Read. Write.

"Read, read, read. Read everything - trash, classics, good and bad, and see how they do it.
Just read like a carpenter who works as an apprentice and studies the master.
Read!
You'll absorb it.
Then write."
William Faulkner

For me, right now, this says it all.

Long Term Friendship

Recently, over an eight day period, I celebrated long term friendships on five different occasions.

Although I missed my 35th high school reunion, a friend from North Carolina stopped by to visit on his way home from the reunion. We've been friends for 38 years - shared the good, the bad and the ugly - from senior prom antics, college, travel across the country to attend each others wedding, the death of parents, and sending children off to college. After lunch, we ordered another beer and talked, moving between the distant past, the present, and the future with ease. On Friday, I had lunch with a dear friend who is always a source of inspiration for me. We sat for three hours and reconnected. It was delightful; we focused on us - offering each other genuine enthusiasm and support for upcoming ventures. We departed with the promise not to let so much time pass again.

Saturday evening, my husband and I enjoyed grilled steak and shrimp under a starry August night on a friend's deck - a friendship that began when our sons were in first grade, twenty years ago, and has survived the pressure of misconceptions, strong wills, and the craziness of work and parenting six children between us. Oh, the 'discussions' we've had! For a while, their new granddaughter visited with us. Three months old, she is beautiful; we've entered a new phase of friendship. We talked about retirement, house renovation plans, being empty-nesters, and the joy of a grandchild. On Sunday, my husband, son and I drove to Danbury with friends, another friendship that evolved from the PTA and a "Dolly and Me" after school program, to a tiny place called the Goulash Restaurant, tucked into a residential neighborhood. The food was authentic and the decor suggested that you are sitting in your aunt's dining room. The pace of the service allowed us to enjoy our meals and conversation. We drove the long way home, winding through the back roads of Fairfield County, just content to be together.

Finally, on Tuesday evening, we sat at the table in a friend's home, another friendship that began with volunteer work in elementary school. We were neighbors, living across the street from each other for more than a decade, back door friends, relaxed and casual. They watched our children when my husband drove me to the hospital to have our third baby. A pineapple upside down cake, my favorite, was on the counter - baked to celebrate my birthday. She always remembers.

More than 110 years of combined friendship.

There is an ease to long term friendships, moving from the past to the present with someone who knows a particular you, from a different time in your life: as a silly 16 high school sophomore, a new mother, holding you as you mourn the loss of a parent, celebrating with you as your children leave for college, and offering encouraging as you begin a new adventure. This kind of friendship, like anything of value, needs to be nurtured; sometimes it is hard work to maintain a friendship as life can, and often does, get in the way.

But the rewards make the work worthwhile.

Water

Water has always had a powerful draw on me. As often as I can, I seek out the shore - watching, walking, thinking, reading, learning, and often, just listening. I can look at my watch and 30, 60, or more minutes will have passed as I watch the flight of cormorants or listen as the waves rush in and out, slapping against the sandy beach. For months, I have watched a pair of osprey nurture their young - two babies that are now almost as large as their parents I know one day soon the nest will be empty, but for now, wanting to see them one more time, their family unit still intact, even as the babies practice flying, seeking independence, I am pulled back to check on them several times a week. This morning, although I watched them for an hour, I only saw three.

Every trip is different: the tides, the sun, the clouds, what I see and what I take away. The same spot is a vastly different landscape depending on the tide. High tide is lush and full but low tide uncovers . . . revealing what lies below.

My favorite place at the Lake is sitting on the screen porch watching the water. Some mornings, if the breeze is quiet and no fishermen have visited our cove yet, I have the gift of two sunrises. One cresting the distant mountains and a second, a perfect reflection upon the still water. For a moment, it is difficult to tell one from another; then, there is no confusion between the two as the porch fills with glorious morning sunlight, hinting at a host of possibilities on a hot August day.

Water grounds me. Water soothes me. Water excites me. Water humbles me.

Three summers ago, I got into trouble in the water at the Lake. I had spent hours in the warm water in the cove. Over time, I had moved away from out dock. There was no water activity; it was a weekday, in late August, and very few houses were occupied. I didn't have to watch for boats, or jet-skis or paddlers. The entire cove was mine. Late in the afternoon, dark clouds appeared simultaneously with a crack of thunder that rolled above me. Fearful of lightening, I began to swim back. Within minutes, I knew I couldn't reach our dock before the storm clouds opened. I called out but knew no one could hear me. My husband or son would look for me, but I didn't think it would be soon enough. I had already swallowed a great deal of water and was having difficulty breathing. I was in serious trouble. And then, I panicked. I went under and came up, gulping in water, thrashing as I tried to move toward my house. Just then, I knew to look left. It wasn't a booming voice or some odd visual event --- in that moment, I just knew to look left. A broken dock, low in the water, was visible. With difficulty, I moved toward it and clung to the edge as soon as I reached it. I couldn't catch my breath, I could only take a shallow puff without pain gripping my chest. I struggled to get out of the water and stumbled up the pitched, rocky yard toward the dirt road that lead back to my house. I fell several times; I was cold and wet, pine needles, leaves and dirt clung to me. I collapsed on a rock, coughing up water as I tried to catch my breath. My driveway was in sight but I couldn't make it. A car came down the road and stopped when they saw me. The woman asked if I was hurt. I nodded and asked her to get my husband as I struggled to tell her my house number. The woman hurried toward my house. The man helped me into his car, backed down the road and turned into the driveway as my husband ran to meet the car. For hours, he sat beside me as I coughed up water.

Water gives and takes.

Each season, several lives are lost on the Lake. For a moment, mine was in the balance.

Water grounds me. Water soothes me. Water excites me. And, water humbles me.

The Collective "Ahhh"

There is something magical about fireworks!

Whether you are in the front row or the last row doesn't matter as long as you have a clear view of the sky.

Suddenly, against the blackness of a summer night, an upward streak of light, a pause and then, a burst of color and design.

Like snowflakes, no two ever appear the same.

The collective "ahhh" ripples across the spectators.

Summer

I meet a friend today who I had not seen for a while and we had a chance to talk for more than a quick hello. We caught up on the past few months; I shared a bit of my summer activities. Being away at my MFA residency for 10 days with more than 90 writers, a recent birthday, unexpected kindnesses, my own fresh garden produce, and some excellent news have contributed to a good summer . . . and there are weeks of summer still left.

Came across this poem by William Carlos Williams . . . I wonder where the rest of the summer will lead me?

Summer Song by William Carlos Williams


Wanderer moon
smiling a
faintly ironical smile
at this
brilliant, dew-moistened
summer morning,—
a detached
sleepily indifferent
smile, a
wanderer's smile,—
if I should
buy a shirt
your color and
put on a necktie
sky-blue
where would they carry me? I wonder -- where will the summer lead me?