could only imagine the surfing videos I've seen and I couldn't imagine myself in it. The day came, and the forecast was in my favor...no waves! Instead we would paddle out to a buoy and back...that I could do confidently. Many heats were before mine, and as the winds picked up, so did my chances of having to catch a wave..uugghh, except that I was starting to get into the enthusiasm of the event. I also had to be a positive role model for Meg...she was watching and envisioning herself on that board next year. I would have gladly given her my spot, but she wasn't ready yet. The atmosphere was casual and fun as Michael promised. The vintage boards were cool to see, we were sitting amongst the awesome dunes of Cahoon Hollow, and the water was warm.

It was time for my heat, and it was certain that I would now have a chance to catch a wave alongside fifteen other women. My nerves now calmed by the sea and man I love, I ran into the water carrying the twelve foot vintage board, and paddled...this was fun. Around the buoy, and ahead of the others, I was feeling confident...now I just had to catch a wave...and catch one I did...yay! Then I landed on my rump of which the Cape Cod Times caught a perfect picture of and put it on the front page of the next day's paper. I wish I was the cool girl with the panoramic picture heading the paper, but, well, that's for the experts.

The garden is another area which gives me great amateur pleasure. My Carrot Friends poem says "A carrot is hard to grow/" All summer we have been watching and waiting for ours to grow. Last summer we grew them with minimal success...most of them looked like full-figured minature doll legs. This year we had higher hopes. We had pulled a few finger-width and length-sized ones, but they weren't quite ready. Today, we dug with our fingers around the circumference of our largest carrot to date...it .was a real-sized carrot, almost two inches in diameter. We were ecstatic.  "Should we? Pull it?" Yes, it couldn't possibly get much bigger. We gathered all its ferny stems for a firm hold, gave it a little apprehensive yank to loosen the soil, and pulled. Out it came, with a swift release, because it only had one inch to reveal. It was actually shorter in height than it was in diameter. It was a stubby stump of a carrot with two straggly roots. We had been duped..The wider a carrot yields no greater a carrot. Our theory to wait until a carrot grows round to an impressive size before picking it fell literally, and figuratively short.

 Our grape arbor last year provided me material for another poem, told in prose form, about our encounter with Black Rot. This year, we have been watching dutifully, hoping not to make the same mistakes. Two of the four vines have grown to reach the two Owen-lengths height with healthy leaves stretching across the driftwood ,but no jade marbles or any sign of grapes appeared. However, on the two lesser-achieved vines, merely a foot and a half tall with dry, curled leaves, we found the smallest cluster of purple shaded berries, one on each vine.  There was barely enough fruit to feed a babe, less than twenty itty-bitty purple pearls perched on stems, but still fruit, and oh, how sweet on the tongue they were. One was Pinot Noir, and the other Merlot.  What a delight to have no expectations, and to be seduced by a mere sip.

Have no expectations, and you shall find treasure. Have a great day! Bess

Clamming at Nauset Inlet

A knick of a rubbery tip,

the stretched neck six inches deep,

the burrowed body praying for rain.

I carve at the grain, careful

not to crack my existence. Must keep

the shell safe in my grip...

I have loved clamming since my first introduction. There is something about the vista of sand, water and grass, the scraping sound in quest of the gritty sea, and the stillness, particularly the stillness that mesmerizes me. It is a meditation. I find infinite holes. When we had several high school students stay with us as part of an educational experience, one remarked, upon seeing all the holes, that "there should be no such thing as world hunger." As I focus on the careful excavation, crouched aside the grasses, and find the burrowed treasure, my heart expands. I am one with the sea. My hands are tattooed with the brindled grain. I cradle the shell, careful not to crack it.  Cracking it means it would not make it home with us, and could lessen its chance of survival remaining in the sand. That would be a waste. I have some mixed feelings with regard to the humanity of digging for clams;are they any less than us, and why do we have a right to eat them? I'm sure the fishermen and hunters have asked themselves the same question. It is the vegetarian spirit of my college days speaking. Yet, I have come to believe we feed from each other in the cycle of life and if we eat thoughtfully, respectfully, and mindfully. it is a healthy and balanced way. I always say a prayer of thanks.

We call the inlet our garden of the sea. We harvest from the inlet as we do our vegetables and flowers from our gardens around the house.. We discovered sea beans this year during one of our walks back from clamming. We had just recently heard of sea beans visiting our French chef friend Phillipe. He was chopping them up in his restaurant PB Boulangerie's kitchen. Shortly after, we spotted them along the edges of the inlet. They are an excellent source of minerals and a nice garnish to any meal. In the late summer, the sea lavender shows its blooms amongst the beans.We add them to our half-bucket haul of clams, just enough.

We dine only with what we have gathered with our hands on these evenings: clams, kale, tomatoes ,summer squash, and sea beans. Sea lavender and zinnias color the table. We are perfectly full.

I Feel Like a Writer

 I feel like a writer. This summer has given us hours to spend in our studio, with Michael painting and me writing.  My last post included some segments on an essay I'm working on Why We Write.  I wish to send it in to Poets&Writers magazine so I requested a sooner-than-usual meeting with my mentor. We skyped, and she, being the archeologist she is, has me dig deeper. I love her ability to find the one line that works, even when it means that I must rewrite my entire essay.  Gigi, picked one line out of fifty-six and suggested to work off that. Of course I'm up for the challenge.  I can't go back to my original when she gives me a radical idea to try. Several hours more into this writing piece and I am still rewriting.  This is what writers must do to work their craft.  I've spent close to a year or more revising some of my poetry.  Some writing flows, some trickles, and some pours.

Days spent solely in our studio has meant we've missed a local concert or that movie we wanted to see, we forget to eat, or make phone calls, or paint the trim we keep putting off, but it reminds me of something the poet Mary Oliver once wrote.  She spoke of missing appointments and luncheons and asked not to be upset with her but to be happy that she must have been in a blissful state of being, of writing.

I stretch, and change positions, compose, and compose again. I am thankful for these summer days in our studio, with Michael by my side, and Ella playing on our phonograph. I can't imagine a happier way to live.

Happy writing!
~Bess

Why I Write

My assignment for today's writing was an unexpected one.  I sat down in one of our 1950s Knoll manufactured orange tweed one-armed chairs that we bought at auction because we loved it, despite its only arm being worn and frayed.  Its partner is in slightly better shape.  Together they make an imperfectly perfect pair like Michael and me. In front of me on our yard sale-found Eames designed coffee table water-marked with glass rings from gatherings gone by, is an old olive oil bottle holding a thrush of full-bloomed red and yellow blended Mikado roses and a copy of Poets & Writers. The roses are beautiful and they urge me to write about them, to relish in their lush layers. Instead I pick up the magazine and browse for any submission ideas. Submissions are the only overwhelming aspect of writing for me.  I love writing and rewriting, but finding a magazine or online literary journal that might accept one of my poems is daunting. I happened upon an essay under a segment titled Why We Write. At the end, there was an open invitation to share essays of our own experiences and stories about why we write. There was my prompt.

I took my Moleskine notebook stuffed with poems in progress and filled with crooked, sideways, and messy writing and began a new page. I lost track of time but spent a good portion of it trying to identify the type of roses that were on the coffee table. In the end, I wrote a mini autobiography of how I came to write. it was a bit cathartic. Here are two larger excerpts of my essay:

I did not get a degree in Liberal Arts, instead I opted for the more practical science degree of Physical Therapy. I studied art throughout high school and received several local and national art awards, but I didn’t have the courage or the confidence to pursue it as a career choice.  I could be guaranteed a career in Physical Therapy. I did not touch a brush again for twenty years.

Not satisfied with the strict allopathic methods of treatment, I leaned more towards the holistic approach of manual therapy. Ten years into my career, I pursued a certificate in Massage Therapy to complement the conservative methods. With the license to use my hands holistically, helping others, I felt like an artist again.  I was able to encourage healing in a manner different that I could within my physical therapy profession. I established a private practice and it became an early success. Working for myself gave me the freedom to feel whole and in control of my destiny, at least career- wise, at least for the present moment.  I did not know that I was on a trail that would bring me back to art and to love.

I believe that during a massage therapy session, when there is a trusting relationship, energy channels open and inspiration and healing flows.  It may be the last line of a poem, an answer to a problem, or oxygen to a tight muscle.  Our breath becomes fuller and with each breath is an opportunity to relax, expand, heal and grow. We take an average of one thousand breaths a day.  That’s one thousand opportunities. How eye-opening is that?

I was probably only paying attention to one tenth of those thousand breaths but it was enough to listen to love and truth when they presented themselves, unannounced. Almost ten years later, I was trying to once again balance my conservative and alternative selves. With a successful practice to acknowledge, I was encouraged to take another leap of faith.  I divorced from a neutral marriage and let my heart feel its pulse.

Paying attention to another tenth of the one thousand breaths, and with the book Love Poems from God given by my best friend, and a mini CVS steno pad, I began to write. It wasn’t a brush (although I have since completed two water-color portraits of my children), but it was my hand and my spirit moving creatively again, and it was liberating. Soon, the lined paper and the size of the steno pad was too constricting, and I opted for the blank pages of the Moleskine notebooks...

Three years, nine hand-held and six-and-a-half 8 x11 sized Moleskine notebooks later, I am still writing. My love and now husband, is a painter and we have collaborated on several exhibits featuring his paintings and my poetry. They are collections of shared love and joy we find in the everyday.  I’ve read such classic writer’s literature books as Western Wind and Writing Down the Bones and I found an outstanding mentor with whom I meet biweekly to challenge and encourage me when I have no idea why I am spending the hours of a part-time job fooling with words. I subscribe to Poets & Writers, Ploughshares, New England Review and several other literary gems.  I do not have a published book of poetry and all of my submissions to date have been rejected, except for one.  Does it count if my husband is a professor at the university whose literary magazine is the only one that did accept my poems? It’s okay. I’m still an emerging poet. Aren’t we all emerging somehow? I hope so.

I spent eight hours writing today, sitting in our studio with Michael painting a few feet away.  We swam and worked in the gardens that are heralding new wildflowers, squash, and purple string beans. Today, I feel like a real writer. Its a wonderful way to live..."vissi d'arte, vissi d'amore"

Thank you carrot friends who take the time to read.

~Bess

Wedding Day Wildflowers Everyday

On the day before our wedding, Michael and I picked bunches of wildflowers from a local meadow.  We decorated our home with  Black-eyed-Susans, Daisies, Goldenrod, Queen Ann's Lace, and Coreopsis  for family and friends that came to celebrate with us.

The days before and the day of our wedding were deliriously colorful.  Michael and I painted our shed with wildflowers and words and my best, dearest college friend Carlene was snapping pictures of our everyday love, swimming and running and wildflower picking.  The morning of our wedding ( I could not sleep a wink at the inn), I drove back to our home to wake Michael before sunset and we watched it rise in all its pink orange beauty to welcome our day.  We then went for one of our blessed early morning swims in Skaket. A few friends and family, other lovers of swimming, joined us.

Here it is necessary to include that we saved a shark.  Coming out of the water, our friend Ethan noticed a black dorsal fin moving across the water.  He is not a big fan of open water swimming, so this was particularly unsettling for him.  Mind you, this was not a big fin, but it was a fin nonetheless swimming  in circles, disoriented.  With closer inspection, it was about three feet long, blackish on its back, grayish on its belly, with a pointed nose and large eyes. It was not a common sand shark or dog shark that we could tell but maybe a baby Mako shark.  Whatever type of shark it was, it needed to get to larger open waters of the ocean side, so Michael walked alongside it guiding it in the direction of the open sea. It finally seemed to find a course and went on its way.  It was an exciting story to add to the day.

After all the excitement, I had less than thirty minutes to get back to the inn, change, and return to the beach where friends and family would meet to witness our love and commitment to one another.  I kept the salt in my hair, pulled it back, slipped on my glove-fitting Nicole Miller dress, took the simple handful of Russian Sage that Michael had put in the room, and made it just in time to see him dressed in his handsome linen rolled-up pants and shirt that hung as naturally as our love. People close to us were there and our friend and judge Steve married us among the sea, the sand, and grasses, under a cloudless, cerulean sky.  It was perfect for us in every way.

We married on the morning of our first collaborative art and poetry exhibit opening at Cape Cod Art Museum, so the day continued to be a joyous and memorable one.  We hosted a reception and got to share the collaboration of not only our love, but our art and poetry too.

We created a wildflower garden that represents those wonderful memories and more.  When we first sowed the seeds in March, we thought none had taken because we watched robins and finches snack on them.  So we planted more.  Still we thought none had taken as what looked like a field of weeds were staring at us.  Unsure of what green leaves were what, we picked only the certain weeds we knew.  Now we do understand that "weeds are wildflowers looking for a home", and I admit I felt guilty picking any weeds, but the monster ones that looked like something from Little Shop of Horrors, well they had to go.

Almost three months later, we have a delightful, airy array of wildflowers in every color that bring joy each time we come home.  Every day we see a new poppy pop.  We have pink, yellow, and orange poppies, and larger red ones too. There are Coreopsis, and several varieties of Daisies in yellows and whites like Tidy Tips and  the African Daisy.  There are Crimson Clover, Bull Thistle, Baby Snapdragons, and Baby Blue Eyes with Sweet Alyssum sprinkled about and so many more I do not know the names of.  I adore our wildflowers.  They hug us with happiness. We talk to them, sing to them, and encourage their place in the world.

Oscar Wilde writes "With freedom, books, flowers, and the moon, who could not be happy?"

I will add art, love, and the sea to the list.

Dear carrot friends, what's on your list of happy things?

Wishing you all things happy!

~Bess