This is Better

As a follow up, although there are downsides to working out in the evening (such as the crowd, and the lesser effect on changing metabolism, and having trouble falling asleep), I don’t require brain power for it in the same way I do writing in the morning. So until the day comes that I get up at 5am and do both writing and a workout before taking S. to school, I’ll be jostling the crowds at night. And writing – blessed writing! -  in the morning.

Yesterday, it rained heavily. For the first time in over a decade, D. didn’t care. We have an intact roof! No more bucket in the laundry room to catch that one leak. No more tarps covering the roof and preventing us from using the wood burning stove for heat – for fear of sparks. This sounds like an episode of Oregon Trail. But it’s not so dramatic as all that. It’s really first world problems, and in this case, first world solutions.  

Lesson Learned

So, now I see that when I go to the gym in the morning before work instead of writing,  the writing suffers.

Five Minute Musing

There is little of depth one can compose in five minute before rushing off to drop of a high school senior and spend a day in public service/social work at a downtown library. But even phrasing that sentence as I did tells a reader (tells me, myself, in this case, as I write it) about, if not certain predilections or points of view, than at least about the face I would want to show the world. Language does that. Diction, and flow, and voice. What one says. How one says it. I could spend five minutes ranting about the injustices in the world, were a different person. I could compose a sparse haiku. But instead, I combine a touch of philosophy with a little self-serving martyrdom and patting my own back, and then I go on to analyze it. Thus so much of my life is distilled. Perhaps nearly everything we do, in small ways, can be seen as metaphor for how we live our lives and who we are. Perhaps that's just the poet in me, thinking that.

Shake, Rattle, and Roof

Currently, it sounds like a herd of bighorn sheep with claw hammers are wreaking havoc above me. The roofers arrived at about 6:50am, and have been destroying the cheap roof (circa 1991) ever since. They’ve already found dry rot – we’re not surprised – and have explained that the way this roof was made, with skip under plywood (if I’m understanding this - I may need to correct it later in an erratum…) this house was more or less designed to rot from condensation in the summer. But so far, it hasn’t. They’ll put in ridge-line venting, but it won’t be able to vent – but this is something D. and the foreman, Nate, have discussed on my phone, while I orchestrated N. driving S. to school last minute. 

My biggest worry is that they not drop something on the beehive, and that the chickens stay as they have, in the other corner of the yard and well away from the open gate, until I leave for the day and pen them in. They will be loud and unhappy all day, so I am delaying that penning for a bit. I do wish I could stay home all day but I’m on the Children’s Desk at noon. 

The hammering, huge thumps, buzz of  blowers, and whine of saws continues, along with shouts in Spanish. I used my Spanish yesterday at the garage sale and this morning, too, although most of the roofing team speaks English better than I do Spanish, I suspect. This is most nerve-wracking for D., who has the territorial instincts of a Doberman, and N.’s cat, Sif, who is miserable. Moira, on the other hand, is keeping her post by the back sliding glass door, where she daily watches for – and sometimes stares down – the little field mouse that hides in the bale of straw we use for the chicken coop. Tango has resigned himself to misery in N.’s room. Between Saturday’s hauling of everything down for the attic and sorting for the garage sale, the hustle and bustle of the sale itself, and now this (bighorn sheep with power tools all over the roof), I think it would take puppy Prozac to cheer him up. On top of all that, he’d been taken to the pet store for a bath Saturday. Tough weekend for Mr. T. But he does smell better. 

I am writing because it’s either this, or nervously houseclean, or pace anxiously in the back yard near the bees. I’ll do the other things next. Writing first. Not real concentration, because I’m nervous too, but at least reportage of some kind.

Here's what's happening as of 20 minutes ago:

And here's what it looked like - to me, anyway - at around 7:30. I told D. significant, "They're digging in the wrong place!" which did make him smile, at least. Poor stressed-out man.

Phew

I am, as the British might say, knackered. But we have fewer belongings and a very modest amount of money to show for it. And a few little stories, as well as a good deed done. And while I’m too tired—and sunburned, and aching—to provide details, I am not too tired to create a blog entry for the day. Even as a placeholder, like this.

Bit by Bit

"Putting it Together," as Sondheim might write it - and in particular, as the wonderful Mandy Patinkin sang it, in Sunday in The Park with George. (A musical that I have only heard excerpts from and have not seen.)

The rain is tapering off and today will be devoted to Spring-cleaning: in particular, tackling the attic in preparation for the garage sale and the roofers. Lord willing and the creeks don’t rise, the next three or four days will be the kind of lovely productive work that makes me happy. I like to be active. I like to “get things done.” 

I suspect my biggest challenge will be not dropping into quicksand pits of nostalgia as I go through boxes such as the never-compiled-into-a-scrapbook bits and pieces from my Europe trip in 1989 and my great-grandmother’s fabric. What to keep is always a question of what purpose it serves, who cares now, who will care a generation from now, where to put it, and whether I’ll want to move it. 

I am recklessly living with the assumption that someday, somehow, we will have a house “in the country” with a little land to garden our own food and keep more chickens and bees. Every day I try to do one thing, even one small thing, towards that goal. Sometimes it’s just working in the yard – because I love it, and there will be plenty of that work in that future home. Sometimes it’s getting rid of one more little thing, to lighten the load. Even going to the gym could be seen as part of that dream, because its hard work living rural, and I would like to be fit enough to do it for many years to come. Writing, too, is something I do with an eye to being a writer in the country. 

I wouldn’t have guessed that we’d be where we are now, with chickens and bees (and my cat, and N.’s cat!), and an MFA in poetry, and a job at the library, and two reviews published, and a fantastic writing group – I wouldn’t have guessed any of those things would be possible three years ago. So even if I don’t know where or how we’ll live in the country, I believe it pays off to have goals and work towards them.

The Small Rain Down

One of the few poems I've memorized comes to mind this morning, because it has been raining for more than 12 hours straight, and because I overslept:

Western wind when wilt thou blow
the small rain down can rain
Christ if my love were in my arms
and I in my bed again

So my blogging time is brief indeed, especially because I expect bits of flooding on the way.m and have to leave a bit early.

Yesterday was odd in that I spent the afternoon working at another library branch, one of the two from the system that I had never visited. It is normally quite busy, because it is near a High School and a Middle School. But it's Spring Break, so my time on the Children's Desk was spent primarily seeking lost books. There was the lovely distraction, however, of Oso the Golden Retriever, visiting for the afternoon's Read to a Dog program. Oso charmed every small child and parent who visited by being a sweet-faced patient listener to every word the children struggled to read. He didn't care about pronunciation or inflection, or how long it took to read a sentence. What a valuable literacy teacher!

It is Friday, and I am already excited about going through the attic and otherwise cleaning, organizing, and amassing a huge collection of garage-sale items all weekend. The rain should clear by Sunday. Otherwise, we'll have to wait two weekends for the sale, as next weekend my dance card is full.   

Just a Little Note

Although blogging daily means I run the risk of more "had tea with the Joneses" entries, I'd rather articulate my life in little increments anyway, and keep up the habit of going to the computer regularly, than stall out because there's nothing earth-shattering to share.

I can also think of it as a practice of living in the moment. Sometimes the moment is simple.

I’ve had a lovely email from the poet whose book I just reviewed, thanking me for what I wrote and how I wrote it . My particular blend of pride and historically low self-esteem make this kind of message extremely gratifying on a personal level, but more importantly, I feel as though I am starting, very slowly, to establish new relationships with new poets and the world of poetry outside of my comfort zone. And this is a good thing. It’s scary, but in a good way, to put yourself out there in the world with the work that matters to you.

On the home front, the latest news is that we shall have a new roof soon! It’s probably been over a decade—perhaps closer to two!—that we’ve needed one, and although the stress of the expense is significant, it’s bound to be less than the stress that I know D. feels, and has felt, every single time it rains. 

Here's a roof from the website of PFR Roofing in Milford Haven, Wales. Although we're not getting slate put on a stone cottage, a girl can dream. 

Now it’s a question of cleaning out the attic, which we need to do anyway, for the garage sale S. wants to have to raise money for herself for tracker school. Lightening the load!