Searching for Zing

 We moved into a brand new house one year ago. Though three children and a dog have added their marks to doors, walls and counter tops, the house still feels new. The carpet shows exactly one spot of wear. It took me a while to realize the source of the worn circle next to the piano pedals, a circle that reappears no matter how often we vacuum the shag to attention. Then one day I watched Alec play piano, watched his heel push into the carpet as he worked the pedal. He ignores me when I stand and watch him play, absorbed as he is in his music. He leans into the keys, occasionally tapping the rhythm with his toe, and music fills the house.

In true teenage boy fashion, my son rarely discusses his stresses or elaborates about his worries. Instead, he plays the piano. He takes after my mother in this respect, and I envy them both. Childhood summers found me sitting in my grandfather's house, reading in the living room while Mother and a revolving collection of relatives created music around the piano in the side room. I remember gauzy curtains on the windows surrounding the piano, the scent of geraniums from the entranceway, and the murmur of voices figuring out parts or planning a violin obbligato. Those same voices rang out at family reunions and brought the Spirit rushing in at Grandpa's funeral. Heavenly choirs have nothing on the Corry family, except perhaps a touch of hushed reverence.

I used to dream of sitting at Grandpa's piano in an otherwise quiet house, running my fingers along the keys and sending my joy, my anguish or simply my moment of peace winging up Cedar Mountain by way of Chopin or Rachmaninoff. I never did learn how to filter my soul through my fingers. Periodically, I sit down to play a sonatina, sure that the emotion bubbling up inside of me will somehow guide the notes. Inevitably, I stumble on a chord, fracture an arpeggio, and eventually give up in disgust.

For a time, I hoped my voice could carry me where my fingers could not. I studied, practiced, sang concerts and funerals, even taught some wonderful students. I remember two times in particular when I caught a glimmer of the feeling I sought. In preparation for a master class, I finally gave in and learned a German art song full of emotion simmering just barely in control beneath the surface. With the master teacher's whispered coaching in my ear throughout the song, I felt the music and my soul click together for just a few moments. The music swelled, and my voice floated right along with it. I closed the piece, exhilarated by the experience.

Later, I sang in the sanctuary of a cathedral. Huge windows overlooked Lake Champlain, and the audience faded to insignificance in the expanse of wood, concrete and air. A friend had composed a gorgeous arrangement of a favorite spiritual for the occasion, and we joined with a talented oboist. Voice, piano, and oboe danced in and out of the haunting melody. Again, I felt the music and my soul combine.

I have not felt my voice and spirit click in many months, and I doubt I will feel that connection in the same way again. I have come to accept the fact that music is not my calling, though my soul responds to the talent of others. At the same time, this need to write has my fingers traveling keys again. I feel the tug of my soul reaching. More often now, the spirit inside me finds expression, and I feel the exhilarating click. The quest continues.

Solitude

I have discovered that, in addition to the usual life-sustaining necessities, there are a few items critical to my well-being. When these fall out of balance, I get edgy, unsettled. I need regular spiritual study and daily exercise. I need to write. And I need time alone. I suppose I also require social contact, but as I cannot currently seem to escape people these days, I have not felt sufficient lack of society lately to recognize any conscious craving for it. Due to circumstances beyond my control, I have missed my coveted hours of solitude this week. The loss has set me to fantasizing about how I would spend a couple of hours alone with my own thoughts. In true David Letterman fashion, I will post my top 10 list.

Number 10: Lock the door, turn up the music (something rather loud, with a decent beat), and clean. Then, with the dust and grime a not so distant memory, relax into the sofa, smell the subtle hint of Pine Sol, and soak in a fleeting moment of order and calm.

Number 9: Dine alone in a restaurant, preferably one with a garden view, an artsy decor, and enough of a crowd so that I can observe the other patrons anonymously and imagine their back stories. Order something light, with an exquisite blend of flavors. Wash it down with sparkling water and a twist of lime and tie it all up with dark chocolate and herb tea.

Number 8: Don leather and hop on the Harley for a motorcycle ride through the countryside. Watch the sunlight sparkle on the lake as I pass.

Number 7: Close the blinds, turn down the lights, locate a CD of rainsong, and meditate. Find ohm.

Number 6: Watch a movie, perhaps something on the order of Jane Austen or "Room with a View." It must be entertaining and can even verge on frivolous, but it must also be well done.

Number 5: Go for a hike. The Sunset Ridge trail on Mount Mansfield fits the bill as well as anything else. It starts in the trees, shaded and intimate, but soon opens up to an expansive view and culminates above the tree line, overlooking mile upon mile of humanity, softened by hazy afternoon sunlight and too far away to be obtrusive.

Number 4: Settle into a steaming hot bath, with scented candles and soft music.

Number 3: Visit an art museum. Rush through the ancient history and cubism exhibits. Slow down as I round the corner to the Impressionists. Drink in the likes of Monet and Van Gogh, then move on to Edward Hopper, Frank Lloyd Wright, and Ansel Adams. Breathe until my soul fills to the brim with beauty.

Number 2: Write. The result won't be the great American novel, perhaps, but ideally something profound, not so grand as to inspire nations but rather so true that it introduces the reader to his or her own soul.

Number 1: Gather my herb tea and a book, arrange the pillows just so, and settle back on the bed to read. Fight to keep my eyes open just long enough to allow the urge to grow impossible to resist.  Then let my book fall to the side and surrender to sleep, a mug of vanilla chamomile cooling at my elbow.

Of Friendship and the Cadence of Life

Some years ago, a new friend of mine surprised me one day by announcing that she had determined I was "above the fold." Laughing a bit at herself, she explained a philosophy that sounds arrogant at first but holds significant wisdom. The gist of the "above the fold" philosophy of friendship, as I have come to understand it, is this. Most of us meet a great many people in the span of our lives. Sheer logistics dictate that we cannot count them all among our bosom buddies, nor can we spend equal time and emotional energy on each and every relationship. Just as newspaper editors place key stories above the physical fold of the paper, we sometimes need to determine which friendships are key relationships in our lives.

For me, these are the friends I deliberately choose to spend time with, those whose advice I seek and value, the companions I would invite to my vacation home...if I had one. I dare say some of these people would be surprised to find themselves above the fold on my list of friends. I avoid talking on the phone, value my time alone, and have proven terrible at maintaining long distance relationships. Still, when I pick up the phone to find an unexpected voice from long ago on the other end, the years melt away, and I relax into the familiar cadence of an interrupted conversation.

A recent birthday call took me back to Memorial Day weekend, 1992. April had flown into town from Houston for a visit. In our fifteen years of friendship, I had often played the wise big sister role. This time, however, April sensed my need for perspective and dragged me up the canyon for a quick camping trip. We left my toddler son and terminally ill husband in the care of my in-laws.

Finding all the official campgrounds full for the holiday weekend, we set up camp in a quiet spot near the “gnome caves.” Long after dark, we built a roaring campfire and talked of life and death in the philosophical way of twenty-somethings coming face to face with mortality. We laughed over the pages of Robert Fulghum’s “All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten,” and I returned home the next day buoyed up enough to carry on for another week or so.

More recently, I sat with friends over lunch, chatting casually about the momentous and the inconsequential in our lives. I have known these three women for barely a year, and we spend little time together. Occasionally, we day trip to St. Louis or catch up with one another at book group. Still, the conversation was easy, comfortable. I trust these women, know instinctively that I could safely cry with them, serve with them, or celebrate with them. Their association gives me strength.

Even Jesus, though he was the Savior of all mankind and associated with lepers and noblemen alike, found refuge in a few close friendships. Though the crowds followed him, and though he took the time to bless and heal, to seek out the lost sheep, when the Savior of the world craved solace himself, he went fishing with Peter or dined with Lazarus and his sisters.

Over a period of decades, I have gradually internalized this concept of the need for friendships that nourish the soul. Not until my 30s did I begin to truly understand the value of close girl friends, not just women to hang out with, but confidantes. Through a number of years of early morning walks and monthly foodfests over a Scrabble board, I came to depend upon those confidantes. I also learned, through trial and sometimes painful error, to trust my own rhythms when it comes to relationships. Those rhythms bring music to my life.

Gems of the Heartland

I had a lovely lunch last week at a cafe whimsically called "Incredibly Delicious," in the Aristocracy Hill district of downtown. While I must say that "hill" represents a bit of false advertising, the restaurant certainly earns its name. Cafe tables fill various rooms of a vintage house, and patrons choose from a small menu that changes daily. I ordered a spinach quiche and washed it down with Perrier, because any lunch that includes goat cheese cannot also include Sprite. Tasty as it was, the lunch primarily provided a landing spot for the pastry that followed. If I knew anything useful about baking, I would gush intelligently about the flourless chocolate torte and the "strawberry jobbie" (as my father-in-law called the impossibly light, vanilla strawberry cake). In lieu of intelligent gushing, I will simply say the pastries are divine and worth the short drive downtown.

Sitting in the restaurant, gazing at the art around me and the gardens outside, I began to ponder this town I find myself growing to love. We did not move from Vermont to the Heartland for the scenery, and at first (or second) glance the area has little to offer other than Target and corn. Over the past year, however, I have begun to discover a number of gems behind the fields and strip malls.

Even early on I learned the sheer joy of riding a bicycle along flat Midwestern farm roads with endless horizons. Swarms of birds erupt out of the fields or off the sparkling lake as I pass, swooping en masse from tree to lawn to rooftop. In the fall, thousands of geese hold convention across the street in the freshly harvested field, and their honking carries me home from blocks away. High above the gulls and geese, the hawks circle, occasionally coasting down to stand sentinel on a street lamp. I have always wanted to glimpse a hawk's view of my world.

Following family tradition, shortly after Thanksgiving we took Kristina to her first live performance of The Nutcracker. I expected a charming, but amateur, production of a favorite story. The Springfield Ballet Company and its alumni dancers delivered a performance and set that far exceeded my expectations, a perfect kickoff to the Christmas season.

Several months later, I attended the Muni, a local summer theater, to see their production of Jesus Christ, Superstar. Once again, I foolishly expected a slightly awkward amateur production. Once again, the local art scene smashed my expectations. Jesus, Judas, and Mary delivered topnotch performances, complemented by a talented supporting cast and crew.

In addition to culture, the cityscape itself offers charm, from stately, tree-lined boulevards to a magnificent capitol dome to the flawless artistry of Frank Lloyd Wright and his Dana-Thomas House.

Closer to home, my daughter has chosen her favorite local spots. The Viennese carousel at the mall was an early magical discovery, and Kristina frequently begs to "ride the ponies." In addition, once each week or so we spend an afternoon at the local public library, which boasts a fabulous children's area and even a Barnes and Noble style cafe and bookstore. For two dollars I can happily feed both my sugar and my book addictions. Who could possibly ask for more?

Wherever we go, here in the Heartland, I have been struck by the sheer friendliness of the people. I cannot remember passing by a single store clerk, be it the shelf-stocker at the grocery store or the restaurant server with the intriguing tattoos, who failed to smile genuinely and say "hello" as if they were truly happy to see me. Warm welcomes extend far beyond the shop aisle here. Our movers brought Midwestern friendship to New England with the moving van and have remained good friends, introducing us to auctions and mostly delicious experimental barbecues. Their friendship was just the first in a line of unexpectedly delightful relationships.

I have no idea where the next five years will find me or what adventures await our family. Right now, on this sunny autumn afternoon, I am happily a Midwestern woman.

Chocolate, Cheese, and Lessons from Little People

Defenestration--as in "Mom, I saw a great picture of the Defenestration of Prague today"--is a great word. It doesn't slither off the tongue quite as deliciously as "plethora" or "thither," but it's still very nice. I should mention that the child describing defenestration (the act of throwing someone out of the window, by the way, in this case in political protest) is my 15-year old son. The same son apparently counts "extirpate" as one of his favorite words. I am ashamed to say I had to look that one up. I should, perhaps, worry that my teenager has his head filled with destruction, intellectually phrased or not. Given his ready wit and kind heart, however, I have decided in favor of amusement rather than horror.

I love that my sons have begun to embrace their inner nerdiness. My oldest son called from college this week,excited about his work in behavior analysis and describing the psychoanalytical theories of Anna Freud (Sigmund's daughter) with the same alacrity he used to display when describing a great snowboarding run in the powder of the Utah Rockies. These impromptu lessons in European history and child development are just the most recent of lessons I have learned from my children. I have learned a plethora (see, doesn't that slither nicely?) of lessons over the years at the feet of my offspring. The following are some of the highlights.

* The world has not created a food that cannot be improved by adding either chocolate or cheese. If chocolate won't fit the bill, cheese will. Trust me on this one. I have tried in vain to prove the theory wrong.

* Napoleon was not the last little person to rule an empire. Our 3 pound, 10 ounce daughter took the throne from her very first breath, and the age of the semi-benevolent dictator continues, four years later.

* A person who speaks with confidence can sound believable, even profound, even when he makes no sense whatsoever.

* Pajamas are world's most versatile fashion, acceptable for nearly any occasion, particularly school and particularly when worn with slippers in the middle of winter.

* Chill out. Relax through teenage driving adventures, surprise schedule changes, broken appliances, unexpected bills, bad hair days, and other calamities large and small. Listen to Bob Marley and remember that "every little thing is gonna be all right."

* A little computer time goes a long way. Alternatively, play games, cuddle, throw a frisbee, read silly stories, or dance. Your children, your husband, your dog, and your eyes will thank you.

* Wrinkled clothes and messy hair do not necessarily signify a flawed character.

* And finally, loving until your heart hurts may be more terrifying than bungee jumping, but it is also more wonderful than a million Lake Champlain chocolate truffles or even a lifetime pass to Disneyland.

Lost and Finding

I began to lose sight of myself on an early summer evening five years ago when God dropped a boulder in my path. I had one foot on the threshold of the next phase of my life, just waiting for autumn when my youngest son would step on the school bus for the first time. I had plans, vague to be sure, but plans nonetheless. God had plans, too. They involved one last child and turning my clock back six years. I could have refused, but I know better than to invite the consequences of resisting divine will. So I reluctantly, angrily even, opened a door I had locked tightly behind me some years earlier.

Born eight weeks early, our daughter captured all of our hearts immediately. I fell in love with her, as I did with all of my children. But still I struggled with God’s timing, fought against the direction my life had taken, and longed for the self I had intended to become. Before I regained my footing, troubled adolescence and ghosts from the past ripped the fabric of our family life. I found myself caught in a crossfire of struggling souls. Hurting for my son, my husband, and myself, one dark night I lashed out in desperation, dragging my fingernails across my face.

Before the wounds healed, when my bangs half-hid a red cross, my daughter stroked my forehead, trying to soothe the hurt. She never questioned, just comforted, and the heavens I once thought cold began gently to instruct. In my mind’s eye, I replayed an oft-repeated scene.

In the midst of the crossfire, oblivious to the bullets, a little girl cries out in the pre-dawn hours. That early in the morning, her crib no longer satisfies her, but neither is she ready to tumble open-eyed into her day. Still weary myself, both from the early hour and the household tension, I lift her out of her crib and snuggle with her in the nursery bed. At first she lays her head on my shoulder and nuzzles deeply into my neck, melting into me. I wrap my arms around her in a tight hug, feeling her heartbeat slow as she settles back into sleep. I let the fuzzy top of her head caress my chin and cheek as I relax into the pillows, breathing in the faint scent of lavender left over from the previous night’s bath.

After a time, my daughter begins to reach for wiggle room. I shift her out of my arms and place her cheek on the pillow next to mine. We lie there, foreheads touching and arms intertwined. I shift my head slightly to breathe in the air she exhales. Her breath smells sweet, innocent. I drift with my daughter into simple morning dreams, drops of healing elixir.

The elixir of innocent childhood healed all of us at times. The tension eased and changed form, but continued, exacerbated by Brad's new, out-of-state job and a house that refused to sell. I read somewhere that God tests us by asking us to surrender the very things we are most loath to hand over. I suspect my performance on that test failed to impress any casually watching angels. God asked for my time, my patience, and my willingness to stumble along in the dark, unable to direct my own course. I fumed, pleaded, despaired, gloried in epiphanies, occasionally wept in gratitude for tiny miracles, fumed again, and found hope in chance conversations and the wisdom of a patient husband.

Finally, the house sold, and we headed West to new adventures and space for deep, cleansing breaths. Caught up in the relief of calm vistas and peaceful nights, it took a few months for me to realize I had lost myself along the way. I began to feel the absence of identity and a need for goals to anchor me and provide me purpose. This time, I look upward and outward for cues, waiting a little more patiently and trusting a little more completely. Gradually, a new self begins to emerge, still slightly blurry around the edges but gathering clarity and strength.

Autumn Snapshots

My friend Judy Gile always said that foliage season in Vermont peaked on October 9, and Vermont generally complied with her wishes. Judy had that effect on the world around her. From our home in Sherwood Forest, not far from Burlington and Lake Champlain, we claimed a view of Camel's Hump and the hills and valleys of hardwood forests leading up to it. I particularly loved to gaze down over the town to see the mist rising above the river and the Round Church gleaming stark white against a backdrop of orange, wine, and the occasional splash of red. Closer to home, the trees along our road formed a yellow canopy over our frosty morning jaunt to the bus stop.

On Saturday mornings, we walked through the covered bridge to the football field. Mt. Mansfield presided in the distance, brilliant foliage lined the river, and the clang of the cowbell signalled each Wolverine touchdown. Later in the season, we kicked the snow at our feet and huddled under blankets while we cheered. The anticipation of hot chocolate by the wood stove kept us warm on the inside, at least.

In addition to football, we are also a Macintosh family. Every year I had to remind myself to wait past first frost for the Macs to grow red and sweet. Then, on a sunny Saturday morning, we rambled through the orchard with our wagon, brown bags full of drops for applesauce and half bushel bags for smooth pie apples. The scent of fresh cider donuts eventually pulled us out of the trees. Then we piled in the car, apples at our feet and crumbs on our smiling lips, anticipating the first pie of the season.

I miss New England autumns, bursting as they are with homebaked coziness and the tingle of promise. However, though I love first snows, I do not miss the long winter that follows. Those Vermont winters made the move to the belly of the country a little easier. Few people travel to central Illinois for the lush scenery. Still, a misty autumn morning holds promise with or without hills rolling with color. The huge harvesters lumber down the farm road outside my kitchen window, reminding me that my horizon now filled with fields of brown corn will transform overnight.

That right there is what I love about autumn. No New Year's resolutions for me. In the dead of winter, I would rather curl up next to the fire and read. But autumn...now that is the time for change. I send the kids back to school, dizzy with the possibilities before me. Then I open my journal, watch out the window as my horizon expands before my eyes, and plan my dreams into focus.