All That Commotion

I could have predicted Virginia’s second big snowstorm of the season – let’s pretend we’re not inundated by 24-hour weather forecasts – I still could have predicted it yesterday from my kitchen table as I looked outside and saw how eagerly my birds had emptied the feeders for the second time in one day. I usually fill the feeders once a week in winter time, which keeps at least two dozen varieties healthy and convivial. They moved so quickly, so bravely – the smaller birds alongside the larger ones – and made so much commotion in the task of shoring up their little bellies for – something! – They seemed to scream this word all day long.  Something!

I sat on my own warm perch in this kitchen, sorting through piles of clutter – my effort to sort out the old and make space for the new. I flushed out 15 years of writing “ideas” stored away in drawers, cabinets, and boxes – scraps of paper, half-filled notebooks – all those many things I didn’t have time to write but wanted to save for another day. Clearing clutter can never be done by plan – the spirit must arrive and move one to the task – and the spirit never announces itself, can’t be predicted, unless in the voice of dull uneasiness, muffled commotion from within, or restlessness from beneath the rubble of – something!

Many of these ideas have passed their prime; much of it is not really “writing,” just anger scratching away, pen against paper – and that is the stuff to get rid of in order to make way for the new – and then there were those few good seeds. I’ve taken those seeds out of hiding, replanted them on new piles, and put them in new drawers . . . for another day . . . and then I noticed the empty feeders . . .

I read many years ago that one feeder will host about 200 birds, some of which will not fly south for the winter, having been convinced of yearlong staples right here at the summer home. Such a person who disregards her winter feeders for even a short while may inadvertently cause the death of hundreds of birds – more so if she is prone to host, and neglect, many feeders at her home.

I enjoy filling the feeders, usually in the quiet of early morning, noting birds’ seasonal preferences and what they often leave behind – someone doesn’t like raisins, I might think aloud – or, someone was inconsiderate right here at the feeding station, probably a starling . . . only Dixie, the neighbor’s dog, can hear me. Yesterday afternoon, however, I am sure the birds heard me too – for no sooner did I return to the house, attend to the window – but to witness a descent of bluebird, finch, wren, tufted titmouse, cardinal, nuthatch and more – as though they’d been waiting for me – watching me as I trudged and filled and cleaned for them. From that perch in the sky, someone watches me!

The last time it snowed, I saw one odd goldfinch, probably a youngster or old man, who had puffed up his feathers and tucked in his head so as to look like an old tennis ball – olive green with streaks of dirty yellow – and he had nestled himself on a bed of sunflower kernels at the kitchen window feeder. I gently tapped on the window, fearing the worst – no response – after an hour-long nap, this trusting bird poked his head out, nibbled a bit of warm seed from beneath him, and lazily left me to wonder at the habits of birds.

Madame Bluebird is the one I most admire – and I hope she admires me – for she has the face of a very intelligent dolphin. She will direct her face at me in wonderment and gratitude from her spot on the window feeder where she’ll delicately swipe one seed at a time. She’s very careful and a bit skeptical too – I’ve seen her cock her intelligent head to the side as though to say, But why do you do this? In the springtime, she’ll repeat this routine dozens of times – and I know that every morsel she gathers goes straight to her nest of babies. I want to tell her that by autumn her babies will fly away and she’ll have time to write that book of hers! Sometimes, from that look on her face, I think she has plenty to tell me too . . .

These are the days which greatly advantage earthly people.
The others are full of vain noise, ineffective, and produce nothing.
Every man will have his favorite day, but few know about them.
A certain day is sometimes a stepmother, sometimes a mother.
But that man is fortunate and blessed who, knowing all these
Matters, goes on with his work, innocent toward the immortals,
Watching all the bird signs, and keeping clear of transgression.

(Hesiod, “The Works and Days,” lines 822-828)

Oven Spring

If I were to take all the bread baking failures of my life and load them up on that giant scale in the sky, and on the other side of that scale place all my successes, varied as they may be – I shudder to think how weighty that first side might be. My failures have outnumbered by many times my successes – and yet most people would call me a good bread baker. Most of what I know about bread baking has come from failure – and what I’ve gained more than anything is not foolproof success, but a swift recognition of the cause.

Yesterday I pulled from the oven two heavy, squared off loaves of spelt bread – a recipe which I have made successfully so many times in the past as to be second nature to me. What happened? Its first rising in the bowl had given such promise; the texture was pliant, silky, bouncy, and smooth. I tended the dough into loaves and set them out for a second rising while I went for a long walk. It was a very long walk.

I knew within 10 minutes of baking time that my well tended dough had overproofed – that is, stayed too long on the counter and exhausted itself. The life that was in it had been spent in a lazy afternoon rise while its master was out walking. It had used up all its nutrients; there was no energy left to burst forth into splendid rise.

"Oven spring" is that glorious phenomena whereby loaves of bread will rise dramatically within the first 10 minutes of baking, perhaps increasing in volume by as much as one-third their proofed size. The yeast cells, strong and eager from a slow steady rise, are suddenly shocked by the sudden temperature change – and so squander all their stored energy in one last burst of life – oven spring. Loaves with adequate oven spring are large, airy, and well textured. They show all the signs of a life well spent – and captured at the top of their game.

Loaves placed in the oven too soon, however, will have only a slight rise in the oven, appearing as though their tops had been blown off – cracked, split around the edges, or sporting tumor-like protrusions here and there – this is called “blow out.” They were hurried. They are squat, flavorless, and crumbly too. These loaves have a mean-tempered aura about them – failures – and to those bent on eating them, they will impart the same. I’ve made many such loaves in my early years – youth is too anxious to see the results of a day’s work.

Overproofing, the mistake I made yesterday, occurs when the baker takes a long walk – or bakes on the hottest day of summer while using guidelines from winter – or otherwise causes her dough’s yeast cells to exhaust themselves in a life spent lounging on the kitchen counter. This dough has done nothing out of the ordinary but digest and wile away time. They reach the oven and are too tired to spring forth – much like an old lady who has delayed the dream of adventure too long. Overproofing can happen to the overly confident baker who seems to think that bread will wait for her – or to the timid, novice baker who has little faith in the miracle of single-celled organisms – and so she waits and waits and waits, missing the boat altogether.

After a disappointing breakfast of heavy spelt toast this morning, I’ve taken a look at much writing that was begun last November and has sat to mellow in a folder called “Future Pieces.” I recognize their exhaustion and my negligence.  The energy I once felt and held dear in them is lacking; the luster, the adventure . . . gone. They are rework pieces, not vibrant snapshots. I won’t throw them away just yet. I’ll slice them up, as I did my square-ish bread this morning, put them in the freezer (for unfinished writing bits), nibble at them once in a while out of duty or economy – then one day, with a spring in my step, I will pitch them to the birds.

Floors and Doors

This is the day that feels like the first day of spring. This day, January 19, reminds me of September 8 when I began this blog – the beginning of the goal of consistent writing -- renewed.

Now I take a break, already, to look out the window – a distraction – for there are two life support trucks at my neighbor’s house. The woman, about my age, is the rapid door opener for two men with a stretcher and other men with bags of equipment. This emergency must be for her husband, Jeff, who lost his job as a local radio DJ several years ago and learned shortly thereafter that he had kidney cancer. What each day will bring for us – we never know.

I divide my time this morning between looking at the neighbor's home and taking stock of the writing I've done so far, having worked consistently in September, October and November, accomplishing little in December and most of January. Now I pick up where I left off, foreseeing the solid months of February, March, and April ahead of me -- if all goes well. It’s best not to think too far beyond that . . .

The men are bringing Jeff out of the house on the stretcher.  His wife, Al, is making arrangements to and fro the front door, to the truck, to her own car . . . he is obviously weak as they bring him from the house, holding his hands over his chest, unable to comfort her in her search -- though he is making every attempt to sit up in the stretcher rather than to lie down flat – just as I would do if carried out such. In feng shui it is said that one’s feet should never be carried through a door first, as that is the way the dead are transported. As such, even in health, a bed should never be placed so that one’s feet face the door while sleeping.

I start my writing today with the clatter of household functions and concerns . . . as pans before a meal.   Thinking so . . .

My theme for the year 2010 is “Floors.” This idea came to me in December, carrying little thought or explanation at the time, but promising the worth of my contemplation in January. And so today, this proclaimed first day spring, I contemplate that theme which I laid out for myself in December . . .

Floors – the surface walked upon – a support – the foundation of our movement, stance, and bearing. Floors support our bearing. I like the word, bearing. Some of the meanings are 1) the manner of carrying oneself; comportment 2) a supporting object, person, or point 3) the position or direction of one point with respect to another or to the compass 4) comprehension of one’s situation, and 5) connection with or influence on something; significance.

Floors support one’s bearing – that is, the manner of carrying oneself, the comprehension of one’s situation, the connection with or influence on something . . . one’s significance . . . perhaps another's significance; and comportment or behavior.

And so, in thinking of feng shui once again, in which a purposeful change in one’s physical surroundings affects conspicuous change in a related, non-physical aspect of life – I would say that the purposeful improvement of floors – that is, the updating, cleaning, improvement, polishing, shining, and even placement of rugs – provides positive affect on one's bearing in a chosen endeavor.  It means to get hold of one's bearings, to comprehend a situation, to be conscious of stance . . . also, for me, it means to polish, resurface, clean, clarify, shine, and even redefine that which I want to do . . .

And so, feeling fortunate that I am able to do so, I make the conscious decision this year to improve the floors in my house – in order to initiate clarity and invite support to my writing! Now to the writing . . .

Standing in the Wake

I remember something which I read many years ago by the critic Harold Bloom – he strongly advocated that teachers and students go back to the forced memorization of poems and other pithy fragments -- he said the lines will come back to you in trying moments, perhaps decades later, after you have memorized them.

A passage that comes to mind – as I stand folding clothes in this onslaught of perpetual holiday ruin that will not abate until college classes resume for my children after Martin Luther King Day – is this fragment by Tennyson from his poem, “Ulysses” – I mete and dole/ Unequal laws unto a savage race,/ That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.

I have many ideas for writing these days, and I would write if only I had a few quiet hours; if only I could think the words through long enough to add a period, or even a comma. If only I could see and be seen beyond this other guise . . .

I also think of a short bit of advice from mythologist and writer, Joseph Campbell: Follow your bliss. Some days I find encouragement in that phrase; other days I feel cynical anger. Having been unable to write sufficiently for almost a month now, this is a day of cynical anger.

Campbell was said to read/write/study for nine hours per day. So many writers are that way – holing up for hours, days, weeks at a time – perhaps in glorious solitude – until they finish the thing they were meant to do. I, on the other hand, have spent 24 years angling to steal 10- or 20-minute slivers of time for my daily bliss – and not every day. Now I’ve reached a footing in life where I might enjoy two or three hours per day – barring holidays, weekends, summers, and emergencies.

I often hear such bits of advice – just do it – take the time, don’t ask for it – let others do the work – that sort of thing. And yet, on days such as this with the dryer whirring, the washer spinning, and the days blurring, I can’t help but think of the shadowy figure behind those great writers/artists who washed the clothes and dishes, fixed the meals, cleaned, and tended children through to adulthood and beyond. I become angry, not just for myself, but for all those people who go back to their ordinary jobs today, taking the less blissful route in order to contribute to the mainstays of human existence. I’m sure my family would have fallen apart if I had followed my bliss to the core – and I often wonder if the responsible, moderate person can ever succeed at an art.

Dostoevski said, There is only one thing that I dread: not to be worthy of my sufferings. I’ve spent decades thinking, how do we become worthy of our sufferings, our experience – and with so little time to do it? I’ve concluded that creative expression is one way to make us worthy – otherwise, it’s just suffering. And, it doesn’t have to be in nine-hour blocks per day – perhaps for today our most worthwhile expression is in the way we fold clothes, place food on a plate or arrange fruit in a bowl.

I have this memory of my own mother who would spend days canning my father’s fall harvest of vegetables – it was not her bliss – she loved oil painting and she always wanted to write – but she would can the vegetables from the garden because someone had to. Once the green beans were nestled in their jars for a season, she would go out to pick a few thin red peppers to place in the jars – a splash of color, she would say – and she’d stand back to assess the placement of one pepper in each jar – she’d rearrange, stand back again, finally screw on the lids and put jars in the canner to boil – and in the evening or the next day she’d arrange the jars on a shelf in the fruit cellar so that bits of red were visible – here and there -- among throngs of green. She had a habit of satisfactorily saying, There! – once something looked good enough to paint.

This blog is a hodge-podge of leftovers from half-baked, month-long ruminations – the words or images of others that stuck with me and came up for review. I limp through my writing today; I can hardly imagine streaming through the real writing of my intended book ever again . . . and I have weeks to go before I wake . . . or something like that.