 I carpooled to the coast today for a tennis tournament in Rockport, where I took this single photo. It doesn’t begin to illustrate the fairytale world we drove through for an hour and a half. Dazzling field grasses and treescapes encased in ice glittered in brilliant sunlight, like a scene from Frozen, a Tim Burton landscape, Narnia in the grip of the White Witch. I wanted to show everyone. My family, I have come to realize, habitually implores others to share our marvelous moments. “Come out! You’ve got to see this!” My cousin used to mimic me, by crying, “Look at the moon!” “Look at that bird!” When Anna was starting to walk and talk, the constant refrain was: “Mommy, come see! Look what I have! Look what I did!” It wasn’t until a friend came over with her toddler, who sat playing for half an hour without ever saying a word, that I realized this was not an everybody-does-it thing. Jonathan is the same, “Listen to this paragraph! Read this cartoon!” We are the come-and-see family. Apparently, many people aren’t interested in coming or seeing. They’d rather discover their own cool things, and enjoy them on their own. But aren’t there multitudes of come-and-see people? Why do we take photographs so prolifically, if not to say, “Look! Look!” (Share my excitement!) My 60th year in 60,000 words Day 167: 222 words, TOTAL = 27,370; 32,630 remaining
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 A coat of ice rained over the area yesterday, which makes this morning’s sunshine all the more brilliant. There is just enough snow over the top of the crust to make perfect paw prints, so I followed fox tracks all over the back fields this morning. I worried about my old doggie friends navigating the ground cover, but the crust is thick enough so they don’t break through. It was a lovely morning walk. Sitting inside at my computer, I feel a resonance with the ice. Those flowing animations that inspire life in me feel frozen, inert, waiting, like the frozen world outside my windows, for something to thaw, allowing motion. Towards the end of last semester, contemplating this time off, I worried about how I’d do with no requirement to summon up performance mode twice a week. I do have deadlines, but only fuzzy ones that allow late-sleeping, procrastination, and Saturday scruffies every day. Do you ever scan your interior landscape for motivation, for interest, for heart, for direction…and come up empty? When my soul is a frozen landscape, I try to be patient and not despair or rage against it, though that is the initial response. One advantage of age is having lived through this a few times. Eventually, there will be a thaw. My 60th year in 60,000 words Day 166: 216 words, TOTAL = 27,148; 32,852 remaining  This doesn’t happen to me often, but I suddenly lost two hours today following tantalizing Facebook trails. I read an Atlantic article, “The Billion-Dollar Disinformation Campaign to Reelect the President.” Horrifying. Helpless-inducing. I took a quiz. I liked some pictures of cute animals. They didn’t remove the knot in my stomach, the feeling that we are on a runaway train.
Time to disengage, look up, see the shiny, icy world outside the window, pet your dogs, stand up, walk around. Ugh! Here is the whole point – massive digitized war machines, designed by experts, have figured out exactly how to manipulate the masses. I am part of the masses. But what if we all unplug from the global manipulation machine and just talk to each other? Dreams. My 60th year in 60,000 words Day 165: 126 words, TOTAL = 26,932; 33,068 remaining  I have two dogs, both geriatric, so it’s logical that we hear this question so often. Will I get another dog – subtext: when Kate and Clara are gone? I’ve lived with dogs forever – a parade of dachshunds through childhood, noble or idiotic, gentle loves or ankle-biting terrors; I loved them all. Jonathan and I found an abandoned puppy on our honeymoon and smuggled him in from Canada. We’ve had 1-3 resident dogs ever since, mostly, as my brother says, “of the street.” They comfort and love. They make us laugh. On a dreary winter afternoon when I can’t find my way to the starting gate, they nose my elbow, lie by my side, leap up hopefully when I rise, lay a chin on my lap. They disallow me from sinking too far into myself, which is irritating, but exactly what I need. Think of the spontaneity that could open up in a dog-free home, the ease of travel, the clean carpets. But then, what about the hollow nothingness upon entering an empty house? The long, quiet days, no one to demand my attention, my activation, my eye contact? We’ll see. My 60th year in 60,000 words Day 164: 190 words, TOTAL = 26,806; 33,194 remaining  Judging by my eyesight, I’ve grown old in the process of producing this book. As I revisit hundreds of pages of research files to ensure accuracy before publication, I find that many of them are saved at 100% font size. I can barely read them. I’ve resized everything to a comfortable 200%. Yup. I’m older, and tireder, and daunted by the to-do list. Here’s what’s up this week: Tomorrow: online webinar orientation about metadata and tip sheets. Continue the scavenger hunt for copyright data. I’ve recruited help from Jonathan. Worst case scenario, I’ll have to redact or remove poems from the book, which would take some time. Research, shop, choose, and hire a publicist. Complete book summary sheet. Begin query integration, comparing copyeditor’s corrections to mine. Incorporate into manuscript. Work on new title. The publishers and I are batting around ideas. Choose seven perfect keywords for online searches. Here’s the “hook” version of the book synopsis, 38 words: “In a rambling, wood-framed house off the coast of Maine, a writer finds herself irresistibly compelled to dig up the buried story of Rachel Field, an award-winning writer from the past who once inhabited the same island home.” What do you think? My 60th year in 60,000 words Day 163: 200 words, TOTAL = 26,616; 33,384 remaining  Anna Quindlen’s New York Times columns were a strong, early influence on my writing. The title of one of her collections is “Living Out Loud.” I understand it to refer to the act of writing about life, one’s own everyday life in particular. Why do I choose to publicly post my banal progress through a year of life, to “live out loud” through words? Why not a private journal? First, knowing that at least a small number of people expect something from me holds me accountable. If I quit this commitment to a year of daily exploration through writing, I’ll be quitting more than just myself. Second, our innate humanity seeks connection. It can feel (sometimes maddeningly) essential to have others bear witness to our solitary journey across time, our “one wild and precious life.*” If you doubt it, consider the explosive popularity of social media. There is comfort in companionship, even in the form of the occasional “like.” Third, I like to believe, since I constantly find illumination in the words and experiences of others, that maybe some of my shared meanderings might strike a chord with someone else. Pooled wisdom can elevate us beyond the reach of the solitary mind. *Mary Oliver: “The Summer Day” My 60th year in 60,000 words Day 162: 207 words, TOTAL = 26,416; 33,584 remaining  Today is another day. It’s pretty full of things. There’s some down time too. I woke up too early, but I was so awake that I decided to just get up, after I’d lain there for 45 minutes thinking about all the things that today was going to be full of. The sun is out and bright and inviting, but now I’m so sleepy that I just feel like taking a nap during this little window of down time in the middle of today. The dogs are napping at my feet, which makes it harder not to think about taking a nap. I got home, they raised their heads from fluffy beds, thumped their tails, and accepted the dental chew treats I just bought. Then they hauled themselves up, stretched, and followed me into the other room to lie down again by my chair. Kate is snoring peacefully. Sometimes don’t you just want to live a dog’s life? My 60th year in 60,000 words Day 161: 158 words, TOTAL = 26,209; 33,791 remaining Kate, our intrepid, devoted, high-intensity sheprador, is 14 years old today. According to a weight/age chart online, that makes her the equivalent of about 88. And yet – look at her go! Jonathan and I have long anticipated Kate’s end of days, given her lameness and downswings of energy. She’s constantly reminding us, however, that it’s better to carry on living without fretting over the future (a dog specialty). Another lighthearted influence has J and me bopping around the kitchen today. Our niece, a freshman at Colby, came for her break between January term and spring semester. She introduced us to Vampire Weekend, an alternative rock band providing the sound track to our morning, the kind of music that elicits spontaneous movement and smiling. She’s a quietly self-assured young woman who plays her cards pretty close to the chest, very polite, understated, with an occasional shot off the bows of wry humor. I like the fact that some of her favorite music is lively, bouncy, and whimsical. I like to think music expresses for us our inexpressible interiors. My 60th year in 60,000 words Day 160: 177 words, TOTAL = 26,051; 36,949 remaining  There must have been orchards behind our house long ago, because old, unidentifiable apple trees sprawl their crinkly, reaching limbs randomly around the back 13 acres. Kate and Clara and others enjoy the dropped apples throughout the winter. We’ve had some kind of fox or coyote leaving tracks and apple-specked droppings. Deer gather under trees and forage through the snow. As snow melts, it reveals little tunnels made by rodents, also, presumably, making meals out of fallen apples. The drops are increasingly fermented, and sometimes Clara leaps and twirls with greater abandon after she’s been fermentation feasting, drunk on drops. Some apples, though, are still hanging on. There are these two, near the pond, that landed themselves in secure perches, propped by crooks in the branches. I walk past them daily, wondering which one will let go first, wondering if they might finally shrivel out of their snug slot, or get dislodged by an ice or snowstorm, or if they’ll hang on until new spring growth finally pushes them out of the way to make room for change. Will they fall at the same time, at last? Will one apple win? It’s a nice touch of suspense added to my daily dog walks. My 60th year in 60,000 words Day 159: 203 words, TOTAL = 25,874; 34,126 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
August 2026
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