Rabbit-hole days
Posted on | August 26, 2007 |
I’ve been feeling empty word-wise, and it almost feels like a betrayal. Flat screen, flat words; the keystrokes brittle and familiar as I pound out paragraphs. Especially here, I feel a new emptiness. The recent combination of less comments and more visibility has made me hesitant to write about the small mundane things in my life that I’ve filled posts with before. I’ve started to wonder if people care what my days consist of, the moments packing in one after another until the bushel basket of each day is full to overflowing.
Maybe it’s a feeling of overextension. I’ve written so much from my point of view, I feel like I have nothing new to say. It’s the end of summer here. Leaves on the first of the sugar maples are turning fire engine red and burnished orange. We’ve had a few damp days, humidity hanging in the air until afternoon thunderstorms send the moisture raining down in sheets.
When we walk in the meadow, insects scatter. Fat grasshoppers, praying mantis. I’ve been looking for monarch caterpillars to bring into my classroom and at first thought they’d made cocoons early and had already metamorphosed and flown south; no sign of them on the milkweed clustered along the edge of the lane down to the pond. But looking closely I found some, so tiny they were barely visible at all. Just as long as my pinky fingernail is wide. Little horns and stripes, eating holes stained white with milk on the fat green leaves.
I gathered them up, a dripping milkweed caterpillar bouquet, and carried them home. Now they’re eating their way through leaves and leaving poop at the bottom of a glass jar on my windowsill. Tomorrow they’ll travel to school with me; and soon, they’ll grow accustomed to the eager eyes and hot breath of children. So will I.
See? This is all I have to say. Summer has done me in. I’m languorous and scattered. In my studio I’ve started a new canvass, several feet wide. I have more energy right now for color, for wild brush strokes and the haphazard following of whimsy that paint provides, than for the record keeping of my days. I’m thinking though that with this exhaustion of my own perspective fiction will come easier. I find myself looking forward to when I can sit down to write through another lens, a different window. To hold open the doorway to another person’s heart, though invariably, it leads back to the corridors of my own. But I haven’t had time yet to sink into even this.
My new routine hasn’t taken shape yet. I need a week, or two, to fall back onto the trampoline of early morning writing and jam-packed days. Until then, I’m all over the place, trying to get other things done. Stacking a woodpile, replanting azaleas, buying paint to redo the livingroom in sunny acorn.
And because I’ve been lackluster about posting and even more so in commenting on all of your blogs, there’s been a lull in this small corner of the interweb and I miss your comments, your snappy, snarky, encouragement. Perhaps all this to say, I’m ready for summer to be over? Ready for a shift. A new direction. I’m not sure. I love the sun-drenched days, and I feel nervous about winter. But I feel like I’ve slipped down a rabbit hole, having sunk so entirely into the present of my days.
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36 Responses to “Rabbit-hole days”
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August 26th, 2007 @ 12:57 pm
This is the time of year when I like to state that “summer is rotting on the vine” — when the abundance and heat and summer all become just a bit too much. This is the time that a chill wind and a warm sweater would be welcome. When I long to see grey clouds scuttering across the horizon without my first thought being that a thunderstorm is coming. In autumn, I used to put Simon and Garfunkel in the cassette player (I date myself!) and drive for miles, looking at the leaves and grieving at the intensity of the end of summer and the flush of autumn — the shocking colors against a grey sky. When I was a girl, during the winter, my father used to light a fire and read Robert Frost to me on Sunday afternoons. This is the time of year that I long for that starkness — cold air, a smaller orbit to my life — holed up near the fire and listening for words without the riot and distraction of nature and abundance.
This time of year gets to many of us. Keep posting about your daily life — your topography — that’s what keeps me coming back.
August 26th, 2007 @ 1:21 pm
“A smaller orbit to my life.” Love that line.
August 26th, 2007 @ 2:55 pm
It feels like everyone is adjusting EVERYWHERE to the change in seasons, the change in routines and schedules, and in the light. I love your daily updates on the little things going on in your life: it makes me feel so much more connected to you, my friend, who are so far away physically. I have to tell you, I LOVE that photo of you at the top of your blog. You’re such a beauty! I can’t wait to hear all about your school start and the children and everything.
August 26th, 2007 @ 3:10 pm
What a beautiful thing to read today. Thank you.
August 26th, 2007 @ 5:51 pm
oh Christina, I’m sorry I don’t comment more often (I ALWAYS read)– hangs head in shame. The color “sunny acorn” sounds divine! I can’t wait til I can come visit YOU! Seasonal transitions are always rough– at least they always feel that way to me– breathe, know how wonderful you are– you are.
Bisous.
August 26th, 2007 @ 7:34 pm
Now I feel bad that I have only commented once! I love your blog, and I check it every day. I really am interested in your life — you make everything seem beautiful.
August 26th, 2007 @ 8:18 pm
So nice to know I am not the only one feeling a bit displaced at the moment. I’m trying to be better about going with the flow — not fighting where I’m at so much. It helps.
But I wanted you to know that I love to read your words about the “mundane” bits of life… you always have a way of making them feel so magical. Even though I don’t comment every day, I do read — and do love your words — your pictures — your art.
Follow your instincts… to the canvas… to the page… to the meadow… I do believe that we are led to where we need to be.
August 26th, 2007 @ 8:20 pm
I always enjoy reading your blog; even if it is little snippits of your regular ole days. I havent ever left a comment before, but I think I feel the same this summer.
A Change is needed, and kinda dreaded though, at the same time. Do not lose hope though, for I believe winter as its own unique offerings!
August 26th, 2007 @ 8:37 pm
Very well said. I, too, feel a sense of in-between-ness. Being teachers forces us to pay attention to the changing of summer to fall, and I feel like I am somewhat out of step, out of rhythm. Mourning the loss of long summer days and at the same time looking forward to the security and structure of school to shape my days. And noting the passing of time with more than a little taste of bittersweet.
August 26th, 2007 @ 9:15 pm
I check in with you every day, Christina. Sometimes, I’m embarassed to say, more than once a day. I love to read about what you and Bean are getting into, and I read, on your recommendation, a book of Alice Munro’s short-stories. They were fantastic! Such a complete escape from the stress that was in my life at the time. I’m hoping to get to the library soon to get the one by Tim Winton that you’re reading now.
I love your description of the monarch caterpillars:
“I gathered them up, a dripping milkweed caterpillar bouquet, and carried them home.”
It’s so vivid, I can just see it as if I was there. I love watching caterpillars, such fascinating creatures.
I’m impressed at how quickly you seem to have come to terms with going back to school! I had a month off this summer from my teaching job, but it just wasn’t long enough.
Oh, this may sound stupid, but I wasn’t able to find your work over at Parent Dish. Did I miss something you wrote about how to find it?
August 26th, 2007 @ 9:22 pm
When I see that you have a new post, I click right to it. Your photography, your art, your descriptions…your taking time to describe life (whether it be a photo of a sandwich or telling us about a wonderful - or not so wonderful day) inspire me daily. Please keep posting…you are a motivation for my inner person.
August 26th, 2007 @ 11:09 pm
The smaller orbit…I’m totally digging that, and, honestly, ready for it. Although I wish I could combine smaller orbit with warm weather, because the Iowa winter is coming…and I’m never ready for that. But for a little bit slower times, a little more space to write and read and think and watch DVDs of independent film? I am ready for that, for sure. I curled up in my reading chair this evening while I was on the phone and was reminded of how much I miss it.
August 26th, 2007 @ 11:15 pm
It is indeed that time of year, and I know what you mean about the comments and the wondering… you know the readers are out there (yes?) but it means so much to hear back regularly. I want you to know that I, too, come here daily, to be inspired by your words, to see how things are changing. I started reading your blog in a particularly rough patch in my life, when things were changing more rapidly than I was prepared to accept, and you helped ease me back into a world I find so glorious–the world of creativity, of the written word, of art. I will remain a faithful reader, and I am forever curious, especially, that you are a teacher, a mother, and someone who strives to be wholly yourself, wide open and free, charting new territory. I think we all need people like that, to read again and again, to make sure it can indeed happen, and that we’re all here to be a big support network too. Keep writing, keep telling us about the small details, the beauty of your world, and the other passions–the fury, the small kindnesses, the gestures that make up your life exactly as you see it.
August 26th, 2007 @ 11:52 pm
I, too, read often and comment not as much as my heart tells me to. I adore your writing, the glimpses into your world. It helps me see my own better somehow….
August 27th, 2007 @ 12:27 am
I read too, without commenting enough. I am here, though, drinking up your words, at 2:24 AM while nursing. The crickets are drowning out all other sounds… I loved reading about your caterpillars and the imminent hot kiddie breath. Somehow it seemed fitting. I think my crickets are jealous.
Then.. ohh.. jackpot! The aroma of fresh baby sh*t reaches my nose. Gotta go… beautiful post.
August 27th, 2007 @ 12:41 am
seeing “my topography” in bold on my bloglines is one of the treasured moments of my day…(and one i always save for last because i know i will sign off with a renewed sense of life)
august seems to be the month that drains the last few drops of our enthusiasm for summer yet thirsts for changing leaves, crisp mornings and hot cocoa to curb the new found chill in the air.
your presence in this “web world” is always appreciated! thank you for always peeling back past the layers of content that seem mundane to those willing to dive deeper. thank you. thank you. thank you!
August 27th, 2007 @ 2:24 am
I come here and steal hope and inspiration from word pictures that resonate so deeply. I sit here in solitude and soak in all in…selfish I suppose. I’m sorry. You should know the seeds you plant, the soil you water. Don’t stop. I’m grateful.
August 27th, 2007 @ 5:20 am
you speak for me here, absoloutely. i’ve been having bit of a blog lull, which includes lurking and not commenting. who’s got the energy for that when the sun is beating down on you or, worse, the rainy days have given you the blues? but autumn is coming, and with it a renewed commitment to reaching out to the women who inspire me. and that includes you
August 27th, 2007 @ 7:14 am
You know … sometimes I feel like I just can not post a comment, or should not, somehow, as it could not measure up to your magical words of everyday life. In those moments, clapping and shouting bravo! at your truly wonderful style of writing seems to be of no importance, as if it would break the silvery chain between your words and my mind.
Your blog is different from pretty much everything else I have come across in this world wide web, and I treasure it dearly.
August 27th, 2007 @ 8:27 am
See! We love you! I agree with Joanna above - sometimes you say exactly all that can be said … and with such talent! But I understand the feeling of sending words out there, in an email or a letter or a phone message, and not have them commented on. It makes a person wonder.
I think this uncertainty and need for change is healthy - it keeps us from becoming stagnant and underappreciating.
Keep your head high, sweetie. We are all here.
August 27th, 2007 @ 10:04 am
I’ll echo everyone’s sentiments as well. I check your blog daily. My morning routine when I get in to work, before most are here, is to go through all my favorites and get ready for the day.
Your writing is quite special and compelling. I appreciate how you reveal yourself in such dynamic ways. And yes, we do want to know about the ‘mundane’ as well as the extraordinary, whatever that may be for you.
Here’s to you, and all the other teachers out there, returning to the classroom, and re-discovering the autumn routine.
August 27th, 2007 @ 12:49 pm
but sometimes not commenting is the greater compliment; if i always stopped to say how much i like what you’ve written then i’d seem like an obsessive or a stalker… and often there is nothing to add to what you’ve said, since you have such a talent for putting things so very eloquently. this ‘all’ you have to say seems plentiful and bounteous to me!
August 27th, 2007 @ 2:07 pm
I can’t tell you how many times I’ve started writing a comment and then deleted it. Simply because I feel like I wouldn’t be adding anything new, but simply reiterating what everyone else has already said. But I want you to know that I check your blog every day and I can’t wait to read every last detail. I eat your words up like chocolate covered raisins. You have a way of writing such that you could make even the most mundane topics downright fascinating.
August 27th, 2007 @ 5:47 pm
i know how you feel. really. summer has had its way with me too. but i love this space you have created here and all the words and images you share. even when i let my reader clog with blogs, i never leave a mytopography post unread - nevah evah.
enjoy these last days. fall is on its way.
August 27th, 2007 @ 5:57 pm
The crises of my life have taught me that my soul is not somewhere inside of me or with God or up in heaven or … or anywhere else but in the THINGS of this world: things like “holes stained white with milk on the fat green leaves.” This haring you do, this sharing of the things of your life are what reveal your soul to me, and I marvel — daily — at the seeming endlessness of your generosity in sharing yourself with me, for the you I see in the things of your life feel deeply, eternally entangled with the things I see, hour by hour, in my own. I think your soul must connect with many of your readers in this same way, and I am constantly trying to tease out just how that is possible — that is, when I’m not dumbstruck by the extraordinarily intimate photos you post of yourself.
August 27th, 2007 @ 6:29 pm
I don’t think I’ve ever commented but I love reading your blog entries. You are an amazing writer. Thanks for sharing it.
August 27th, 2007 @ 9:35 pm
Please keep writing! I read every post, although I don’t comment. I live in Australia, in suburbia, and your world is literally another world away. It may seem mundane to you, but I love reading about sugar maples and milkweed. Because I’m sure that I’ve never seen them. Gum trees I’ve seen by the dozen, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen a sugar maple! And I love reading about what Bean’s up to. Because I have a 2 year old too. Please don’t ever think that what you write bores me. You have me captivated
August 28th, 2007 @ 12:35 am
I feel exhaustingly displaced and worn! I’m so in synch with this post that it’s creepy and comforting at the same time; in fact, I just
–stopped writing my own daily post because I feel blank
–caught a tomato hornworm caterpillar this morning, and it’s sitting in my studio in a glass jar (for the boys, not me. Eew!!)
–paused to think about this shifting of seasons
–thought the exact same thing of my own writing: who really cares? despite all the lovely things I’ve read lately
and
–made a promise I’d sit still long enough to read what everyone else is up to.
I feel so very much like I’ve fallen into someone else’s trajectory and I’m obliged to follow.
Your post was first on my reading list tonight, for what it’s worth. And I’m STINGY lately with my moments of free time!
xoxo
*s
August 29th, 2007 @ 8:41 am
I’m always here, and always reading. As the seasons change (though here it’s still hot hot summer hot) and the schedule shifts, it’s always hard. Hard to stand on the brink of things.
August 29th, 2007 @ 11:49 am
It’s the writing. A good writer can say any mundane thing and make it interesting and you can do that.
I to through this same stage myself. The in of the out breath. I usually know it will pass and the first step for me is to write about IT.
August 29th, 2007 @ 11:41 pm
I was just at a class tonight telling my friends about your blog and what an influence your writing has had on me. It has actually helped me to identify my own love for words and to recognize the benefit of slowing down and savoring them.
Much Thanks.
September 1st, 2007 @ 8:43 pm
loving your words
September 2nd, 2007 @ 8:50 pm
Oh, I’ve been feeling MUCH the same way. Your writing is ALWAYS beautiful, whether it is about the nothingness of everyday life, or if you have something particular on your mind. I don’t often comment b/c I usually have nothing to add. My words always seem so rough to me compared to your eloquence.
I’m so NOT ready for summer to be over. I want more of it. But tomorrow is Labor Day, and school starts on Tuesday, so I guess I have to get with the program, like it or not. Sigh…
September 2nd, 2007 @ 8:50 pm
Hm, not rough. Plain is more like it.
September 3rd, 2007 @ 4:28 am
Thank you from Prague. I too read you every day and love hearing about your day to day life.
September 15th, 2007 @ 5:39 pm
Your blog is new to me and I’m very glad to have found you and your writing> For reasons others have already mentioned, I read and enjoy many more posts than I comment upon, but I want you to know that you’ve got a new reader.