I try to keep my electronic desktop clear, but I keep a space for an image of Fearless Girl, the now iconic New York City sculpture by Kristen Visbal. Now and then I open up the photo to take another look at her. She never ceases to stir the fire in my core, particularly from this angle. I admire her staunch posture from behind, hands on hips, unflinching, except for the defiantly feminine fluttering of her skirt. The slightly blurred form of the bull feels powerful but almost uncertain, confronted by this child’s unwavering stance. Apparently the artist who made the Charging Bull statue objected to the positioning of Fearless Girl. “My bull is a symbol for America,” the artist was quoted in 2017. Instead of symbolizing prosperity and strength, he argued, in the face of Fearless Girl the bull looks “menacing and aggressive.” Well, yes. Isn’t that interesting. In the face of all things menacing and aggressive, I imagine the women in my life rising with me – grandmothers, Mom, sisters, daughters, and a tiny granddaughter-to-be, poised to meet the world. I come from a long line of fearless girls, and I will proudly bear witness to the line that continues behind me. My 60th year in 60,000 words Day 55: 203 words, TOTAL = 8461; 51,539 remaining
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This lovely man came into my life 41 years ago. As a couple, we often seem unrecognizable as those two college freshmen. What a lot of mileage has worked over these minds and bodies, minds and bodies that have accelerated into independent spheres since completing the glorious shared project of child-raising. Each of us is flooded with our own to-do lists, unanswered communications, tasks awaiting attention, and psychic unrest, seeking equilibrium. Lives drift into parallel rather than intersected waves. The intersections, in fact, might begin be perceived as obstacles in our individual, careening progress towards…what? A blindered view of some nebulous goal that is always just a bit further ahead. What about here? Where are we now? Then serendipity hands us a morning. We walk the dogs and sit on a stone bench in the sunshine of an October morning. We find time to be still together, to look around and share meandering conversation that might wander who knows where. And we share the quiet spaces in between. Oh yeah. There we are. My 60th year in 60,000 words Day 54: 173 words, TOTAL = 8258; 51,742 remaining I object to the question, “How old do you feel?” A recent NY Times article by Emily Laber-Warren did an in-depth exploration of subjective age versus biological age, as if they are two distinct things. I am 59. I feel 59. Some days I feel 59 and terrible. My joints creak, my back aches, and I sigh reluctantly at the prospect of putting my socks on. Other days I feel 59 and vital. I want to climb a mountain, get 18 chores done in an afternoon, have a party. Frankly, it wasn’t that different when I was 29, and I expect (hope) 79 won’t be too far off either. Everyone, every age, has high and low days, high and low stretches. There are many things about being 59 that are preferable to 29, and surely 79 will hold its own treasures. Life’s value goes beyond the ability to run fast or do push-ups. Sometimes I wonder if pregnancy helps women accustom to periods of physical limitation. There are things I can’t do any more. So what? I can do other things. That’s life, right? And maybe I’ll be able to do them again some day, if whatever current obstacle resolves over time. Or maybe not. That’s okay too. The truest thing I read in Laber-Warren’s article was the prevalence of “inner ageism.” As a society, we resist and disdain aging. Why? Is it all about the fear of dying? The worship of youth? I say “phooey” to both. Embrace the journey, or you’ll miss the best parts. My 60th year in 60,000 words Day 53 : 257 words, TOTAL = 8085; 51,915 remaining “Study after study has reached the hardly earth-shattering conclusion that we largely prefer the sounds of nature to those of machines.” A story in The Atlantic investigates the insidious intrusions of sound into our Earthly environment. My son-in-law-to-be, a federally employed acoustic engineer, found flaws in their assessment of the government’s involvement (the government is not “out of the noise business”), but not in the scope of the noise pollution problem. I didn’t realize that growing numbers of people seek relief through white-noise machines to drown out the nerve-shattering cacophony. Unsurprisingly, studies have found increased stress-levels in other species exposed to noxious noise as well. Birds, the article says, get screechier in their calls in order to compete with the din. This is not just a human problem. In my backyard I imagine it’s quiet until I stop to listen – car and air traffic, construction, sirens, and sometimes the droning whir of the processing plant across the river. Occasionally I seek sonic refuge down in a gully where Reeds Brook gurgles toward the Penobscot River. Thick leaf cover, rushing water, and high, treed banks muffle the manufactured mayhem above. I sit surrounded by nature’s soundtrack, audible here in this tiny haven. My 60th year in 60,000 words Day 52: 201 words, TOTAL = 7828; 52,172 remaining Few things flood me with anticipation like empty spaces on the calendar. Is that a sign of age? My 60th year in 60,000 words Day 51: 18 words, TOTAL = 7627; 52,373 remaining Isn’t it odd that “air travel” usually means long days with little to no contact with outside air? I travel enough to find airports familiar, but not enough to have stopped marveling at them. Restaurants, bars, shops, massage chairs, meditation rooms, dog walking turf squares with fake fire hydrants, children’s play areas, grand, open atria flanked by soaring glass panels and ocean sweeps of shiny-tiled concourse, spouting fountains, towering artwork – air hubs are like giant malls, city islands constructed in a sea of concrete, asphalt, and roadways. I wonder if any writer has ever pitched a story idea of extended living in air-hub world. If you traveled first class and could sleep on planes, you could live for months without ever leaving security. Or maybe you’d allow yourself a departure through the security gates as long as you stayed in a contiguous hotel, connected to the air terminal through glass-covered bridges. When I stepped onto the Bangor plane in Philadelphia this afternoon, there was a gap between the jet bridge and the plane, wide enough for me to feel the movement of air, touch the raindrops on the hull, breathe outdoor air, fuel-laced though it may have been. I had to pause, take a breath before my re-immersion into manufactured atmosphere. Perhaps that air-hub marathon would be a cool story, but I guess I don’t want to be the one to write it. My 60th year in 60,000 words Day 50: 233 words, TOTAL = 7609; 52,391 remaining People talk about the benefits of sharing a pet before you share a child, but I haven’t heard as much about having grand-pets. I adore my grand-dogs, even if they don’t always get along with each other. It is especially nice to have a little one-on-one time with them. That is the best way to make real connections, to begin to understand each other and how you work together, when dog moms and dads aren’t around. This seems like good practice for grandchildren. Finn helped me find my way around Sam’s neighborhood today. I got turned around, not unusual for me. Finn showed me exactly where to turn to get to his favorite grassy park. He’s keeping me company while Sam’s at work. He provides me with the impetus to get up from my desk and take a walk, or scrunch his furry neck and ears. He seems happy that I’m here. Good dog. My 60th year in 60,000 words Day 49: 154 words, TOTAL = 7376; 52,624 remaining After yesterday’s celebrations in Portland, Jonathan drove north and I will head south. He went to drop a niece back at Colby College and his mom back at Dirigo Pines before returning home. This morning, Sam and I leave on a road trip to Baltimore. I have fall break. He has a long, solo drive, so why not? I haven’t seen his new home and look forward to car time in his company. As I was loading boxes from Sam’s old bedroom into his car at home the other day (the long, gradual clearing out of their former lives), I was reminded of my Dad. After his death a couple of years ago, we had to empty his home (another long, but rapid clearing out of a former life). One thing that went was Dad’s car, when Sam bought it from the estate. It’s a coppery brown Toyota Camry LXE - leather seats, electric everything, not like any car Sam has owned in his 30-year life. It felt funny at first, incongruous for him to be driving such a vehicle. But now I’m grateful. Funny how our chosen travel containers come to hold a piece of us. I still sense my Dad in that car, in the leather smell, the squish of the seats, the smooth opening of the trunk, all the little compartments he used meticulously. He would have loved to know that Sam had taken it on, and was making it his own. It is still impressively tidy, notwithstanding the dog hair. My Dad, my son, links to my past and future, are contained in this whizzing piece of machinery. Here I go, riding along with them. My 60th year in 60,000 words Day 48: 279 words, TOTAL = 7222; 52,778 remaining Years ago when my four kids were small, a young woman came by my home with paraphernalia for sale, geared toward young children. It turned out she had merchandise to sell to non-child homes as well, but she’d left those in the car. “How do you know which stuff to bring to which house,” I asked. “Oh they teach us to look for BCOs in the yard,” she said casually. BCOs, I learned, are brightly colored objects. Our lives are revealed by our stuff, more obviously than we know. The shelves and walls and counters of Nellie and Mike’s home reflect the young couple life they’ve been living, but their household contents are shifting. I forget about all the gear that comes with children (and with lots of well-meaning, gift-giving relatives). Babies are tiny, but their presence is transforming, even before they arrive. My 60th year in 60,000 words Day 47: 143 words, TOTAL = 6943; 53,057 remaining Every place sees seasonal shifts in character. An island’s shifting moods are more pronounced, or at least more dramatic, because of the surrounding sea. Yesterday’s photos were summertime images. Today’s are current, and reflect the restlessness of an island in October. It’s hard to stick to a single image when I’m here. The world is a mosaic of beauty. My 60th year in 60,000 words Day 46: 59 words, TOTAL = 6800; 53,200 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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