St John to Digby was a 6 hour crossing on a seemingly endless blue-gray ocean without the first sight of land.
The old ferry featured staterooms - which we never took, a needless expense according to my frugal grandmother -
a coffee shop, lots of restrooms, and several day crossing rooms consisting of an assortment of chairs and leather couches, shabby and worn down by the thousands of travelers. Nana and my mother knitted or read while we roamed the decks, intrepid explorers on a hunt for the unexpected. Or we napped, lulled to sleep by the steady hum of the ship's engines and the constant forward motion. Sudden bouts of seasickness were rare as we had been making this trip for all our short lives but if overtaken by queasiness, we went on deck, forward to the canvas covered lifeboats to hang on the rails, watch the ocean and linger in the crisp salt spray. We were even allowed on the bridge as Nana knew the captain, a rugged and distinguished old sailor.
Compared to her sister ship - Portland to Yarmouth in 12 hours - she was a tired, old vessel with no fancy dining, no well appointed accomodations, no casinos or nightlife. She was, however, reliable, reasonably comfortable and almost always on time. Best of all, when she docked in the Digby harbor, we were only an hour from Long Island as opposed to the three or four from Yarmouth. So year after year, we boarded and departed the old ship until we felt as if we knew her as well as her captain and crew.
It was a plain and simple crossing with no amenities but it was an important part of coming home.
After a certain age, a birthday is less of a celebration and more of an achievement.
I'm two weeks older than Peggy Fleming, who is, no doubt, in better shape and I work with people all younger, including those who sign my paychecks and who would surely ask, Peggy who? They never saw her skate in competition, never saw her at the Boston Garden with the Ice Follies, alone on the ice with an almost mystical blue spotlight while "Ave Maria" played. The audience alternately held their collective breaths and cheered wildly and it was a performance I've never forgotten. Her final bow moved them to tears.
I don't know how she feels about birthdays but I don't much care for them so when the riotously colored pink, red and purple cake with chocolate underneath was delivered to me, I tried to be gracious, in my own way, and refused to give in to the urge to run or the rush to be angry. It was a sweet and thoughtful, well meant gesture and I did my best to appreciate it - thankfully, no one sang and it was all kept low key - still, it centered attention on me, something I try to avoid at all costs. Figure skaters may thrive in the spotlight but I'm at home in the shadows and anonymity of the crowds.
The pursuit of fame and fortune requires a self confidence and a willingness to risk that I don't possess. You must be willing to put yourself out there for all the world to see, for all the world to talk about. You focus, train and sacrifice with an exhausting intensity, knowing that losing sight of your goal could mean losing ground you will never regain. You eat, sleep and exercise rigidly and win or lose, you smile and start planning for the next time. Everything you do is aimed at success, at being the best, at standing at the top of your profession for as long as you can. When you finally climb down, there is an emptiness in place of the striving so you start all over again - a new career, a new partner, a new challenge - replacement therapy to fill the void left by achieving your ambition.
It's fortunate that most of us are content with simple dreams and small achievements or the world would be a very crowded place with us all scratching and clawing our way to the top.
So Happy Birthday to me and Happy Birthday to Peggy Fleming wherever she may be.
Coaxing, bribery, pleading and threats had not worked so Sparrow looked his old mule square in the eyes. If you won't plow, he said, there'll be no garden. No garden means I don't eat and if I don't eat, you don't eat. Now for the last time, will you move your scrawny, sorry ass. The mule brayed but didn't budge, unimpressed by this show of reason and good sense, unmoved by the logic of Sparrow's argument. Smart enough to know when he was beaten, the old ex-pirate gave up in disgust and began the process of unhitching the animal. The mule brayed again and wandered off toward the barn. Lazy, good for nothin' stubborn old fool, Sparrow grumbled, don't never listen and cain't anybody tell 'im anything. I'm done!
Of course, he wasn't, few of us are regardless of how loudly and vehemently we proclaim it. The old mule had won the battle but Sparrow would try again - giving up wasn't in his nature. Knowing when to walk away or give up on a losing fight must be learned through trial, error and experience and we learn the best lessons from our mistakes, when and if we learn at all.
Detachment is a process best understood through practice and doing - rather than disengage and cut ties, we step back and away, giving the problem some space and some freedom, not taking it personally, and letting it work itself out without us. If we tend to our own needs rather than try and control those of others, surprisingly often, left to it's own devices, a problem will resolve itself. We are, inherently, fixers - called upon by some inner drive to repair and not at ease with another's unhappiness or black mood. We want to make things better, not seeing that sometimes sadness or pain must be experienced to be healed and that no amount of intervention or well meaning interference will speed the process. Grief, loss, rage and recovery have their own timetables and will arrive and leave on individual schedules - our own level of comfort or guilt will not change the timing. Emotional self reliance comes through the hard times and if we end up in a world of hurt, we have usually contributed to it.
After a day or two, Sparrow went back to the old mule and the garden was plowed up and put in anew. The trouble between them was forgotten and the vegetables came in with a vengeance, sustaining both man and mule through a long, lonely winter.
On an already hot and humid morning, the dogs were wandering idly in the back yard. Birds were overhead and a squirrel or three darted through the tree limbs. It was peaceful and quiet and I was watching the clouds drift by and thinking about the day ahead when the black dog went into attack mode, teeth suddenly bared and barking in a panicked, high pitched frenzy. I looked up to see the terrier from next door cowering in the shrubs and tree limbs piled up behind the garage - for a moment this made no sense - then the black dog charged and I came to my senses in a sudden mad dash for the fence, fearing for the life of this unexpected and terrified intruder.
The next few moments were chaos mixed with crisis. I could hear the terrier's frantic owner calling his name from the other side of the fence but the terror stricken animal was frozen. The black dog was repeatedly lunging at him and howling with fury, other neighborhood dogs joined in the chorus, I was shouting and the small brown dog suddenly arrived and trotted between the two dogs, prancing and barking at them both. Snatching her up with one hand I reached for the black dog's collar and forced her backwards, speaking as softly and as reassuringly as I could while trying to make myself heard above the roar. It was a clear Excedrin moment. Eventually I got both my dogs inside and returned for the trespassing terrier, gathered him up, and tucking him beneath one arm, delivered him safely home. Although my ears were ringing, no blood had been shed during this remarkable invasion of territory and no harm had been done - what might have become interplanetary war had been cut off at the pass and stayed at the level of a minor border skirmish.
Odd how territory means so much to us. For centuries we have fought and died for it, repelled those who would take it from us, guarded and defended with it with actual lives. Be it a hill or a country or a workspace, we do not welcome others into it and feel violated by intruders. This, we say, is mine. You have no right to it. This, we think, is all I control and you will not come in.
Perhaps because we do control so little, we protect what we have and are willing to do battle against those who would trespass, even if it's only the terrier from next door, even if it's only an accidental intrusion. It may be only grass, but it's our's, so keep off.
I have a migraine, she whimpered raggedly, I have to go the hospital. I'll probably be all day.
What she actually had was an ongoing fight with her partner of the last several years and it took precedence over her responsibility to be at work. Being prone to depression and anxiety - and now migraine headaches, it seemed - she's easily overwhelmed and defeated by everyday obstacles and she reaches for the simplest solution. The doctor wasn't buying it but we were desperately busy and there was no time to worry about it - the waiting room was already full and we were behind without having begun. Let's go, he growled and headed for an exam room, chart in hand, muttering under his breath. A moment later he had put it behind him, Young man! he exclaimed cheerfully to the eighty something patient with alzheimer's and bunions, Lookin' good!
Adversity, real or imagined, serves a purpose. It challenges us to dig for resources in ourselves that we might not otherwise find. It shows us what we can do under fire, measures us and tests our faith, stretches our abilities and reinforces our humor and determination. We face up to it and become stronger, more self reliant, braver - or we run and hide, hoping it will go away and find someone else to bother. Real adversity builds character, strength and conviction, the imagined kind makes cowards of us all, too weary to attempt anything and barely having the will to give up.
Rather than leave her problems at the door and put on her smile face, our young nurse arrives each morning with a litany of disasters - migraines, traffic, medication shortages, bad sleep, irritating contact lenses, loss of her cell phone, forgotten chores - she is on a perpetual uphill climb with no end in sight and for the rest of us who are forced to pick up her slack, it seems staged, annoying, and endless. Her days are made up of sighs and unfinished work, reports left undone and stashed in a drawer, clock watching and personal calls, self pity and slights. She reeks of sadness, a profound despair that prevents her from moving on, clouds her judgement, and slows her down. Her emotions reign unchecked and painfully visible. She is undone by a harsh word, overflowing with apologies, and quick to promise that she'll do better. She means well but meaning well and doing well have miles between them. Trying is not nearly enough.
Better to learn to separate the mountains from the molehills and act on the difference. You can't run fast enough or far enough from your own self.
It was a room designed for sleeping and studying.
Two single beds, each pressed up against opposite walls, two small desks each with one small lamp, two sets of wall mounted shelves, two identical chests of drawers, one tiny window. The space was efficient and sterile, much, I imagined, like a convent room might be and the thought of two long years here filled me with anxiety and hopelessness.
This particular college was faith based - at least in principle - and it regularly turned out crop after crop of cookie cutter people, well behaved, solid, tax paying and rule abiding graduates who went on to become well behaved, solid, tax paying and rule abiding citizens - teachers, architects, engineers, marines and more teachers - people who fit nicely and comfortably in little boxes, who didn't question authority, didn't protest war, didn't walk on the grass. There was just enough space here to breathe, providing you were thrify in doing so.
My roommate, a mousy little thing with oversized glasses, asthma and a gift for silence, was from some small town in upstate New York. She wore flannel pajamas and floppy slippers and studied with a vengeance, often reading the same paragraph a dozen times over - outloud - and making detailed notes. She rarely left the room aside from attending class and bathroom breaks - she would pull on her flannel robe and creep down the hall in the semi dark, reminding me of a cat burglar, then tiptoe back, hoping to be unseen and unnoticed. We had nothing in common apart from being away from home and we spent the months in a quiet and dry stalemate, coming and going in careful solicitude. It was very civilized and considerate. On weekends she had the room to herself as I went home to stay with friends and I suspected that she'd have been more than delighted if I'd found some reason to stay away. We were, each in our own way and for our own private reasons, loners - parts of the out crowd - and we never joined forces or shared stories, never became more then random roommates thrown together by luck of the draw. She wanted to be boxed, gift wrapped and graduated and while I had no clear idea of what I wanted, I was more and more sure that I wasn't going to find it at at this small, catholic minded school.
Little boxes on the hillside,
Little boxes made of ticky-tacky,
Little boxes, little boxes,
Little boxes all the same.
Malvina Reynolds
The old tabby cat curls up in my lap and protests my lack of attention with gentle nudges and a small but softly persistent voice. Eventually she falls asleep, paws twitching randomly, her head resting on my knee and her purr a low, vibrating hum.
She's nearly fifteen now, thinner and less active than when she was young but still solitary and feisty with a strong antisocial streak. She's a loner - independent, reclusive, not inclined to be extroverted, sweet or patient but rather suspicious and watchful, always guarded with her affections. She has little interest in the outside world, never seeking a window perch or showing any curiosity toward the birds or the squirrels. She is a true house cat, needing no more than a patch of pillow and a full food bowl to be content. She doesn't play or prowl, refuses to engage the other cats and dismisses the dogs with a menacing growl and when needed, a swift swat on the nose. She can be very fierce but it's mostly for show - her temper flares and then is almost immediately forgotten. She refuses to waste a gesture or an emotion, she is nearly self contained.
I often wonder if there isn't something about resentful, ill tempered animals that attracts me. The challenge, perhaps, or maybe empathy. Lacking the skills or the desire to get along with our kind, we search for a one on one intimacy with a different species, shunning the attentions of those so like us and preferring our own company. In a crowd, I take refuge behind a camera lens while she simply curls up and falls asleep in a far off corner. We are both there, but apart, maintaining the distance and safety needed for our own comfort. We would rather drift away unnoticed than be part of the noise.
Her ears prick up at the sound of the black dog's nails on the wood floor and she opens her eyes, tensing ever so slightly, back claws extended and the beginning of a growl forming in her throat. But the dog passes by and she resumes her nap. Trust has come hard to the old tabby but for the moment she relaxes and sleeps in my lap, as if she is the only cat in a world made for her alone. It might seem a trifle to those who don't know her, but it is no small thing to gain the love of a prickly natured old tabby cat.
An ounce of intervention, my grandmother liked to tell me, will keep the wolves away.
She had very little use for doctors and through maladies, major and minor, would keep her distance. She favored home remedies whenever possible - castor oil for any stomach ailment, garlic for arthritis pain, vinegar for sunburn, chamomile tea and lavender oil for pretty much anything else from gout to premature graying hair. She kept a full section of the pantry devoted to seeds, foul smelling little bottles of various extracts, seaweed and powders. I hardly ever saw her take as much as an aspirin even on those days when her arthritis flared and her hands swelled so badly that she was near crippled.
My mother dismissed these home cures as superstition and witchery, preferring to rely on pills and other doctor prescribed medications for any and all ailments. The two women clashed often, my mother being prone to take to her bed at the slightest sign of illness, my grandmother refusing to be stopped by anything less than a broken bone. Martyr! my mother would snap. Malingerer! Nana would snap right back. And so it went. They could, it seemed, quarrel over anything - how much salt to add to the pot roast, whether the fog would clear, who would drive to Aunt Pearl's, how many serving spoons should there be on the table, what color of nail polish to use, what direction the wind was blowing. Sometimes these spats blew over, sometimes they took on a life of their own, but they never stopped. Conflict had become a lifestyle. My daddy, often called upon to arbitrate, recognized the folly of taking sides and quietly withdrew to a neutral corner. If you get between them, he advised me, they'll likely both turn on you.
It was a hostile household, two women too much alike to get along, and too different to leave each other be, each determined to have their own way. Any amount of intervention would've been a temporary distraction at best - it made far more sense to try and stay out of the line of fire and hope for a truce.
