“Currently, information relating to ferns can be found in a number of places, but there is no single source of truth.” (aboutferns.org) Ah! Evidently, the complexity of ferns goes beyond their dazzling geometric beauty. Ferns clean myriad toxins out of the air. NASA scientists identified several “volatile organic compounds” – VOCs – that sicken humans in enclosed spaces like Skylab or a well-sealed building. Once plants are introduced, voila! Cleaner air, healthier humans. Among plants, ferns are an air cleaning champion. Is that why I love to witness their annual uncurling, walk through them, sweep my hands along their feathered spines? Do they hold a precious secret? Might we find intricate layers of truth amongst the ferns? My 60th year in 60,000 words Day 24: 115 words, TOTAL = 3626; 56,374 remaining
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I’d like to introduce you to Rachel Field. She is a talented writer, charismatic speaker, and devoted friend who has become very important to me. She died in 1942. In 1994 Jonathan and I bought her house, the house where Rachel spent all her summers, on an island off the coast of Maine. In 2008, I began researching, then writing Rachel’s life story, which occupied much of my writing life for the next ten years. In spring of 2021, the book will be published at last. It still feels unreal to me. The tentative title is “You’ll Never Be Quite the Same,” but I’m not quite sure yet. It is based on her famous poem that begins, “If once you have slept on an island, you’ll never be quite the same…”
I’ll never be quite the same, having slept on an island, having enfolded Rachel Field into my life. And then, of course, none of will ever be quite the same, even from one day to the next. Life is change, every day. That’s why this blog has its name. Still, for a book, maybe “If once you have slept on an island” would be better. What do you think? I’d love some gut reactions. Rachel Field was born on September 19, 1894. She loved the fact that crickets went into their most ebullient chorus in September. To her, it marked the coming of fall, which she adored. The crickets are singing her birthday song even now. Listen. My 60th year in 60,000 words Day 23: 248 words, TOTAL = 3511; 56,489 remaining Bird migrations, angled rays
of sunshine, marking shorter days; rouging apples, dewy grass soon to frost like crystalled glass; From bumblebees a busy hum ‘round aster and chrysanthemum; woodpile stacked, a heaping hill; windows closed against the chill; Burrowed turtles, misting waters, rounded prows of pregnant daughters. A Fall replete with tidal surge; a great retreat, a great emerge. My 60th year in 60,000 words Day 22: 59 words, TOTAL = 3262; 56,738 remaining Once in a while, something elicits a tightening underneath the ribs, a contraction in the throat, an electric pulse from chest to hands, a full-body blossoming. I swallow. I breathe in. Beauty makes me weep. I think this comes with age.
I don’t tend to get verklempt at staged events. I am too prepared. That emotional overflow comes when it catches me unawares. An unconscious, unscripted gesture of love is beauty in its simplest form, eloquent beyond words. My 60th year in 60,000 words Day 21: 78 words, TOTAL = 3203; 56,797 remaining I’m reading a sci-fi novel called The Long Way to a Small Angry Planet, by Becky Chambers. Humans and other species live and work together in a futuristic world where many planet systems have been destroyed by their own or others’ recklessness. The human repression of emotions baffles others, since it always leads to physical and/or mental illness.
When my sister was an undergrad at Wellesley, the administration alerted the local police department for scheduled “primal screams” during finals week. Interesting that today, as a therapist, she studies psychodramatic therapy, which involves full volume emotional release. My moments of all-out screaming as an adult are few. One came in fury, one in frustration, but the worst came with grief. Screaming helps, used selectively. My 60th year in 60,000 words Day 20: 123 words, TOTAL = 3125; 56,875 remaining In Camden yesterday, a hundred people and I hiked up Mt. Battie for a fundraising event (Hemophilia Alliance of Maine). One guy hiked in sixty pounds of medieval armor. Stay tuned for the Bangor Daily News story next month. I wrote about the quirky, multi-faceted people of Maine for five years. Saturday rekindled my idea of collecting their stories into a book.
Today I drove to Portland to visit Tessa and her fiancé, who moved to Maine two weeks ago. Chris’s parents were visiting from the south, so in-laws met their future families. Later Nellie and Mike took me for a beach walk in Cape Elizabeth. Nellie’s seven-months-pregnant gait shows the fullness of her belly – so much baby in there. I couldn’t resist saying hello; “I can’t wait to meet you!” Here is Rand-McNally’s Maine – blueberries, pine trees (aka lumber), potatoes, and skiing. They missed lobster. Yes, those things are here. There are also armored fundraisers and families expanding every which way. There’s the life’s blood of Maine, pulsing in hearts great and tiny. My 60th year in 60,000 words Day 19: 174 words, TOTAL = 3002; 56,998 remaining Every time I walk by this gnarled branch emerging from the dense foliage, I think of a dragon. I’m not sure if it means well or might do me harm. Luckily Kate is there to protect me, just in case.
My 60th year in 60,000 words Day 18: 40 words, TOTAL = 2828; 57,172 remaining Take a close look at any spray of goldenrod. If you give it a minute, you’ll almost always find someone in there hard at work, getting ready for winter.
I thought this was two bees at first, members of two distinct bee families, contentedly sharing a flower. In fact, it’s a bumblebee and a black locust borer. “Bumblebees are not honey producers,” says thesca.org. That is to say, they only produce enough for their own consumption. How very ungenerous of them. But admit it, they are furry and appealing. The black locust borer is identified as a pest, but it would rather be called a beetle. Note the snazzy “W” under the wings, says pnwhandbooks.org. The beetles thrive in “host trees,” especially the ill-fated black locust, but I gather they don’t treat their hosts with appropriate gratitude. They both seemed quite nice to me. My 60th year in 60,000 words Day 17: 144 words, TOTAL = 2788; 57,212 remaining This is my hand. It is not my mother’s hand.
When I turned 40, my current college students weren’t even born. When I was little we had a milkman who left paper-lidded glass bottles of milk in a metal box outside our back door. Also, my mom ground her own hamburger with a hand-cranked grinder that clamped to the kitchen table. I played dress up with her old hoop skirt. Sometimes I still say, “Good heavens!” It takes all four of us to remember the score when we change sides in tennis. My Aunt Lucy who took me on nature walks was born in the 19th century. To find my birth year I have to scroll down so far. My 60th year in 60,000 words Day 16: 119 words, TOTAL = 2644; 57,356 remaining How long does it take to become an insider? How long before you belong, before you are home? Maybe those are all different questions.
We moved to central Maine seventeen years ago. Our house became home quickly. Our little town offered easy insider status through school-aged kids. The city of Bangor is our area hub – where we shop, where we work, where we go out - but it was never my town. Here is a recent snapshot of Bangor in the evening light, captured through the windshield of my car. When I looked at the photo, I was flooded with fondness. It is a collage of associations – the brick church tower where I play the chimes, the frog that “ribbets” on top of the Discovery Museum, the storefronts that used to be something else, and something else before that, the best parking spots, the startling apartment where Anna took French horn lessons from Mrs. Love. I know what is around each corner and how close we are to the river and where you can get an excellent Reuben sandwich. I think this must be what home feels like. My 60th year in 60,000 words Day 15: 187 words, TOTAL = 2525; 57,475 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
January 2024
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