Ghosts that Haunt Me

This piece of writing is in response to a prompt I received from Mia Boynton, librarian at Monhegan, ME. Just in time for Halloween, she encouraged our writing group to craft a piece that reflects on one or more meanings of "haunt". Here is mine:

I have to confess that I am haunted by shoulda, woulda, coulda's ever since Holden Caulfield keyed me in to their existence. There are so many possibilities that might have been chosen, and being one person, I have only been able to manage one choice in each circumstance. But that doesn't mean I don't think about the others. So many choices and we only get to pick one! It doesn't seem fair, does it?

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both,
And be one traveler, long I stood...

Sometimes I feel like I am still standing there with good ole Robert, looking as far down the road as I can, putting off the moment when I take my first step in the other direction. But it is true what they say about not making a choice actually being a choice, and so I know I did finally put one foot in front of the other. I did, finally, start walking down one path, although I confess to looking over my shoulder a bit.

I remember being shocked by a friend who said she never second guessed herself. When she made a choice, she never looked back. She just got on with it without giving even a thought to the options she had turned her back on. Wow, I felt so lost in that moment, lost in the forest of possibilities that torment me every time a choice is squeezed out of me.

The numberless unlived possibilities invade my thoughts like so many ghosts sometimes. usually on a day when I don't feel I have accomplished much. About four o'clock in the afternoon they push me to find something useful to do  before night closes in. Write a novel! Bake bread! Tend the garden! Make an amazing dinner! Compose a poem! Clean the bathroom! Do something, anything! - Quickly - before the ghosts get too comfortable and set up house.

In Situ

When the sun came out after a cloudy morning, I decided to take a walk. I love to feel the winds blowing and watch the leaves float through the skies. As I walked a variety of leaves of all colors and conditions caught my attention. Some drifted down to the dirt road, while others caught along the side of the road, landing on piles of their older neighbors. The phrase "in situ" came to me. It means "situated in the original place". 

I thought it would be interesting to take pictures of the leaves exactly where they fell, even if that meant a background of dirt and rocks or decaying brown vegetation. I found it meditative to walk along noticing but not moving anything as I recorded the truth of what was. Often the sunlight cast interesting shadows and patterns of light on the leaves, or the wind blew offering a new perspective in the moment.

As usual, what was going on outside of me caused me to reflect on my interior workings as well. How do I fit into my surroundings? What kind of contrasts do the colors, light and shadow create around me and within me? What does "in situ" mean for me as I feel my way into the next phase of my life? I don't have answers, although I enjoy writing as a way to explore thought-provoking questions. And maybe it is like the leaves I photographed today. Maybe each background against which we find ourselves offers a new perspective? Maybe there is something I can glean from each place in which I find myself, whether that's walking along the road, on my couch with a cat on my lap as I meditate, kneeling in the garden planting garlic, driving to town with NPR on the radio or sitting with the sun on my shoulder as I type out some thoughts?

 

Dinner Party

It has been a while. It has been a while since Gary and I gathered around a table with more than a couple of good friends or family members. Last night that changed. All of us agreed to coming only if we felt well, and were up to date on the available boosters against COVID. When we walked in the door and found ourselves embraced in long-delayed hugs, it felt like a homecoming. Back to ourselves. Back to friendships old and anticipated. Back to being in good company for an enjoyable evening.

The conversation may have begun with some sharing about bodies and minds that were showing the signs of age in various ways, but we quickly moved on to more interesting topics. We spoke of gardens and preserving the produce, of meaningful projects and the things that inspire us to press on and contribute to making our communities stronger and more resilient.

When dinner was served, we were directed to specific places chosen for us by the hostess. I found myself sitting near a woman whose life journey held some similarities to my own, and yet our paths were different enough to offer us both interesting avenues of conversation to explore. Throughout the meal, which was delicious, different topics popped up around the table, drawing each of us out and encouraging full participation in the exchange of ideas and insights. Many of us are involved in activism in a variety of venues within the larger community, so the sharing of our work and our perspectives was interesting. 

I have missed community like this. I have missed gathering around a table knowing there was much to explore and learn from with the others who were sitting there. Too often, and particularly during the past few years, we have restricted ourselves to the people we know well and with whom we are sure to agree. There is deep joy in being in circles where we feel loved and accepted and held. There is also joy in discovering new people with whom to engage in meaningful conversation, and people we may have known for a while but with whom we have not had the opportunity to go deep.

When we take risks, when we reach out and get to know people in new ways, when we embrace opportunities to stretch beyond our comfort zone, we are building community. I even believe we are taking on the challenging work of building a more whole and healthy world. It is amazing what a seemingly simple evening can bring to life.

End of Summer

This time of year brings me mixed feelings. I love the colorful autumn leaves - the orange and red maples that pepper the woods and line the meadow, and the yellow beeches that create a golden tunnel over and alongside the dirt road that leads to my home. It is truly breath-taking to be immersed in this cacophony of color, and I make a point of noticing, of taking it in whenever I can, often stopping along the roadside to snap a picture. But along with the colorful beauty, colder temperatures make it less and less comfortable to sit outside in the morning while I sip my tea and read. Today, there has been a steady cold rain that makes me think twice about going out for my daily walk.

Very soon, I will be indoors for the vast majority of the day rather than breezily moving between indoors and out with little thought. Before that happens though, we will extend the life of our vegetable garden and the flowers for a while longer. Before the sun sets on these cold nights, Gary and I drag old sheets and tarps down to the garden to cover the squash, peppers and tomatoes, hoping to get a few more weeks of fresh veggies before we have to let them go.

I am torn, considering the choice between being fully present in this moment, taking in the beauty that is here now, or trying to preserve what I can for the cold winter months. This morning, for instance, has been taken up with making applesauce with a heavy concentration of wild grapes thrown into the mix for extra flavor and a burst of rich, purple color. It will be so nice to open those jars in the midst of winter, when a taste of this season will be even more welcome than the samples I tasted today.

We can put some food by for the colder months, freezing the garden produce, drying herbs and canning this beautiful purple sauce, but we can't preserve the flowers and the colorful leaves, except in our mind's eye or with a camera. We all know that pictures really are not the same as being able to take in the full glory of a favorite flower in full bloom or the hills of Vermont at the peak of autumn. Knowing this can bring a bit of melancholy even to the most optimistic among us.

This gorgeous hydrangea bloomed for us recently. Fittingly enough, its varietal name is End of Summer. (Or is it Endless Summer, which is a whole different story and a whole different blog?) I don't really need another reminder that summer is over, but as reminders go, it is a beautiful one that I make sure to notice and appreciate every day. Speaking of which, it's about time I brought myself outside to take another look.