Jonathan just gave me a Mary Oliver book – Dog Songs. It inspired me to pay tribute to my sometimes-neglected furry friend.
            I give Kate a lot of press, a stand-out dog in terms of devotion, intensity, dogging our heels, panting heavily in our faces. Clara is something else. She loves us, but she loves all. She is the epitome of dear, dopey, ever-gentle. She takes biscuits so delicately, like she’s trying to lift a bubble from your hand without popping it. Indoors, she is always at our side, seeking touch, loving close proximity.
            Outdoors, Clara is on the lookout, focused away. Sometimes I think she has spent her life with us looking, looking, for the family with five small children who gave her up when she was 1 ½. Her 80 pounds of loving had become too much.
 
Clara
Four paws and tail
Did not go to Yale;
She runs low on smart
But Masters in heart.
 
My 60th year in 60,000 words
Day 268: 157 words, TOTAL = 45,457; 14,543 remaining

​            Don’t you wish you could experience that elusive moment when you cross the threshold between awake and asleep? Have you tried and tried, as I have, and it sneaks by you every time? It feels like magic. Why can’t we be conscious of that daily moment? If you allow for 100 extra naps (probably way low…), I’ve made that crossing 21,900 times (60 years of days). You’d think I could have caught the flash of transition at least once. But I guess it’s like the concept of infinity, or those mathematical proofs where you can get closer and closer to an exact number, but you’ll never actually reach it. Kind of maddening. 
 
My 60th year in 60,000 words
Day 267: 112 words, TOTAL = 45,300; 14,700 remaining

 
​            I love mowing. It’s like a haircut, a cleaned kitchen, a pile of laundry folded, only way more fun because you’re outdoors on a big machine on a beautiful day with ear plugs in so you can’t hear anyone calling.  
            I don’t love spring tractor prep, though I do like messing around with engines at the 101 level. I took auto mechanics as a high school elective, subsequently feeling rugged and accomplished as I worked on my first car.
             The smell of gasoline gives me heart flutters. When I visited Jonathan on their family’s apple farm and saw him on a huge tractor, and later, working on machinery in the barns, I was hooked.
            I can change oil and filters, charge a battery, inflate a tire. It’s the unexpected glitches that deter me. Jonathan helped with the glitches. Only two trips to NAPA and she powered right up.
             I might walk the dogs twice this evening, just to go look at it again.
 
My 60th year in 60,000 words
Day 266: 163 words, TOTAL = 45,188;
14,812 words remaining, and 100 days to use them. I'll have to reduce my average to 148 words a day between now and then in order to hit the goal. 

            I used to confuse those three Bronte sisters and their novels. Who wrote which? I might even have mixed Jane Austen in there.
            Not any more.
            Having recently completed a biography of a woman novelist from time past, I’ve taken an interest in similar contemporary works. My engagement with Claire Harman’s book about the life of Charlotte Bronte increased as the story progressed. I flew through the final third of the book, which read like a novel. Maybe part of it was the parallels between Charlotte and Rachel Field. Neither was conventionally attractive, and both lamented it. Both experienced earth-shaking, impassioned love that remained unrequited. Both translated their passion into the pages of their work. Both married at last, late in life, to men named Arthur. Both died young after becoming pregnant.
            Dissimilarities abound as well, but the heat off their pages rings familiar. Poor Charlotte Bronte saw stunning losses in her life, but proved herself to be stunningly powerful, in spite of her tiny, undernourished frame. I found it a haunting, gripping read.
 
My 60th year in 60,000 words
Day 265: 174 words, TOTAL = 45,025; 14,975 remaining

            Windstorms over the winter left Sutton littered with toppled trees. Woods and paths look like Pick Up Stix, that game where you must carefully remove individual sticks, one at a time, from a huge tangle without disturbing the pile. Which can you remove safely? Which must be left alone for now? Which ones do you take a chance on, despite the risk of a fall? Jonathan and I did extensive clearing today. We were careful - no mishaps.
            The world faces a tangle of challenges right now. Which restrictions can be removed safely (Reopen the economy? Allow access to public beaches? Expand the minimum numbers for social gatherings?), and which must be left alone (Wear masks. Wash your hands! No indoor public gatherings.)?
            Eventually (inevitably?), something will be lifted that will lead to a fall. We’ve been lifting our personal boundaries in tiny, calculated doses, warily, but with such relief – to be with, to touch, to share space! We are careful. I dread mishaps.
 
My 60th year in 60,000 words
Day 264: 164 words, TOTAL = 44,851; 15,149 remaining

            My first Sutton Island awakening of the season came with mixed feelings. The sound of the sea mesmerized, but my opened eyes revealed a disoriented room. Oh yes, we moved the bed last night. Rainstorm. Cascading dripstreams; *plunk* into buckets and bowls. A new one began its rhythmic, dampening beat over Jonathan’s hip.
            We need a new roof. Also, a pipe froze, so we’re bucket flushing and have no hot water. Also, many windows are boarded over, awaiting repair. Also, the deck is an ice rink when wet and must be powerwashed or resanded. Also…also…also…
            It was cold. I tried to dip back under the covers and hide. But the dogs were stirring, things needed doing.
            Didn’t we just do all those repairs? Sure, “just” twenty years ago. Time happens.
            But the moss is at its thickest and greenest plush. Long-dried firewood blazes merrily into warmth. No signs of mice! The view from the front porch has lost no grandeur. And it’s quiet, and it’s safe, and it’s home.
            Okay, we can do this.
                       
My 60th year in 60,000 words
Day 263: 174 words, TOTAL = 44,687; 15,313 remaining

            A log cabin in the woods of Sutton Island is an apt site for my second-to-last Friday writing workshop. This workshop has been the perfect bridge between the world of “first book” and the uncertain world of “keep writing.”
            Eleven cumulative hours of writing on paper tapped into long-neglected brain paths. My hand aches; my scribbles scrunch and twist into the margins as I scratch inky marks onto clean seas of white. Not just the product, but the process becomes visible, tangible, informative.
            I have found my circuitous way towards…something that excites me. Birds flutter in my chest, summoning me down creative paths I hadn’t considered. Where will I go? What do I want to say? Who am I on paper? Where is the heat?
            The heat is not in this frigid cabin (see me wrapped in a wool blanket?). I will walk out the door with my dogs, turn right, and head towards the sea, to my house, where maybe another kind of fire has been lit. 
 
My 60th year in 60,000 words
Day 262: 168 words, TOTAL = 44,513; 15,487 remaining

Fiona - 6 months

            I feel a little bit like the Munchkins, cautiously creeping from their hidey-holes while Glenda the good witch sings, “Come out, Come out, Wherever You Are.”
            Tessa and Chris came and spent a night at our place last weekend; Now we are at Nellie and Mike’s for a couple of days. It feels nerve-racking conceptually. When might the Wicked Witch of Corona burst forth in a toxic green cloud? We tiptoe.
            But when we’re together, playing ping-pong, hanging out in the kitchen, basking in the sunshine of Fiona’s toothless smiles, laughing at the frenzied flailing of her little arms and legs…it’s hard to feel anything but just right.
            She’s almost sitting upright on her own, eats more foods, grabs things and pulls them to her mouth. Her vocal repertoire is increasing in variety and volume. She still feels heavenly in my arms, especially when her busy body slowly relaxes, her head leans into my shoulder, and she drops off to sleep against my chest.
 
My 60th year in 60,000 words
Day 260: 164 words, TOTAL = 44,137; 15,863 remaining

Baby maple flowers unfurling

            Mom used to tell this story (which I have elaborated in memory). My sister Katy and I were engaged in a back yard discussion. I was three, Katy was five, and we had stepped away from our half-baked sandbox projects to focus more squarely on deliberations. Katy was trying to explain omnipresence (though I’m sure she didn’t use that word), and I would have none of it. It didn’t make any sense.
            “Yes, God is everywhere,” said Katy.
            “Is he over there?” I asked, pointing across the yard.
            “Yup.”
            “And there, and there, and right here?” I said pointing to the air at the level of my sandy knees. I can hear irritation rising in my voice, the incredulity of a three-year-old skeptic.
            “Yup.”
            Then, says Mom, I swung my foot forcefully into the space in front of me.
            “I just kicked God,” I pronounced.
            Katy didn’t hesitate. “That’s okay,” she said placidly. “He’s used to it.”
            Katy eventually became an interfaith minister. I’ve spent all my years since arguing with God.
 
My 60th year in 60,000 words
Day 259: 172 words, TOTAL = 43,973; 16,027remaining