Following the expired sentiments of the 12/30 post I published last week, this mid-January post is going to sound as if I made enormous strides in just two days. Of course, it's really three weeks since I wrote that last one, and a lot has happened since then. Funny how time can go so fast and you end up on the other side of something, looking back.
We are experiencing SUN here in the Pacific Northwest, a shiny orb in the sky that everyone is pointing at in wonderment. Cora has recently discovered airplanes in a big way and points to them all the time, flapping her hands and chirping like a bird despite my explanations. That's kind of how we are about the sun, all of us racing outside to fit in as many adventures as possible until the haze returns. Yesterday we spent the whole day outside. We woke up and had breakfast and strong tea and coffee, then put Cora in our hiking backpack and walked the 25-some blocks down to the Ravenna trails. We stopped along the way at the new Vios restaurant (a cute, kid-friendly restaurant addition to Third Place Books on 65th and 20th). Brian got an Illy espresso shot and I got a green tea, and then we walked across the closed bridge that crosses the Ravenna watershed ravine, and wandered through the pretty houses over there down to the playground. Cora was obsessed with her shadow, with the turtle sculptures on the lawn, with sliding down the twisty slide (by herself!), and with spinning. I twirled both of us into a dizzy oblivion several times and she kept wanting more! more! more! We walked back along the trails. I think we had one of those mornings when we were just grateful to live where we do, in a fun corner of one of our favorite cities.
Later, after her nap and a tasty lunch, we visited Cora's aunties and their dogs, and then headed over to Discovery Park. The day was so clear that all the mountains were in etched formation beyond the Sound, boats were making their lazy path below, and the sun was shouting until sunset. We mainly ended up wandering through the field above, letting Cora explore the long grasses and exclaim at all the birds and dogs. Then we went grocery shopping and came home and made a big dinner. We were completely exhausted. We felt so old. I think we were in bed at 9 p.m., reading our books, with lights out by 10.
I'm reading a book by Elizabeth Berg, called The Year of Pleasures. I haven't read much by her, I think only The Pull of the Moon a few years back, which I enjoyed. She has a very introspective, narrative style. I tagged a couple of my favorite lines so far, although many are quotable:
"As for me, I liked things that couldn't be explained. I liked outrageous statements of faith; defiant acts of belief that flew in the face of science and practicality" (66).
and
"But was I not here, after all, in an entirely new place, entirely on a whim? Could you not in fact dream some things into being? As much as I wanted to honor the past, to take the time necessary to fully grieve what I had lost, I wanted to lift the lid off the future" (77).
The book is quite calming, despite the premise: a 55-year-old woman relocates to a small Midwest town shortly after her husband's death. At first I read the book with a feeling of tightness across my chest, of reading about a grief I can only imagine. Now I'm enjoying it as a quiet, simple account of starting over slowly. So far I'd say it's worth a visit to the B section when you're next at the library.
Next on the list is The Stone Diaries, by Carol Shields, which has come highly recommended over the years and which, at this point at least, I honestly can't remember if I've read or not.
Have you heard the new song by Ben Folds called The Luckiest? My sister-in-law put it on a CD for us this weekend and I started listening to it this morning while curling my way over 70th to Green Lake. It's another sunburst day and we started it with a walk around the lake. From my perch atop the hill in our car shortly before 9 a.m., the water looked like a giant cup of tea in the middle of a bright day. It was completely shrouded in mist, which I thought was just fog burning off but once we started walking I realized was steam from slowly melting frost on the grass and roads, and warming of the water beside us. It was gorgeous to watch the tails of steam rise through skeletal tree branches. Ducks were framed in fog like pockets of old-fashioned photos scattered around the water. Anyway, as we were driving toward the lake, The Luckiest began to play. The lyrics are thoughtful and sweet and simple and they just made my heart swell and become a little lump in my throat. While I have certainly never characterized myself as a stoic, one who keeps much inside very well (or tolerates it entirely well when others do), I still have noticed that in the past few months of writing and being with my daughter all the time, I feel more wide open, a bit more raw, more interested in emotion and love and hunger and stories. Sweet songs stick. I like that.
While the little lass finishes her nap, I am going to work on an alternate ending for my story, the one that seems to be taking me quite a long time to finish, sigh. I just want to send it in and be over with it, but like I told B this weekend, if I got a rejection slip in the mail I'd just say, Well you know, I knew it didn't have a great ending but I sent it in anyway. It would be my built-in excuse and now that I've announced that, I can't send it in till it's fixed. Bah. Then Cora and I are going to head down to the waterfront to wander through the Olympic Sculpture park and to the aquarium to see the fish.
Lyrics to The Luckiest, by Ben Folds:
I don't get many things right the first time
In fact, I am told that a lot
Now I know all the wrong turns, the stumbles and falls
Brought me here
And where was I before the day
That I first saw your lovely face?
Now I see it everyday
And I know
That I am
I am
I am
The luckiest
What if I'd been born fifty years before you
In a house on a street where you lived?
Maybe I'd be outside as you passed on your bike
Would I know?
And in a white sea of eyes
I see one pair that I recognize
And I know
That I am
I am
I am
The luckiest
I love you more than I have ever found a way to say to you
Next door there's an old man who lived to his nineties
And one day passed away in his sleep
And his wife; she stayed for a couple of days
And passed away
I'm sorry, I know that's a strange way to tell you that I know we belong
That I know
That I am
I am
I am
The luckiest
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