Commack: The Neighborhood

The neighborhood. My house is bottom left.

I’m nine, ten, eleven, going on twelve years old, living in Commack, a small farming community on Long Island. I live in a house my dad built and one we’ll spend several years living in.  It’s the early 1950s.

On Jericho Turnpike, just across from the entrance to my street, Old Commack Road, is a Carvel store, where the best soft-serve ice cream in the world is sold.  My favorite flavor is pineapple-orange. Last week, I saw Wally Cox, in person, getting his own ice cream cone.  He stars in the television show, Mr. Peepers, that I’m allowed to watch most of the time, unless I’ve done something to make my parents take away television privileges.

Next to and behind the Carvel is the drive-in movie. On sizzling summer nights, when all the windows in the house are wide open, as I fall asleep hearing the movie sound-track being shown.  But I can’t see it because there are too many trees in the way. When mom and dad take us to see a movie, we’re in our pajamas tucked in the back seat with pillows and blankets. Usually my brothers fall asleep before the movie even starts. I loved the movie, Shane, starring Alan Ladd and cried all the way home at the end, when Shane rides off, Joey calling for him to come back.

There are woods all around my house, except for the quarter-acre that my parents have cleared out back, where they’ve planted a vegetable garden, fenced in to keep the critters out.  When I walk down the old, overgrown woods road on the border of  our property, through a thick stand of oaks and maples, I find myself on the edge of endless, rolling potato fields.

Sandra lives next door.  She is my age and we spend lots of time together talking about boys and the physical changes we’re beginning to go through. My mom has already given me The Talk about the birds and the bees, but I can’t imagine anyone doing what she told me about.  Ick!!  I fall in love for the first time with a dark, curly-headed boy by the name of Danny, and later with a blond, blue-eyed guy, whose mother is a good friend of my mom’s.  At a party my parents throw for me one Halloween, we play Spin the Bottle, bob for apples in a large washtub, and dance the hokey-pokey.  I love to listen to the likes of Patty Page’s, How Much Is That Doggie In The Window and Rosemary Clooney’s, This Old House, on a portable, pink Victrola.  But my favorite of all time is, Mr. Sandman, by the MacQuire Sisters.

Down the street, another friend, Susan, lives with her family.  She is  a little younger than I am. We spend hours down in the barn, where Red, her older brother’s horse is stabled. He’s a chestnut with a white blaze running down the middle of his face. He lazily swats flies with his tail, as I sit on his back in the paddock, dreaming that we’re galloping across a meadow filled with daisies and buttercups. I cling to his mane, his tail, outstretched, flowing behind us.

Also in the barn is the big, yellow school bus, that Susan’s dad drives when school is in session.  Piled high in one corner are cases and cases of Coke, Pepsi and Nehi that he supplies to a variety of organizations for parties and get-togethers.  Until we’re found out, Susan and I go through bottles of it, stuffing the empties behind bales of hay, stored in the dark recesses of the building.

Across from Susan’s house is Lorraine’s.  Her grandmother lives with her. She and her family raise dairy goats and a few chickens out back. It’s kind of smelly back there.  Lorraine is older than I am, and has beat me up a couple of times. I don’t know why.  Maybe just because.  She’s bigger than I am and has lived on the street longer than I have. My dad tells me he can’t stop Lorraine from hitting me, that I have to stand up for myself.

The house as it stood a few years ago.

Thoughts While On Retreat

Storm Coming, 9/13/11

Last night a hard rain with lightning and thunder.  This morning the sun rises before me, filling the day with a brilliance that seems to happen only after a late summer downpour.  The air swept clean of yesterday’s heaviness, welcomes a deep breath as I slip out the door for my morning walk.  Where the road turns, seven robins flutter and splash in a puddle, left by last nights deluge.

Climbing the stairs over the dunes, I hear the surf rushing the shore, the way I hear it during meditation practice, when I see my empty mind as the ocean. The in-breath, an inhalation of a broken wave back into the sea.   The out-breath, the wave returns, washing ashore the detritus of my thinking mind.

I decide on a direction, up the beach to the north or down the beach to the south.  It’s always determined by how many people are in evidence. Always I go where there are fewer.  It isn’t that I don’t want to be friendly and wish those I pass a happy morning.  It’s that this walking barefooted in the sand becomes a meditation in it’s own right.  Here, on the beach, I move more slowly.  A deliberate pace that my friend and massage therapist, Grace, calls round walking. The heel sinks into the sand, turning upward, followed by the ball of the foot and finally the toes.  Every step a round motion, like peddling, stretching out the entire foot and connecting with Earth’s sweet energy.  A way of becoming grounded after being in the world of not enough time.

I walk daily, in the morning and late in the afternoon, after writing, reading, stretching.  At the end of the evening walk, I sit in on the beach, contemplating where the next wave will begin. Like the breath, its beginning is invisible, but at the core of life.

The first few days I do little more than walk on the beach. I simply need to unwind, stare into space, watch the pelicans drift by.  By the third day the rest of the world has slipped away.  I’m not interested in going out.  Not interested in visiting the small boutiques I’ve frequented in the past.  Even the book store has no pull.

I only had a week.  Today it’s half over. I’m sleepy, lie down for a nap. But my Muse is calling.  The images breathtaking, the words compelling.  I leave my bed. Begin tapping keys as she whispers her thoughts.

This is something I need to do more often.  There is no schedule. I choose to stay up as late as I want, knowing there is no alarm clock or to-do list waiting on the kitchen counter. If the Muse calls, I’m ready.

Everyone needs time like this.  It is essential.  It makes life in the other world easier. It frees the spirit, the mind, the body. I will go home on Sunday, ready to jump head first into my other life, happy to be home, cuddling my cats and dogs and marveling at my garden.  I will also begin making plans for another time to sneak away.

Clouds, 9/13/11

Going On Retreat

There’s nothing like going on retreat, and that’s what I’ll be doing this coming week. I expect to do a lot of walking, writing, reading, drawing, and contemplating.  It will be a quiet time.  A time to get up early to watch the sun rise or to sleep late because I couldn’t put that book down last night until I’d finished it.   It will be a time for listening to the ocean as it tosses itself against the shore and watching migrating water fowl make their way south.  I’ll look for messages washed up on the beach that might send me off in new directions, as my feet relax into the sand and the sun bathes me in its intensity.

For the next week things will probably be silent on this end.  I hope you have a pleasant week and will enjoy the last days of summer.

On Forgiveness

At The Heart Of The Matter, Joan Z. Rough, Copyright, 2005

This is what I do know:  until you forgive someone as close as a mother, you are at war with yourself, you continue to gnaw that leg of yours caught in a trap.  Why are you at war with yourself?  I think because to hold a grudge against another person you have to recognize in them a quality that you yourself possess but can’t admit to.

Mary Rose O’Reilley, The Love of Impermanent Things, A Threshold Ecology

I’m reading this book for the second time.  Although I loved it the first time around, I don’t think I was ready for it.  I was in the midst the final year of my mother’s life. I was gnawing on my own leg. Blind. Unable to see what was before me.

I refound this marvelous book a few days ago, going through one of those unpacked boxes left from our move over a year ago.  Still trying to purge, I was looking for books I could part with.  Books I could take to the library for their big sale in March. But this one will stay with me. Within it, the words speak to my heart and I am finding myself.

My New Year …

Most people celebrate the New Year on January 1st.  I do celebrate then too, but it is September 1st, that is the true New Year’s Day for me.  I think it has something to do with loving school and learning. When I was kid, I adored getting a new dress for the first day of school, and shoes of course.  I would have preferred shiny, black patent-leather Mary Janes, but mostly I got brown and white saddle shoes.

Then there were the new pencils with a special box to keep them in, along with erasers in tiny animal shapes.  A notebook, very sturdy, and whatever else I could talk my mother into, made it an exciting time of year.  Almost as good as Christmas!  There were no ipads, ipods, or computers back then.  But what I did have, I loved and treasured.

For me, September and fall, means it’s time to get serious.  Gone are the frilly salad days of summer.  Now I tend toward more substantial things, like hearty soups and stews.  A pot roast simmering away in the slow cooker is cause to celebrate, along with pumpkin or apple pie, and at breakfast, bowls of steaming oatmeal, with plain yogurt, walnuts, raisins and honey … sometimes I throw in an over-ripe banana.

It’s time for sweaters. Turtlenecks and over-sized bulky cardigans that I can wrap myself in on a cold autumn day, as I rustle my way through the dense carpet of leaves gathering on the ground.  Socks are cozy and my footwear of choice inside the house.  No slippers, just socks, thick, colorful, and the crazier the design the better.

It’s still warm here, but the nights are cooling down as the days shorten.  My sleep is deeper, and throughout the fall and winter, I love sleeping with a window slightly ajar, snuggled up in wool blankets, only my nose showing, to breathe in crisp air, lightly scented with wood smoke.  That’s heaven in my book.

And speaking of books, it’s the time of year when I do the most reading.  The stack of reading material next to my chair tends to grow and I often find myself reading 3 books at once, going from one to another, as my mood changes.  That is getting a bit frustrating though, as I try to unlearn my multitasking habits.  So I’ll narrow it down to two books.   One to read during the day, usually something I’m interested in learning about and don’t want to doze off while I’m reading. For the evenings, I like something a bit lighter that I can easily find my way back to, after it’s fallen out of my hands to the floor as sleep overtakes me.

This year, I’ve enrolled in three classes that will start later in the month. I’ve chosen two through the UVA Ollie program (Osher Lifelong Learning Institute),  Writing your Life and The Examined Life, as a way to keep me writing and getting feedback on what I’ve been pouring out on to paper.  They each meet once a week for 6 weeks.

My herbalist, is offering an 8 week class in Ayurveda, an ancient way of taking care of oneself, from India.  We will learn about its history, and how to apply it to live a healthy life style.  Part yoga, food prep, and discussion, it will help me as I continue to try to keep myself from becoming what I call, a rocking chair granny.  I want to leave this planet moving, not sitting on my front porch watching the world go by.

I am risking my sanity a bit, I suppose.  My time is pretty much spoken for through the fall and I worry some about having time for making art.  But I’m very excited about the learning I will be doing. I intend to keep up a regular exercise routine and putter about the garden as well.   If I can keep the overwhelm and I have to do everything parts of myself under control it should be a great time.  I do expect a visit from one or both of these companions from time to time, but it seems to get easier as I continue to set my limits, listen to my body, and understanding that I am not going for a PhD.

So, once again, Happy New Year.  I hope your fall will be as exciting as mine is looking.