Season of Darkness

I went to a funeral today. Not something I had planned on doing, three shopping days before Christmas. The death was unexpected and shocking. The younger brother of a close friend of mine had committed suicide. He'd shot himself, leaving behind a wife, three young children, and heartbroken parents and siblings. I had a hard time accepting this news. It lay somehow outside of me for days, like rainwater pooling on the surface of saturated soil.

I went to the service to help shoulder my friend's grief. I didn't bring enough tissue. The church was bright and cold. Not everyone wore black. The widow was a crumpled mass in the front pew, a marionette with broken strings. Mourners passing the coffin laid hands on the closed lid, gently, as though in comfort. A little girl, oblivious, patted at the water in the baptismal font.

The service was oddly sanitized. There was standing and kneeling and recitation and incense, but no mention of the act itself. No whisper of a pain so mighty that the plump arms of a toddler were powerless against it. No mention of the fact that, in the Catholic church, despair is the unforgivable sin. Just the gall of the silent coffin, a draped package stamped 'return to sender'.

I don't know what demons tormented this young man. It seems to me, though, that he had quite the choice. We are living in dark times. The 21st century crusades are well underway, with fresh atrocities served up daily. The ice cap and the economy are both crumbling. Emotionally, we are worn thin as the heel of an old sock. It is the darkest season of the year. We light our trees, and our menorahs, and our candles, in hope and defiance, and sometimes, this is enough. But would that the priest had acknowledged the hard truth that, sometimes, the darkness wins.

I got caught in shoppers' traffic on the way home, trapped at endless red lights with swarms of people desperate to prove their love to one another with suddenly vital objects wrapped in shiny paper. I twisted the radio dial to hard rock, and listened through two songs about the glory of guns, before giving in to the soothing pap of carols.

I went to a funeral today, one day past solstice. I know the sun is inching its way back towards the world, but it's still too early to believe.

Giving Thanks

So it's over. Round one of this year's Holiday Showdown. There is so much I could say about Thanksgiving. About this year's version, I'll leave it at this: I wasn't looking forward to it, and it wasn't nearly so bad as I'd feared. Not that I don't have lots to be thankful for. Health, loving husband, a house I can still afford. There's lots of good stuff on my plate. But this year, for the first time in many, I chafed under the unwelcome weight of family obligation.

We'd been free for so long. As bakers, my husband and I always had a ready escape card for Thanksgiving travel. (Anyone in food service will tell you, the holidays are crunch time, as if the entire year is a cross country course, and Thanksgiving is that one really big killer hill.) I thought I'd had enough of it. I thought I wanted the 9-5 job. I was wrong. I miss the weeklong overnight shifts, laying strips of hand rolled pastry lattice on tray after tray of full sized cherry pies, or whipping 32 quarts of cream for that next massive batch of pumpkin mousse. There's nothing like the smell of microwaved Bourbon at 4:35 a.m. Or the feeling you get when you find the lone half-sheet carrot cake order that somehow got snuck in past the order deadline. Or the giddiness of lurching out the door at dawn, splattered with sugary goop, and heading out to breakfast at the 24-hour diner before a welcome shower and a warm bed. In the golden glow of hindsight, all of that was fun. (Like childbirth, I forget the pain of whiny, demanding customers, the endless crowds, the inevitable burns, like baker's stigmata.) Customers aside, it was still a whole lot more fun than the thought of crawling up I-95, or squatting beside the extruded plastic chairs in some becalmed airport terminal, like desperate salmon programmed to return to the spawning grounds at all costs.

Not that I had to travel this year. But I'm not in the bakery anymore. My husband had time off, too. And both of our mothers have moved close. There was no chance of getting invited to a friend's house. No chance of having a quiet meal to ourselves. The noose was drawn tight. We were trapped, obligated (god how I hate that word) to prepare dinner for two women who dislike each other, at best, and who come, each of them, equipped with enough emotional baggage to open a Samsonite outlet. I myself turned Jekyll and Hyde about the whole prospect, in turns gracious (''This will be our gift to them!") and realistic ("Honestly, how much is this gonna suck?") My Zen-like facade shattered for good on Thanksgiving morning when I looked up from stuffing preparations to see a dark green sedan weaving slowly down my street. ''That's not your mom, is it?!" I cried. ''We're not eating till two!'' I hovered anxiously at the hall window, while Steely Dan crooned knowingly about ''when the demon is at your door''. Luckily for me, the slow moving car turned out to be a false alarm. ''It must've been someone else's unwanted relative, showing up too early,'' my husband observed. And yes, when he said that, it broke my heart. And yes, I was still relieved.

We'd planned our coping mechanisms. Like, we'd turn our mothers' neuroses into a drinking game. Every time my mother fretted, we'd take a swig of wine. Or, if his mother said ten obnoxious things, I'd treat myself to a purchase from ETSY, as compensation for pain and suffering. But the actual meal went better than planned. Both of our mothers were well behaved. My mother did bring her overnight bag, just in case she couldn't face the 7 mile drive back home; his mother told a lengthy tale of complaining to the phone company ''not that that's something I usually do.'' But they were civil to us and to each other, the food was great, and both moms were out the door by 4. My headache was gone by 7:30.

And the very next day, we had our real Thanksgiving. It was my idea. We hosted the first annual Leftovers party, an absolutely obligation-free, come-as-you-are bring-who-you-want gathering of friends, wine, turkey, tofurkey, stuffing, grilled oysters, good music, and whatever else happened through the door. I just wanted something fun, and I think I succeeded. Midway through the night, in the middle of the dancing and gorging, one new friend turned to me and said, "This is what Thanksgiving is all about." And it was.

This Is Not My Beautiful Life

A friend was telling me about the uplifting new documentary he's just seen. (Don't worry; this is not an ''up with people'' post. The words ''uplifting'' and ''documentary'' make my own lip curl in ordinary, healthy response, too.) Anyway, this documentary is called "Young at Heart", and it's about a band of seniors who tour the country, playing instruments and singing. I think they perform at rest homes, hospitals, churches; the usual B-list venues. So far, so good. I think plucky, I think defiant, I think, ''do not go softly into that good night". I feel indulgent towards them, maternal. I even feel a delicious poignant twinge at the inevitable loss of a few founding members, mid season. (Guess they were off to their own final tour.)

I wish them well, that is, until I learn their repertoire. Turns out that this band of graying oldsters have been straying from what I'd call an acceptable song list, to cover hits from such bands as Sonic Youth, The Clash, and Talking Heads. Say what? How do they even know this music? Is this some bizarre payback for listening to their own children blasting A sides through the stereo?

Granted, these bands were around long before the advent of ipods, but still--aren't these old people we're talking about? Gray haired, out of the loop, clinging charmingly to a long decayed youth? Shouldn't they be reminiscing about Big Band tunes? Reliving the glory days of the USO? I'm talking ''Soldier Boy", not ''Soulja Boy'', you know? I mean, they can have Barry Manilow and Air Supply. Maybe even Foreigner, if pressed. But--The Clash? Talking Heads? What's next? Janet Jacskon? Ben Folds Five?

It's not cute anymore, now that the old are encroaching on my turf. It means, uncomfortably, that I am encroaching on theirs. And I don't like that. It gives me that same spasm of fear I feel when I see parachute pants referred to as ''vintage''. I mean, I joke that the musack wafting through the halls of our nation's rest homes will one day be instrumental gansta rap. One day. A long time from now. The thought makes me snicker. But humor is distance, and the Young at Heart are shuffling awfully, uncomfortably, close.

Short Bus Blues

I was on the bus yesterday when the driver publicly shamed another rider. This was before we started moving, we had a couple of minutes yet, and the driver had stepped out of his seat to stretch. He noticed a girl sitting across from me on the partially filled bus, toward the back, listening to her headphones. Her feet were comfortably tucked up on the seat beside her. "Ma'am, could you come down here?" he called. The girl and I looked at each other. What did he want? For a fleeting moment, I felt disappointed that he hadn't chosen me. "I'm a good girl too," I thought; "I can help the driver!"

When the girl reached him, the driver pointed to a large sign taped to the wall by the door. "Read that aloud," he said. "This bus stops only at designated stops?" she asked. "The other one," he said, looking away. She read dutifully. "No food, no drink, no...feet on the seats. Oh. Sorry." The driver said nothing, waiting, I suppose, for the girl to consider her sin. She stood there for a moment, then returned to her seat, somehow diminished. This time she kept her feet pressed primly together on the floor. The driver lumbered back to his own seat, back straight, chin up, looking grim. The other riders pretended not to notice. I was embarrassed for us all.

That driver did other things right. He made the bus "kneel" so that I could load my bike on the rack more easily. When he drove, he didn't tailgate, or gun through yellow lights. Still. There had to be a better way of getting his point across, something gentler than this public calling out. He was puffed up with his own integrity, and it was so off-putting. It didn't make me want to do the right thing. It made me want to put my own feet on the seat, for spite. "What's more important, fatso," I taunted silently; "being right, or being kind?"

I spent the rest of the ride imagining the dressing down I could give him, had I balls enough, and the appropriate props. I'd wait til he brought the bus to a full and complete stop. Then, "Sir, could you come here, please?" I'd ask. I'd pull a handy poster of the Food Pyramid out of my backpack, and ask him how many servings of DingDongs and Hostess cupcakes he'd indulged in that day. "Just because it's at the top of the pyramid," I'd lecture sternly, "doesn't mean you should eat more of it." The driver would nod, stunned at my tough love revelation, shamed before the public congregation in their seats. "Now, go, and drive, and sin no more," I'd say. How smug that would make me feel. How good.

Spin Cycle

I bought a couple of new printer cartridges the other day. My husband asked me if the office supply store recycles the used ones. "Sure they do," I said. "They take them to the special dumpster out back." Pardon the cynicism. I'm fresh from a recent disappointment involving plastics.

For a short, blissful while, it had seemed that our local grocery store was expanding its already admirable recycling program to include, my husband whispered in awe--every kind of plastic. I tried hard to picture it; plastic wrap, shampoo bottles, plastic clam shells, soft plastic, bendable plastic, the hard plastic husks of the endless yogurts I consume--all, regardless of number and chemical composition, jumbled into one happy mass and trundled off merrily to Oz (or in this case, an uber recycling center, somewhere in Atlanta).

Needless to say, I was skeptical. "Who sorts it out?" I asked, picturing a gang of miminum wage workers in hazmat suits, burrowing through furry mounds of Numbers 1, 3, and 7. But my husband didn't have any details. He was too giddy at the thought of reducing our already minimal waste. "Between this and the composting," he crowed, "we'll be down to two small bags a month!"

He designated a special (plastic) tub for the offerings and, when it was full, we made a ceremonial trip to the grocery store. And indeed, there, just outside the airlock, like a line of small altars before the temple, stood the bins. One for paper, one for clear glass, one for batteries; one for, incredibly, all plastics. Unbelieving, I stuffed a plastic grocery sack full of Saran Wrap, plastic clamshells, frozen food containers, and baggies into its welcoming maw.

Alas, our bliss was short-lived. A few weeks later my husband told me, crestfallen, that the store was ending its plastic recycling program. Turns out that the loaded 18 wheeler wasn't going all the way to the Wizard, but veering left into a landfill near the palace. Just as I'd suspected. Apparently it was a case of mis-communication and not outright fraud. Someone had thought, and someone had claimed, and someone had wanted so badly to believe....I'm glad my own skeptic's-radar is sharp. Still, it's been a disappointment.

I'm off to the office supply store, now, with my used printer cartridges. I choose to believe that the store refills, or reuses, or recycles them. That excessive plastic packaging? I'm on my own.

Dwelling Place

The damp gray days of November make me appreciate my snug little house, the cozy place where I am grateful to dwell. That word, "dwell", is delicious. It evokes images of fairytale cottages with golden lit windows, and the smell of warm bread, and a hearth. Home. It makes me feel secure, and deeply content, the way the cat looks when she's burrowed into a pile of my wool sweaters on a narrow shelf in the closet. It's a good word, even if it is sometimes co-opted by the upscale housing market, and furniture-lifestyle stores like Domicile (which I like to pronounce Italian style, for maximum snootiness).

You don't need money to dwell. You don't need 900 thread count Egyptian cotton sheets and handplucked eiderdown comforters. It is entirely possible to dwell in a trailer, or a cabin, or a yurt furnished with castoffs from Goodwill. It is impossible to dwell in anything furnished with molded plastic. (Thus my dismay with Dwell the magazine, a publication concerning itself with mid-century modern architecture, a style which leaves me cold as one of Harlow's monkeys).

I've always been sensitive to my living space. Once upon a time I lived in the second ugliest house in Raleigh. It was just up the street from the first place winner, a lopsided shack down at the bottom of the hill, where the rainwater festered and pooled. Its original shoebox shape had been accessorized by small, alarming protrusions emerging from random walls like warts; thin, chopstick-like stilts propped up a sagging second-floor porch, shingles peeled like sunburned skin from an uneven roof, and the small, overgrown front yard was graced with a toilet in lieu of a birdbath. The sort of house that made me wonder, uneasily, if my tetanus shot was up to date.

But my own house was ugly enough. It had the usual quota of cockroach infested cupboards, cracked linoleum, and well-intentioned but amateurish "improvements", like an enclosed porch that turned the back bedroom into an airless tomb, and a paneled garage-office carpeted with what looked and felt like putt-putt turf and smelled urgently of mold. And it had mean little windows, divided just at eye level by a thick horizontal bar, the kind of window that slants open mere inches, and begrudgingly, as though reluctant to permit the release of any stale air. I slept in this house. I paid rent for the privilege. But I did not dwell there.

My little house now is small, and snug. It has high ceilings and big windows. It looks out, this time of year, on brown trunks and yellow leaves. It's furnished, as are most people's houses, with a mix of the worn and new. It is not magazine ready. Let's hold off on the photo shoot. But it is home, and it is where I dwell.

Election Day Thought

"We create our world by how we imagine it."

--James Hubbell, artist

Submission

I sent out a piece of flash fiction yesterday, to 8 different journals, some of whom warn, ''we do not accept simultaneous submissions.'' Uh huh. You know, I used to take that admonition seriously. I used to send my little pieces out to one journal at a time, then wait, patient as a maiden in a fairytale, for 3 to 6 months, until the mailman delivered my own self-addressed envelope back to me, with an anonymous, typewritten rejection inside. Such fun. Kind of like getting dressed up and asking someone to dance, and standing there just shivering with anticipation, awaiting their reply. And that person responding with a scripted ''no'', not even something personalized, just a vague, ''you do not meet my needs,'' or, ''best of luck finding a dance partner elsewhere!" That's a real confidence boost, let me tell you.

I've long since decided that it's much more fun to blitz-submit, and then write condolence notes to the losers. As in, ''Dear Editor of minor, shoestring journal X, I am withdrawing my submission of 'Fantastic Essay Y', as it has been accepted for publication in Prestigious Journal Z'. Best of luck meeting my needs better, next time!"

And what's with this word ''submission'', anyway? It's so craven. So weak. I much prefer the word ''launch''. As in, ''watch out world; I'm launching this baby!'' There's energy to that, and confidence. And, yeah, it might be a NASA launch (meaning, it might not make it into orbit), but it's just so much easier to consider a new launch, rather than a new submission, now isn't it? With that in mind, I've got some more launches to plan.

Have You Any Wool?

Why yes, actually. My back closet is stuffed with it, six large tubs worth, skeins and skeins of brightly colored wool, and cotton, and (gasp) acrylic. What of it? That hasn't kept me from longing to wash and dye and card and spin fleece into a yarn of my very own. Never mind that I'm just a beginning spinner, that my new drop spindle wobbles like a drunk when I flick it. There's just this irresistible appeal to the whole idea. I get out my little stick and my wool and feel an instant kinship with some distant ancestor, squatting by a smoky fire and rolling woolly mammoth hair down the length of an equally hairy thigh. I spin my little spindle and think of the Tartars, hunched over froth-mouthed horses, thundering across the steppes, their saddle pads matting into the world's first felt. How cool is that?

And why, after all, do we do anything unessential? Why does a blind man summit Mt. Everest? To make life interesting. To fill the days between now and death with something satisfying and personally worthwhile, irrespective of any tangible returns (or, in the case of the blind man, a view). Making something by hand is rarely expedient, or lucrative, or practical. But it sure is fun.

That's why I went fleece hunting last weekend, at my very first Fiber Fair. I bravely resisted all the gorgeous, tempting, handspun yarns, and concentrated only on the raw material. I ended up with something called Cormo, which is the name of a particularly fabulous breed of sheep, a breed whose fleece is so soft and squishy you'll want to press your whole body into it, facefirst. Well, after it's been shorn and washed, that is. Turns out sheep are only pure white and fluffy in children's rhymes and on appliqued sweaters. In real life, think barnyard. Who knew? But, even matted and dirty and aggressively stinky, the fleece felt soft enough to convince this novice spinner to purchase a large, stinking bagful.

Now comes the fun part; the transformation, through careful soaking and draining, of this greasy, feral mass into something wonderful and soft and fluffy, which my friends will covet, and perhaps receive in the form of a Christmas present. I won't post pictures of my worried frowns, the bubbling pots of soapy water, the cat busily kneading dirty wool into felt on the living room floor. But I may post a picture of the creations I make with it. I will not post a picture of the back closet.

Only Begin

"All beginnings are hard," writes Chaim Potok. Well, no shit. The blank page is fraught. It's filled with the specters of all the half-shaped ideas as yet only swirling around in my brain, all the cleverly worded comments meant to brilliantly showcase my wit. No pressure there, huh? No pressure, at least, if I give myself permission to simply stumble out onto the stage, my lines imperfectly memorized, to just get out there and begin.

The problem with perfectionism is that it keeps you from starting anything. There's this fear that you might god forbid fail, that you might not be stunningly perfect at a brand new skill on your very first attempt. (Ah, says the Zen master, but if you fail, then...what? It only matters if your ego is invested.) Well here's the thing, Grasshopper: ego is always invested. If you're me, at least. If you're trying something, like writing, that you consider yourself to be good at. If you've burdened yourself with expectation, imagining an audience rapt and attentive, certain of an ovation-worthy performance. The feeling is tiresome, really. But hard to shuck off.

I have to remind myself that it's okay to make mistakes. That you crawl before you walk. And that, oh yeah, no one likes a prodigy, anyway. With that in mind, here's my first blog post. It's something I've wanted to do for a long time, but kept putting off, because I was just too afraid to begin.