Listening to the Leaves

"Listen," said Jim.

We were an hour into a hike in Norvin Green State Forest. One we'd never done before. The trail's incessant downward slope had just begun to ease, and the dense woods opened on either side. The forest floor was blanketed in gold, fallen leaves covering every surface as far as we could see.

We stopped walking. In the quiet, I heard a stream gurgling off to the right. Nothing more.

"Let's see if we can hear the leaves falling," said Jim. We looked around. In the wide expanse, a dozen or so papery-brown oak leaves drifted down from high up in the almost-bare branches. Lazily at first, then gaining a sense of urgency as they got closer to the ground. As if eager to join their predecessors.

At first I heard nothing. Then, just off to our left, a golden maple leaf landed. With a sound tough to put into words. Like the whisper of snowflakes falling in the dark. Or the hush of the first raindrops that herald a summer storm. Or a breath, exhaled so softly it can only be heard in a silent room.

A breeze swept through the treetops and sent several dozen leaves showering down. The air filled with the faint rustle of their journey to earth. As they came to rest, barely disturbing their brothers and sisters and cousins, they became invisible. Stitched instantly by hidden hands into autumn's colorful quilt. Richly cushioning our boots as we resumed our walk.

Escape

Three weeks ago I took a giant leap out of my comfort zone. Completely dissatisfied with the way age is affecting my face, I decided to embark on a skin treatment program that would involve several months of sticking with an exacting, twice-a-day regimen. As an added bonus, the first three to six weeks would be characterized by extreme redness, itching, peeling and burning.

Sounds like fun, doesn't it? I mean, who wouldn't jump at the chance to walk around looking like a burn victim for a month or two? Especially a woman like me, whose job involves seeing people--lots of people--every day. But I'm a graduate of the no-pain-no-gain school of life. So after some sweet-talking by my favorite cosmetic surgeon, I plunked down my credit card, took home my bag of bottles and tubes, and plunged in.

Four days later, I woke up, looked in the mirror, and started to cry. What the hell had I been thinking? Thankfully, the doctor's office surprised me with a support call, and I was relieved to hear that what was happening was normal.

Ten days later, I looked ten times worse. My face was red, sore, burning, itching. Yawning hurt. Smiling too often induced unsightly peeling. I pretty much kept my mouth shut about the discomfort. After all, I'd brought it on myself, hadn't I? A second support call (this time from my doctor's wife!) and a pep talk from my friend Maryanne (who had encouraged me to do this after experiencing positive results herself) lifted my spirits.

Wednesday was my first office visit. I arrived feeling confident that things were progressing nicely and sensing a glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel. After announcing his pleasure at the degree of my redness, he gleefully announced, "Let's speed up the process!" and told me to double the dosage. What could I expect next? "More peeling, but you'll get through this phase faster." I could hardly contain my excitement.

And what timing! Saturday I was co-hosting a party celebrating my parents' 80th birthdays and 60th wedding anniversary. How could I face a roomful of people--three-quarters of whom I hadn't seen in at least 10 years--with this face? Emboldened by panic, I asked, "Can the speeding-up part wait a few days?" After explaining my dilemma, he smiled kindly and said, "Sounds like it's time for an escape!"

Escape? What a concept. Turns out that if you stop using the treatment products for three days and slather on a blend of moisturizer and cortizone cream instead--voila! Your skin returns to normal. Without reversing the progress you've made. No one at the party noticed a thing. And I could smile without my skin cracking!

Last night I got back on the wagon with mixed emotions. I dread the return of the peeling. But this little break revealed positive changes in my skin. And now I'm convinced that putting up with the next few weeks will be well worth the trouble. Isn't that what "escape" is all about? Getting away from an experience that feels overwhelming so you can regain your perspective. If only it was always as simple as dabbing on some cream.

Love Offering

This time last Saturday, I was sitting beside my sister Deborah in a church in Newark, NJ.

I can’t remember the last time we were in a church together (probably for a wedding or a funeral.) And we’ve never been to Newark together—much less to visit a church. But there we were, attending the Geraldine R. Dodge Poetry Festival. Sitting in the Trinity & St. Philip’s Cathedral. And listening to Kay Ryan, the 2010 U.S. Poet Laureate, talk about her craft.

It was a pivotal moment in a long weekend of pivotal moments. The festival lasted three and a half days, and we made it through two before agreeing we were on overload. But what an amazing experience it turned out to be—one I wasn't really prepared for.

I went because it’s something Deborah has wanted to do for a long time. I don’t write poetry or read much of it, so I knew pretty much nothing about the myriad of “stars” that would be there. But I love my sister and we don’t spend near enough time together. So when she discovered that the festival had been relocated from Sussex County to the New Jersey Performing Arts Center, I didn't think twice about springing for the four-day pass.

The event kicked off with a group reading featuring 24 of the poets in attendance—a perfect preview of what was to come. She and I took notes and later that night mapped out our strategy for the days ahead. The workshops and readings were many and the choices tough, but by the time we said, “Uncle!” on Saturday night, our creative “wells” were brimming. So much so that only now am I able to begin to sift through the thoughts and ideas that bombarded my brain. And the emotions that stirred my heart.

If I had thought about it in advance, I might have realized it had the potential to be overwhelming. I mean seriously—when you bring together dozens of the best poets in the country and give them the chance to share their love of language with thousands of adoring fans, how could the outcome be less than stellar? Each reading—whether it featured two people or ten—was a pyrotechnic display of the power and glory of words. Funny, insightful, delicious, rhythmic, sweet, obtuse, touching, exquisite, fierce. Driving home at the end of each day, my mind whirled with one-line inspirations (“Learn to be susceptible to distractions”; “Strike while the iron is iron.") And my heart ached from being put so thoroughly through its paces.

Instead, I'd focused solely on the gift of spending three wonderful days with my sister with no one else around. And we made the most of it. She summed it up beautifully in an email: “…every time together is a snapshot of where we are in our lives—our worries, our triumphs, our struggles and our joys –and talking helps me ‘hear’ where I am…” Several times during the weekend I felt blessed to have this special bond with her. Once, sitting in the grand main hall at NJPAC, I turned to look at her and tears welled in my eyes. I told her how grateful I was to be asked to share in the experience. But what I was really thinking was thank god we survived the miseries of childhood with our spirits intact. And have the courage to be living authentic lives.

Late last Saturday afternoon, we went to a second church to listen in on a slightly off-kilter conversation between poets Sharon Olds (heartfelt and loopy) and Billy Collins (ironic and brilliant). The sanctuary was a funky blend of grooved wood, stained glass and Gothic-inspired pewter chandeliers that lent a medieval air to the proceedings. In the back of the pew in front of us, a folded envelope was stuffed into a small wooden slot. I pulled it out and read the words printed in elegant script: “Love Offering.” Instantly I thought, “That’s what I’ve given Deborah by being here.” In the next moment I realized that was what she’d given me. Amen.

Mission Accomplished

Today is Monday. It’s the official end of my summer “staycation”—and the end of my Personal Blogging Challenge.

Last Monday I made a commitment to post every day for a week. When I started this blog a year ago (hard to believe!), posting daily was something I thought would be easy to do. Man, have I learned a thing or two!

And now that I’ve accomplished last week’s mission, here are a few more things I've learned:

1) Blogging every day feels like a job. I spend a good part of each workday writing. Blogging is something I do for fun—and I want to keep it that way.
2) My posts were more spontaneous. I confess that most of my entries have been mapped out in Word and well-edited before I click “Publish Post.” The writer in me longs to create short stories. But lack of time (and not having loaded Microsoft Office on my new computer) forced me to speed things up. I kinda liked it!
3) I took my camera everywhere. I’m hooked on using pictures as illustrations, which means almost any occasion can turn into a photo op.
4) Blogging more meant journaling less. I’m not interested in spilling my guts in public—that’s what my journal is for. But it was tough to make time to do both, and I was on vacation all week! Since I’m a lifelong journal junkie, this could be the deal-breaker.
5) There was no shortage of stuff to write about. Discovering this made the project worthwhile. This entire blog is about moments of joy and amazement. And judging by the endless string of ideas that ran through my mind, my days are filled with them.

As I was writing point #4, I spent a few minutes Googling the definition of a blog. Is it possible I'm doing it all wrong? That I should toss my journal because sharing intensely personal stuff is what separates real bloggers from pretenders? I panicked when Webster’s called it “an online personal journal." But then I came across this from Jeff Jarvis, a veteran print journalist and prominent blogger: “A blog is merely a tool that lets you do anything from change the world to share your shopping list. People will use it however they wish. And it is way too soon in the invention of uses for this tool to limit it with a set definition.”

Whew! Tomorrow it’s back to pen & paper.

Dining Alfresco

Outdoor dining: love it or hate it?

It's something about which most people I know have a strong opinion, and I happen to love it. Whether it's coffee out on my deck or a romantic dinner in a secluded garden strung with twinkling lights, nothing says "summer" more than enjoying a meal outside.

But there's outdoor dining and then there's its ugly step-sister: urban outdoor dining. If you live in Bergen County, NJ, it's highly likely that alfresco is nothing more than a few tables crammed together on a busy sidewalk situated along an even busier street. The roar of motorcycles and aroma of bus exhaust hardly creates a desirable atmosphere, and yet that's what most local restaurants have to offer. Which is why I understand when any dining companion chooses to sit indoors instead.

This week I've been fortunate to experience the upside of eating outside. In one 48-hour stretch, I ate lunch on a cliff high above the Wanaque Reservoir; sipped a beer on a patio at one end of Greenwood Lake; had dinner on my deck overlooking a small creek; enjoyed breakfast on an outdoor deck on Lake Hopatcong (where it was so chilly they had the overhead heaters on); and stopped for a late lunch in Frenchtown at a cafe beside the Delaware River. The only time noise was a factor was in Frenchtown, where the cafe is at the foot of the bridge that leads in and out of town. But even then we could have chosen to sit in the screened-in porch, far removed from the bustling road.

I savored every minute of every meal. Being in the open air always creates an illusion of space, even when you're within spitting distance of the next table. There sure was plenty to look at--from hawks swooping overhead to sailboats glinting in the sun. I relished the cool breezes. Succumbed to the water's hypnotic powers. Was soothed by the sounds of birds and crickets. And the food? Well, somehow it just tasted better! The colors were more vibrant. The flavors more distinct. I chewed more slowly. Appreciated each bite.

If only this sort of experience could be replicated by restaurants closer to home. Where the best tables offered a fresh perspective--and a view worth seeing.

Heart Stones

"We tend to find what we're looking for," Jim said. In a rare moment of synchronicity, I said I couldn't agree more. (Actually, my standard phrase for this is, "Perception is all there is." Meaning things are as we chose to see them. Not exactly the same thing, but close enough.)

He said this yesterday as we were well into a steady uphill climb on a new hiking trail in Norvin Green State Park. (I'd quickly dubbed it the Fried Egg Trail in honor of the yellow-on-white Mine Trail marker pictured here.) I'd spent most of the previous 20 minutes with my eyes glued to the ground, carefully navigating the rocky ascent. And I'd noticed what seemed like dozens of stones shaped like hearts.

I have my friend Shelley to thank for this. A few years ago we were strolling the beach together in Point Pleasant and I was talking about my obsession with shell collecting. I've got so many I should be ashamed to even look at another, yet I can't seem to help myself. She suggested switching to pebbles, and I confessed to having pocketed more than a few of those as well. I consider them souvenirs--even though, with few exceptions (like the large river stones from Montana and the smooth gray rocks from the Maine coastline) I've no idea where they all came from.

Then she told me that a friend of hers collected stones shaped like hearts. This opened a whole new world to me, one that required keener powers of observation and a bit of imagination. Some of the stones I have only look like hearts to me--and that was Jim's point. If I want to see hearts, I will. And yesterday I saw so many that I decided it was a sign. Maybe I needed to open my heart more? I've been feeling pretty self-centered lately, focused more on what I want and need than on the people around me. So was this nature's way of telling me to pay more attention? To share more love? Connect more deeply with those I care about?

I held this feeling in my consciousness as we moved through the day. Jim and I seemed more in sync than usual, and we both commented on how present we felt. Everything about the hike seemed more intense, and the sights were like a Reader's Digest condensed version of what we love best. These pictures capture a few of them: strenuous climbs, spectacular views, a black-and-blue butterfly perched on my leg, several abandoned mines, a cascading brook hidden from view, even a real bat cave!





The piece de resistance was a wacky house nestled in the trees along the road out of the parking lot. Part tent, part domed sheet metal, it was painted a vibrant shade of pink--as was everything else in sight. From the iron front gate to the lawn chair cushions, the mailbox to the old Volvo in the driveway. Pink. The color of love. The shade of the heart.

Could it be another sign? The way we choose to see things is the way they are.

Intermezzo

Yesterday was an unexpected gift. Jim had work to do so I had a day to myself. The sun finally broke through, the damp and the gray blew away, and the temptation to drive to the beach was strong. But my goal this week is to relax. As I drank my morning coffee and watched the cat stretch in a warm shaft of light, I decided to bring the beach experience to my backyard.

It’s amazing how little it takes: a canvas chair, some suntan lotion, a tall glass of iced tea, and a big fat book (our book club pick is Penny Vincenzi’s The Best of Times—perfectly mindless reading.) I threw in a long afternoon walk and homemade tuna niçoise for good measure—and guess what? I hardly missed the sound of the waves. The bonus: no sand in my shoes!