At Wingaersheek

And all things hushed. Yet even

in that silence a new beginning,

beckoning, change appeared.

........Rainer Maria Rilke,

Sonnets to Orpheus

We went to Wingaersheek Beach late this afternoon. The tide was out -- a marvelous event at Wingaersheek. You can walk a mile out to sea on the sand bar that appears. Clea, my daughter, wanted especially to go. Few people were there at 4:00; the sun was soft as was the cool breeze. The sky was wonderfully blue. Perfect. We saw a very large schooner pass on the horizon; and behind it, a smaller boat with black sails. Like a mystical pirate vessel. We walked the sandbar, then settled down on the same huge rock plateau we've always called "our rock" since the kids were small.

DJ (the 14 year old) was moody and itchy; he doesn't know how to be without his friends or his X-Box. Keira (almost 5) had scraped her knee so was being tragic. Clea was thoughtful; her surgery coming up next Tuesday. I settled my focus on the lighthouse at the end of the mainland, and the slow incoming tide. There seemed to be an unexpected silence. As though I were suddenly inside a bubble that closed out all sound. I felt something shift. Something changed. I know it happened; I can feel it now so many hours later; I don't, however, know its name.

Do you recognize that hushed moment-- that instant stop, as though there had been a minuscule break in a phone connection followed by a different voice picking up the earlier conversation. Extremely odd, but not disconcerting. I recognized a similar event recently -- actually several events -- causing the same effect. People have appeared out of my past; serendipitously. A couple were folks I haven't thought about in years, but seemed to come around a corner as surprised to see me as I was to see them. Each had a message for me though not realizing they were delivering one. (confused yet?) One is someone I have thought about often for many years; a dear, old friend and colleague. He may or may not realized he had a message he was delivering. Possibly I, too, am a messenger in this case. But with each re-meeting that stopped moment occurred. And that shift. Ever so slight, its impact will last for my forever. It may have to do with my work, with my intentions, with my journey. I don't know yet. But I feel the change coming. And I know it's a positive one.

It's been a difficult year in so many respects. And I imagine there will be more difficulties ahead before the radio plays Auld Lang Syne. But I know all will be well. I know something new is stirring, as though the Wingaersheek sand has touched the smallest spot and has begun a pearl. (that reads rather corny to me, but I'm going with it anyway.)

I have always believed that we are given a certain number of people in our lives. They come, they stay, they leave, we leave. But if we have unfinished business, if the purpose of our knowing each other hasn't been resolved, we will meet again. So the adventure continues and can't be forced.

The difference is palpable, if only to me. Perhaps I need to walk Wingaersheek again. And again. Remembering Rilke:

The work of the eyes is done. Go now and do the heart-work on the images imprisoned within you.

Sur La Plage!

"There's no saying
Who may be playing
With you sur la plage.
A knight who's left behind his charger
May call you "ducky"
Won't you be lucky?
In the ocean You'll find emotion
May play you a funny game
Sur la plage, sur la plage
Ev'ryone looks the -
Ev'ryone looks the -
Ev'ryone looks the same"
...................................from THE BOYFRIEND

We drove to Old Orchard Beach in Maine last week. To celebrate my daughter Clea's birthday. None of us had been there before. We love to go to Maine, and do so often. It's a short trip with lots of different attitudes. We like York a lot, and have gone since my kids were very little. Long Sands Beach is grand, and the waves are wonderful. There's the lighthouse of course; Nubble Light. And Short Sands Beach is in the beach town which boasts -- along with a variety of crap traps -- a wonderful 1950's style (remnant?) luncheonette that has a soda fountain and taffy machines creating the candy right in the store front windows. The Goldenrod actually opened in the 1890's, but the shop was rebuilt and feels very 1950's to me. And, as I've mentioned at other times, I love Ogunquit where I walk the Marginal Way, and enjoy some wonderful little restaurants and craft shops.

Old Orchard Beach is carny. Helped along by the Playland Amusement Park in the middle of the little village. The residential areas on the way to the beach town are really charming; the houses with gorgeous little gardens, and a sense that all is always good. The beach area attracts many families. Very little diversity which always
disappoints me, being a New Yorker, except in the social mix. Bikers, RV'ers, Canadians, and a mixed-bag of families. It's always remarkable to Clea and me when we are conspicuous walking down the street. Only because we've been a family since 1970; not much has changed around us. The beach itself is quite something; seven miles of water front with relatively clean, white sand. It's not San Tropez; but it serves. The food is mainly fried everything -- what one might expect at an American seaside gathering place.


We stayed one night in a less than auspicious motel. In the morning I walked down to the beach at six o'clock; a number of people were walking or jogging. It was a glorious morning -- not terribly warm yet; a good breeze; no humidity. When ever I walk a beach in early morning I spin back into my childhood at Rockaway beach; back into the early years of Massachusetts era when the children would be sleeping in the Anchorage Motel and I'd walk the beach to see the sunrise and listen to my phantom voices in the waves This walk began that way. And then a peculiar thing: these guys bringing chairs down to the sand from the rental bungalows at that early hour. Guests at the bungalows -- claiming their space for their day at the beach. It reminded me of the urban dwellers in the north east who shovel a parking space and hang on to it with chairs or barrels. Seven miles of sand. Room for all?

Maybe it's because photos of these places are often "old photos" of these places. So one expects the charm we see in the movies. "On the Boardwalk in Atlantic City...." with Fred Astaire or Judy Garland or Gordan MacRae --
Happily the children don't have this frame of reference, so for them it was a fun, carnival kind of place, where a mean grandma refused to buy them fried dough.

Go figure......!

Fictional Affections

On one of those Facebook challenges where you type something about yourself that no one knows, I revealed that I get crushes on fictional detectives. It was to my friends, old and new, an amusing thought. I was very serious. My first passion was Sherlock Holmes as portrayed by Jeremy Brett. Drawn to the brooding genius, I suppose, the same way I was drawn to male vocalists with scratchy, husky singing voices. Sherlock was soon usurped in my affections by Chief Inspector Morse, created by Colin Dexter. I read all the books, watched all the PBS episodes on Mystery! and wasn't really sure if it was Morse I had a crush on or John Thaw who created him "in the flesh." This romance went on for years. When
Dexter saw fit to kill Morse off, I was devastated. When PBS showed the final episode, with John Thaw's Morse being carried off at the end, I literally sobbed. It might seem inane, but I had lost a dear, old friend. Matters were made worse when John Thaw passed away not long after. Ah, Mickey, I thought, reaching for another tissue -- get a life!!

Incorrigible, I picked up a book by Daniel Silva called A DEATH IN VIENNA. The protagonist is, of course, a detective/secret agent called Gabriel Allon. Allon is an Israeli agent whose cover is a brilliant art restorer living in Venice. Maybe "Venice" was the magic word; maybe Israeli agent -- whatever. Allon is again a brooding, remarkable talent in all respects. So I became instantly smitten, and read all the books -- last to first - before realizing what I'd done. When the next book came out, I put it aside and re-read all the books starting with the first one. Working my way up to the most recent. Mr. Silva seems to have a new release annually, and I order early, The arrival of the book is an event -- the way HARRY POTTER used to be. Now, since no film or TV movie has been made, I have the luxury of casting whomever I choose in the role of Allon.

Now I have a conundrum! When I returned from Venice in March -- doesn't that sound amazing? -- a friend told me about the books of Donna Leon. I researched them (wanting to read the first one first this time) and read DEATH AT LA FENICE. Having just been there, this was so exciting. And the detective, Commissario Guido Brunetti, is different from my other fictional heroes, striking perhaps a clearer note. Sort of a plain guy. WelI, sort of. I have read the first four novels and, gratefully, there are many, many more.

Off the subject for a minute: when I bought the first book, I flipped through to find out something about the author. And there at the back was Donna Leon's picture. Okay, here's the weird thing: I saw this woman when I was in Venice. I stayed near Campo San Luca and saw this woman each morning and each afternoon. By day two of my trip, we nodded at each other. By day three, we smiled at each other. I didn't know of course who she was. She seemed very impressive, as though I should have known who she was. So strange.

So I have the next two Brunetti novels on my kitchen table, along with Daniel Silva's latest Gabriel Allon novel -- THE DEFECTOR. It is a betrayal of sorts I'm sure to have crushes on two guys; haven't had that luxury since I was a teenager. And of course, no films featuring Brunetti have been made (yet!) so I can once again cast whomever in the role. I think I must read the Allon book first before continuing with Guido's next adventure. Even if I have rubbed shoulders with the author.

Think what you will. This is a fine madness!

Just a Minute --

Last week, my daughter went to the emergency room because she was having breathing difficulties and had for years been told it was her high blood pressure. Tests and x-rays showed that she has a damaged Mitral Valve and requires surgery. In just a minute, her entire life changed. Without the ER visit she might never have known of this problem and died of heart failure. In just a minute, a rocky road appeared before her and she'll have to navigate carefully to make it across. In just a minute. When someone older than you tells you "it's all a blink," please believe it. When you're cursing a Monday and wishing for a speedy jump to Friday, please stop and remember that the Monday you want to erase is a one-of-a kind day, never to appear again. I know; you've heard this all before, I don't -- truly don't want to sound preachy. But this is what's on my mind today. (picture of Clea and her little girl)

My brother and sister-in-law are coming to Boston to visit next weekend. They came last August; went home; Evie went for a regular check-up, and in just a minute was fighting breast cancer for her future. My oldest son's best friend -- young, talented, special -- didn't feel quite right one evening. He laid down on his sofa to rest and never woke up. In just a minute there was a hole in the universe. There's a saying: "Man plans; God laughs." You have holidays mapped out; purchases; dreams. And suddenly, in just a minute, you have no job. Right. And then you reach my age -- please do -- and every minute is a lifetime. Not because it's interminable; because it isn't. There was always time it seemed. And then there wasn't. I remember a number of years ago hearing one of my favorite artists, Charles Aznovour, singing a song that brought me immediately to tears: "I didn't see the time go by." Wiped me out. This is the day. This is all of it. Rain, snow, hellish temperatures. This is the day. With loved ones, alone, happy, sad, whatever. This is the minute. If you want it to pass, don't fret. In just a minute. Use the time. Stay in the moment. Look up; your world is there. Whose voice do you need to hear? Call today.

Blessed be.

The First of Three Fables

This is peculiar: clearing out years of papers and scribbling, I found something I was challenged to write ages ago by my then husband. He dared me to write a fable. From the notations on the original, it had to be 1964-1966. A different life; a different me; a different writer. I'm going to put it here, and hope that a reader will tell me what this is about. And if I'd be wise to delete it! Here goes...

In a land of many shadows stood a town of many walls. The walls were built of violet colored stones and the foundations were of white marble. The roadways of the town were on top of the walls. The people lived in houses that stood between the walls, and one house did not face another. Doors and windows opened to the walls. The people strolled their roadways with pride. The high walls, the low walls of violet colored stones with white marble foundations crossed each other and crossed each other. The people were proud.

The wall of gray fieldstone was old. No one walked on that one except Ahni. Ahni was the little boy who everyone knew was mad because he spoke to the birds and said they spoke to him. Ahni would sit on the old gray wall and look out over the meadow of golden grass to the distant blue mountain. Beyond that mountain lay the distant places. Only Ahni looked out over the meadow. He was watching for the stranger who the birds said would come. Every day Ahni would watch. The people would look across the many walls and see him there and they would laugh, strolling the violet roadways with pride. Only Ahni looked out over the meadow of golden grass.

One day as the people strolled and Ahni watched, he saw a figure moving through the meadow. The stranger had come! Ahni called to the birds and they flew across the orange morning to greet the comer. Ahni recognized him, because it was himself-to-be who came. The stranger stood in the meadow and called to the old men. His voice reached them in tones of whispered words. The old men hurried along the old, gray wall to see the stranger in the field. They didn't see that it was Ahni-to-be. They only saw the stranger's walking stick with the white marble handle. They were filled with desire to posses one so lovely. Their old marred hands curved for such a handle on such a walking stick. The only marble in the town lay beneath the walls of violet stones. The old men ached for the marble; wept for the marble. But they didn't have the strength to tear down the walls.

Ahni was young and strong. He was mad because he spoke to the birds and said they spoke to him. So Ahni tore down the walls, stone by stone....stone by stone. This frightened the people and they hid in their houses. The old men wept and ached for the marble. The stranger waited in the meadow holding his walking stick with patient pride. Ahni tore down the walls. The old men beat at the marble and scraped at twigs. Each old, marred hand shaped a walking stick to match that of the stranger. When they finished their work, the stranger who was Ahni-to-be moved back through the field of golden grass, and the old men followed him. He led them up the distant blue mountain, and they climbed the blue beyond the mountain's height....

The people crept slowly from their houses. The doors of the houses now opened to a neighbor's house. The people walked among the violet stones which lay in great useless heaps upon the ground. The night was coming and the people were afraid. They piled stone upon stone, stone upon stone until new walls were built. Grotesque walls were built because there were no white marble foundations. Walls that could not be traveled upon. Stone upon stone...

The people did not see what Ahni saw: meadows of golden grass lay on all sides of the town, and blue mountains and distant places. The people built their grotesque walls of violet stones without white marble foundations and Ahni crossed the fields of golden grass. The old gray wall stood humbly in the shadows of the town of many walls. And Ahni-who-was sat and watched for the second coming.

THE CATALOG

Do you remember that classic Bette Davis postcard -- the one where she’s holding a needlepoint pillow that reads “old age ain’t for sissies?” Well, I’m no sissy! I have been gallant into my sixties. And I only occasionally check as I leave the ladies’ room to make sure I don’t have toilet paper stuck to my shoes. There are only three things that frighten me about growing older: 1) not being self sufficient; 2) not being self sufficient; 3) the arrival of The Catalog. The Catalog! Just when I’ll think I’ve mastered defiance (per Melanie Griffith); when I’ve found a style reminiscent of ‘40’s movie stars or at the very least -- Golden Girls; when strains of “koo-koo-achoo Mrs. Robinson” still occasionally hum in my inner ego; just when I’ll think I’ve created timelessness through elegance -- it will arrive. Wrapped in brown paper. Ominously nondescript. And the book enclosed will read The Catalog. And only that.

You know what’s inside, don’t you? Those fashions women wear so you’ll know they’re old farts: Polyester print dresses in awkward pastels. Cardigan sweaters that must be ordered a size too small. Dime store brooches you could no longer buy at Woolworth’s, (if there were a Woolworth’s). Coats with slightly natty fur collars. Directions for applying prophetic blue rinse. Eye glass frames with gems and pearl chains. Pink sweat suits with floral jewelry to match.

Well, you know what I mean. You see the ladies on the street. In Boston, Columbus, Chicago, New York -- these gals are not only visible in front of bingo halls. Be honest -- haven’t you wondered how that happens? Didn’t that “look” go out with pin curls and hair rollers in the supermarket? Or can one still see hair rollers in the supermarket? Uh huh -- and you’ve said to yourself, “Where do they get those clothes?” Ergo -- The Catalog.

The Catalog. It doesn’t matter if you avoid joining AARP. Or if you never ever play beano. Or sign-up for a Golden Agers’ bus tour of autumn leaves in Vermont. You can evade lunch specials at Grant’s or Denny's and always pay full price on the subway and never go to the shopping mall on Wednesdays. Someday that nondescript brown paper envelope will arrive. You can move without a forwarding address; get medical referrals from Phyllis Diller; make biannual trips to Eden Rock. It will arrive. You’ll put it in the toss-away pile and feel safe because you’ve committed Deepak Chopra to memory. But curiosity will be too much for you. You’ll open it. And no doubt, you’ll laugh. “No way I’m gonna be caught dead in this stuff.” But The Catalog defies trash collecting or recycling. One thing -- one small item will seem “not so bad” and you’ll hang onto The Catalog because maybe you’ll order that one small item -- and then before you realize it, you have a list and the next thing you know -- well..... It will arrive as surely as hot flashes and gray roots and yellow toe nails. What ever you do -- DON’T OPEN IT!!

Walk With Me

When we moved into the Corning Street house in Beverly Massachusetts 40 years ago, I believed that I had come home, that I would plant roots there and grow like an oak forever.  It didn't work out that way.  After 13 years there, I was between the proverbial rock and a hard place, and I moved to Boston neighborhoods -- spending 15 years in the city. Then I found myself back in Beverly -- for a four year event -- before moving to the New York City area for four and a half years.  Now, like a weed, I'm back in Beverly.  Unfinished business, no doubt.  The universe works that way.  

Beverly didn't impress me when I returned this time; I've felt that the community was avoiding its potential.  Lots of second hand shops; an inordinate number of Dunkin' Donut stores and pizza restaurants and bars.  Even with the presence of the Montserrat School of Art in the center of the city, Beverly doesn't boast an art center or even a small art museum or a palpable historic presence as do so many of the neighboring towns.  Some really good restaurants have opened here.  The in-town area no longer has a really good market.  There is, of course, glorious coastline and some fine parks.  And gorgeous big houses along the coast up through Beverly Farms.  But something missing for me.  I went to look for it.  

I walked to the pier which people don't seem to notice much.  And from there I explored the earliest Beverly streets.  Feeling immediately the quiet -- not that Beverly is hustle and bustle ; lots of traffic drives through its two main streets causing the din.  If, on the weekends -- you want to stroll among others -- you need to go to Salem or Newburyport or other towns where tourists walk the streets as well as residents and neighbors.  The area closest to the marina, known as Fish Flake Hill, was undoubtedly settled first.  And the charm of these streets, the feeling of neighborhood and neighbors -- well, walk with me for a moment.  Let me know what you think.     

The Beverly marina and pier. Front Street begins with a charming antique shop.             

History is evident everywhere in this town within the city.

             Looking down Cottage Lane.

I didn't recall the "Furniture Institute" on Water Street. Or the 

little beach at the end of the lane.