 Fun fact: Cribbage was invented in the early 1600s by Sir John Suckling. When we get together to play, we’re carrying a noble tradition into it’s fifth century. That why it includes expressions like “Two for his heels” and “One for his nob!” (awkwardly suggestive) Jonathan and I started playing cribbage with the Wahlstroms a couple of years ago. I saw it as a sure sign of geezerhood, old people playing card games. Just look at the home page of cribbage.org. However, my kids tell me cribbage has become trendy. We are actually cutting edge. You find cribbage boards in bars. This game has staying power! More important, it’s a live action, face-to-face encounter, an all-too-rare event for those of us who spend all day staring at a light box. Thank goodness Jonathan and I – two terrible planners – have excellent planner friends who keep us from disappearing into hibernation all winter by inviting us over for cribbage and beer. My 60th year in 60,000 words Day 187: 159 words, TOTAL = 30,634; 29,366 remaining
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 The sun is gaining oomph. Its morning rays are sneaking into our north-facing bedroom earlier each day, a little tease. Sometimes in the middle of winter, it’s hard to imagine warm sun, scant clothing, cool water, soft air. It’s nice to have old photos on hand. They help my brain find its way to my favorite island for little respite from hunkering down and bundling up. I do love winter, but once in a while I indulge in looking forward to that annual reacquaintance with the outdoor freedoms of summertime. My 60th year in 60,000 words Day 186: 90 words, TOTAL = 30,475; 29,525 remaining  In the fall of 1988 I was worried that I’d had a miscarriage after an unexplained rush of fluid in my pants. It was a worrisome day and a half before I could get to a hospital. 18-month-old Anna came with me and sat on the exam table while an ultrasound tech swept his monitor over my gel-coated belly, watching his screen. He looked, shook his head slowly, and my stomach plummeted in despair. I read “miscarriage” on his face.
“You have twins,” he said. There are few speechless moments in my life. That was one. Speechlessness quickly gave way to elation. Anna and I brought the ultrasound photos to Jonathan’s work. I’d phoned him, “everything’s okay,” and asked if he’d like to see the pictures. I watched as he looked over the strip of paper – a baby in one frame, a baby in another frame, then two heads in the third. As the truth dawned on him, his face exploded into wonder, excitement, amazed laughter. We might have even shared tears. Happy 31st birthday Nellie and Sam! Our joy hasn’t decreased one smidge. My 60th year in 60,000 words Day 185: 184 words, TOTAL = 30,385; 29,615 remaining  If you’re interested in how charisma and isolation can exert irresistible forces on vulnerable minds (or maybe on any minds at all…), you should read this book. I’d heard about Westover’s book for months. I knew it was about a girl who “escaped” a cultish upbringing and found her way to an elite education. That doesn’t begin to depict this extraordinary story. Most haunting to me is the fact that the protagonist is the age of my children. That this degree of inculcation and acceptance of irrational lifestyles and abusive treatment continues under our noses today is deeply disturbing, and maybe illuminating. Westover is highly intelligent and a clear, vivid, honest writer. Her story is certainly not over, and I hope she continues to shine a light in the darkness, for herself and others. My 60th year in 60,000 words Day 184: 134 words, TOTAL = 30,201; 29,799 remaining  breakfast work date this morning at Wicked Brew Today marks the blog year’s halfway point! I was briefly thrown when I realized it was a leap year. That means I must average 163.9 words per day instead of 164.3. So far, I’m holding back pretty well, but I’d rather have extra words at the end than not enough, since, given the choice, I prefer waxing prolific over rationing words. At the end of the year, one or the other will be required in order to land exactly on 60,000 words. Someone asked recently if the blog was helping me. Yes! First, I am forced to cut, cut, cut my words, an excellent exercise for improved writing. Is this word essential? This phrase? Nope. CUT! Also, daily writing imposes discipline, which I lack. Cultivating a writing habit is the golden chalice of the writing kingdom. On the other hand, daily blogging also means that I post some crap. Sorry about that. Big hugs to you daily readers who are sticking it out. I figure if posting occasional crap also means that I find inspiration now and then, it’s worth the long slog. My 60th year in 60,000 words Day 183: 183 words (COOL! double 183s), TOTAL = 30,067; 29,933 remaining  upper left - this morning; for those who follow - the first of the two apples finally gave way! I thought it was Disney’s Pocahontas (or, her song lyricists) who coined those words; turns out it was the Greek philosopher Heraclitus. Scanning his basic tenets of belief, I’m tempted to seek more. His ideas fit perfectly into the premise of this blog: you’ll never be quite the same. Sometimes I’ve been bored by my backyard walks – same thing, over and over. Au contraire! Heraclitus would say (if he knew French). Look closely. Pay attention. You’ll see that the world is never the same from one moment to the next. Just look at the endless ways winter gilds the tree branches, berries, waving grasses. It’s not even the same from the north side of the field to the south on the same morning walk. The world is in perpetual flux – angle of sun, moisture, temperature, movements of air. The air is a river. Each time you move, each time you step into the current, you change the river’s course, and it works its subtle forces upon you. You can’t step in the same river twice. My 60th year in 60,000 words Day 182: 175 words, TOTAL = 29,884; 30,116 remaining  I have my own keys to our towering UU church on the hill in downtown Bangor. They were assigned to me years ago when I was co-director of the religious education program for a year. Ever since, they have allowed me early morning rehearsal access on the Sundays when I’m providing piano music. My favorite part is walking into the cavernous sanctuary alone. I turn on the lights, pull the heavy drape off the piano, and set myself up in the empty space. Having keys to the building offers a unique insider status, despite my rare appearances at church these days. I am here, in possession of this moment in solitude, my church home. I have more keys, eighty-eight of them on the piano laid out before me, mute, awaiting my touch. Those silent keys intimidate, evoke palpitations and trembling hands, but they also convey power, responsibility, promise. The kingdom of church is mine alone for an hour, while I run through my music. The kingdom of music is mine, of my own creation, filling this reverberant chasm. In anticipation of my offering to the congregation, of bringing this grand instrument to life under my touch, I am united with the space, the piano, the community of shared spirit. I have been to church, sated with spiritual resonance, even before the minister arrives. My 60th year in 60,000 words Day 181: 223 words, TOTAL = 29,709; 30,291 remaining  I had a Grandma day yesterday. I’m getting bolder on my own – took Fiona out walking, out in the car to visit her mama, to Auntie T’s workplace (the piano shop). Changing a blowout diaper in the store restroom was a challenge, but I’ll improve. We stopped by an arepas restaurant, and went to Auntie T’s house for lunch, a tiring but satisfying day. I’m feeling more prepared for my full week stretches coming up. Fiona was a champ, so playful and smiley (and squawky!) whenever she was awake. Even so, I think my favorite part of the day was sitting alone with her in Nellie and Mike’s living room during naptime. A deep silence was interrupted oh-so-gently by the tiny rhythmic “whsh-s” of a baby’s sleeping breaths. Nothing is so quiet as that quiet, quiet enough to hear – whsh-whsh-whsh – a barely audible measuring of time, a meditative Buddhist mantra, a just being, here, now, in this moment. My 60th year in 60,000 words Day 180: 158 words, TOTAL = 29,486; 30,514 remaining  What is that surge of excitement that I feel on encountering an untouched field of fresh snow? My belly flutters in anticipation as I set out to make first tracks over a blank white landscape. Is this a white American thing? A European colonialist thing? The legacy of all those explorers and pioneers who arrived with the illusion that they were entering virgin territory? A sense of power over one’s environment? A way to make oneself stand out, be seen, be prominent? Is it kind of like a dog peeing on every street corner? Here I am! See me! I am here! I claim this territory. Look at the impact I have on the world! Or maybe it’s just fun to make marks on fresh canvas, like an artist. Probably one or the other. My 60th year in 60,000 words Day 179: 134 words, TOTAL = 29,328; 30,672 remaining  Two years ago, Kei and Hayato, students from Japan’s Hirosaki University, spent two weeks with us during their exchange visit at University of Maine Orono. Kei is back to visit for a couple of days, and he came bearing gifts for all his Maine friends. When he sorted them, our kitchen took on the air of a Japanese grocery. I tasted “natto” for the first time…and the last, I hope. Jonathan scarfed it right down – this pasty fermented bean stuff. He’s a better food adventurer than I. It’s been a while. I’d forgotten what a kick it is to have extended “family” from all over the globe. Kei walked in like it was home, petted the dogs, gave monstrous hugs, and hoped that I’d make a tuna casserole for dinner. We caught up. I drank the wine made from his grandmother’s vineyard. I taught him how to play cribbage. He watched Jonathan sew up my pinky finger on the kitchen counter. You know, the usual. Time to gather tuna casserole ingredients. I’ll try not to chop any more digits during food prep. My 60th year in 60,000 words Day 178: 182 words, TOTAL = 29,194; 30,806 remaining |
AuthorRobin Clifford Wood is an award-winning author, poet, and writing teacher. She lives in central Maine with her husband, loves to be outdoors, and enjoys ever-expanding horizons through her children, grandchildren, and granddogs. Archives
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