Moving Thoughts, III

More boxes line the rooms, and some even fit back onto the bookshelves. Empty shelves appear room by room. Only the living room and bedroom are so far completely untouched.

I had, earlier, imagined having some kind of little farewell-to-the-house ceremony with a few friends over. After all, this is the place I've lived longest since leaving my parents' home. It's no small thing to be leaving it. But the ceremony may not happen, given the way it's all happening around the holidays. Even so, there are many little goodbyes as the packing continues.

And I drive by the new house whenever I'm in that area (pretty often) and have the time (not quite as often) and imagine the hellos that will occur there, reminding myself that this isn't just an ending--it's also a beginning.

Even so, it is strange to wake up, as I did today from a nap, to wonderful afternoon sunlight filling the room painted with gold and cream, and to wonder if I'll see that again. How many more sunny afternoons can there be in the next ten days for which I will be home at that particular time of day? It was a beautiful moment to savor.

So, here are a couple of photos I took, just because I won't see these things in quite the same way again.









Also related to the move, we recently bought a new contraption that hooks Tosca and Paolo's collars together so that they can more easily be walked at the same time. Today I got my first test drive with it. They look so cute walking together, figuring out how to each smell what they want without getting too much on top of each other!

From my reading, I gather (and supposed even without reading it) that moving to a new place is pretty hard on dogs. Their whole world essentially disappears with no explanation of what's going on. The experts say that walking them regularly and often at the beginning helps them get used to the new place sooner, thus the purchase. It's not easy walking these two at the same time on separate leashes, though I have done it. We aren't going to have a complete fence for the first few days, either, so they'll have to be on leashes every time they go outside.



The end. For now.

Moving Thoughts, II

My office now has a few empty bookshelves, and boxes sit on the floor behind me. The hallway is lined with filled boxes. More filled boxes line the wall beside the piano. Empty banana boxes, waiting to be filled, are stacked in the corner of the piano room.

It's real. There's no going back at this point. We are moving. Soon someone else will be living here, and we'll be unpacking all those boxes in another place.

And I continue reading Kay Redfield Jamison's book Exuberance, where this passage struck me the other day:

Leon Wieseltier, in his remarkable book Kaddish, derides what he sees as the American preoccupation with moving on, "closure," tidying up painful experiences and memories. He is not speaking of exuberance, but his concern, the danger of disregarding the essential lessons of the past, is germane: "Americans really believe that the past is past," he writes. "They do not care to know that the past soaks the present like the light of a distant star. Things that are over do not end. They come inside us, and seek sanctuary in subjectivity. And there they live on, in the consciousness of individuals and communities."

While I think there is a healthy sort of what gets called "closure"--for example, helping traumatized people learn to integrate their experiences so that they are no longer haunted by them--I think Wieseltier is onto something real. American culture promotes an unhealthy kind of closure, and one that is out of touch with reality.

Without further commentary, I'll just say that as I'm packing up to leave this house with all its memories, I love to think that "the past soaks the present like the light of a distant star."

Last Post for NaBloPoMo

So, it's December 5, the last date for me to finish my month of daily blogging, and I realized this morning that I forgot to write yesterday.

Life will go on.

Today I woke up and saw beautiful sunlight filing our bedroom with its golden yellow and cream stripes on the wall. It's such a cheerful room to wake up in. And I realized that if the weather should take a turn for the worse, this could be the last time I wake up to that wonderful sight, because I don't think we'll paint our bedroom in the new house the same way.

Two nights ago I looked out the window of my office at the full moon and realized it was the last full moon I'd see from that window, because a month from now, we won't be in this house.

I want to savor every moment in this place, not because I don't believe life will have beautiful moments in the next house, but just because it won't be this house, it won't be these trees, it won't be this ivy and these azaleas. I don't even know what kinds of birds will be in the new neighborhood; there aren't as many trees, so I'm sure that will make a difference.

I wonder if this intentional effort to store memories is affecting my memory in general. This evening, I was about the core an apple. As I pulled off the stem, I had a sudden, long-asleep memory of how we school-age girls used to twist the apple stems off, saying a letter of the alphabet with each rotation. The idea was that the letter the stem came off on, was the first (or last, depending on what we agreed on ahead of time) letter of the name of the boy we would marry. Or the boy we "liked." Or who "liked" us. The assigned meaning varied. What didn't vary was how seriously we took it, just in case it happened to be true. Or just in case someone decided to tease us based on the outcome, whether or not we believed it could be true. So if we currently liked someone whose name started with an early letter, a lot of energy went into each twist!

Later in the evening, I was calling my parents and thinking how nice it was that their phone number has stayed the same for so many years. And as soon as I thought that, the number we had when I was a child came into my mind. And then the number of my best friend from elementary school--with whom I twisted off many an apple stem. Then the number of the chorus director, and my piano teacher....Numbers I haven't needed for decades (except for my piano teacher), but they're still there, and up they came.

Oh, and this morning I heard the voice of a person I hadn't seen or heard from in at least 19 years. He's an old friend of Drazen's. I found him on Facebook, we got in touch, and he called. It was a surprise for Drazen, and so amazing to me to think of this person from what in our lifetimes is a pretty long time ago, but then to hear them talking, and the friendship just picking right up again.

Memories are amazing. What a gift it is to have a memory that works fairly well most of the time. It's easy to take that for granted.

Anyway, that's what comes to mind as I finish up this final post for the month of posting. I hope I can remember that I really did do this, and that it can help me stay committed to other tasks I need to do on a daily basis.

I'm glad our phone number is going to stay the same when we move.

Oh, and one more memory, kind of related to the apple stem twisting. When I was growing up, and everything seemed to be done according to alphabetical order, as an Underwood I was last in the class until Chris Walker joined us in sixth grade. Somewhere in those years, I determined that I was going to marry someone whose last name started with a letter no further down than F. I'd marry and A or B or C, if I could! I was so tired of being last.

It's funny now, because of course the whole alphabetical order thing just isn't a big issue in adult life.

And because with only V, W, X, Y, and Z coming after U, I managed to marry one from that end of the alphabet! But at least he's not a Youngblood or a Zengaro....

So, goodbye, NaBloPoMo (Nat'l Blog Posting Month)! Hello, moving (we started packing today)! I have no idea how often I'll be blogging now, but until next time, I hope we all make good memories and enjoy the ones we already have.

Walking

These are little things I found on a recent walk. I just thought they were sweet and brought them home, thinking I might mail them to a young friend who is also a nature-lover.

Walking is such a wonderful thing to do. I like running, too, but a walking pace gives you more time to actually see the things around you, like these little bits and pieces of the world.

Today when I left the office, since there was still daylight, I rather impulsively decided to go for a walk in Overton Park. Those fifteen or so minutes are probably what I will treasure most about the day. Just walking. Trees, grass, birds, and squirrels. And sky. A dog. A few people. Part of a golf course. And I could take it all in because I was out there walking. Not driving by in a little insulated bubble called a car, but out there with it all. (I'm thankful for the insulation a car provides when it's really cold or hot, but it does detach you from the world.)

So, here's to walking out in the world. And maybe tomorrow I'll write about the shoes I hope to buy in the morning for my walks. Stay tuned.

Migraine

Tonight I would just like to say that migraine sufferers should have a day on the calendar and a 5k fundraiser or something, like everyone else. It may not be a chronic or deadly condition, but it makes up in intensity for what it lacks in continuousness.

I wonder how many hours of my life I've lost to migraines over the years? I don't even want to think about it.

And now back to my dark, quiet room, hoping that tomorrow morning I'll have my normal head back.

Loving Language

November is over, but since I started my month of blogging on November 6, it won't end until December 5.

In addition to Wendell Berry, I am also looking forward to reading Marilyn Chandler McEntyre, whose book I just heard about recently. It's Caring for Words in a Culture of Lies, and it sounds great. Here is the information from the publisher's webpage:

Like any other life-sustaining resource," says Marilyn Chandler McEntyre, "language can be depleted, polluted, contaminated, eroded, and filled with artificial stimulants." Today more than ever, language needs to be rescued and restored.

McEntyre opens Caring for Words in a Culture of Lies with a sobering chapter on the current state of American public discourse. Pointing to the commercial and political forces that affect language use in American culture, McEntyre counters with twelve constructive "strategies of stewardship" — such activities as challenging lies (even widely tolerated forms of deception and spin), practicing the art of conversation, and encouraging playfulness and prayerfulness in tending to the word.

Drawing on a wide range of sources, both critical and literary, Caring for Words in a Culture of Lies is an engaging address to all thoughtful users of language concerned with preserving the vitality and precision of the spoken and written word.

Dubai

I don't think I'd heard of Dubai until last year, when I was flying to (or from) Europe, and the airline's magazine had an article about the place, describing its phenomenally quick growth, its amazing wealth, and a Disneyworld-like project that was underway.

I remember thinking it sounded crazy, a city growing that quickly and that extravagantly. But the article was so positive, as if this were the normal way for things to happen when smart people learn how to manage money.

I didn't think much more about it until a few months ago, when I heard a story about Dubai on public radio. The economic problems had finally reached that area of the world, and all those construction projects were put on hold, or stopped completely.

It was a very sad story, because men from other countries had moved to Dubai, hired by these big contruction firms, hoping to be able to send money home to their families. Instead, they were now stuck in Dubai without work, living ten and fourteen to a two-room apartment, with no income and no way to get back home. And the companies that brought them there were not offering to help get them back home.

It was terrible.

Today I heard another brief reference to Dubai, again on the radio. Ky Risdall was talking about being over there last year for a story on the amazing growth of the boomtown (my word, not his, as I recall) and how now there is no doubt that the amazing growth was built on untenable risk-taking, like certain enterprises in our own little part of the world that led up to the current situation.

I was struck by his saying, "The funny thing is that everyone over there knew what was happening, but no one seemed to care."

Seems true of so many projects undertaken by us human beings. Maybe some can claim ignorance, but a lot of people know that what we're doing isn't smart (e.g., polluting the very world we depend on for life), but we really don't seem to care.

What does it take to get people to care? I don't know for sure, but I think it has something to do with the building of community that Wendell Berry so heartily champions. When we think only of ourselves, we take foolish risks and don't think about bigger pictures and longer terms. When we think about how our decisions affect others, present and future, we act more wisely, and, I hope, more kindly.

Two Leaves

These two leaves caught my attention when I was walking recently. Of course the larger one did, because of its color. But I took the picture because of the way they were there together. They look like friends.

I've decided I want to read Wendell Berry. I've been reading excerpts from his work here and there for the past decade or more, and each time I do, I feel less lonely, even though I don't go around thinking that I am lonely.

It's just that he is so connected. Not connected to the Internet or to a network of friends on Facebook. In fact, I wonder if he ever has given in and bought a computer. He certainly wasn't planning to back in 1987, according to an essay I read.

But he is so connected to the land, to values I share. He believes in the importance of the local and of community among people. He believes technology should be seriouly evaluated before being accepted and used; like the Amish and Menonnites, he sees that technology can often harm or destroy community if not carefully chosen. He believes in taking care of the earth and living carefully, thoughtfully, slowly. Like a human being, on a human scale.

When I read or hear his words, I have the comforting thought that I'm not the only one who thinks our world is more than a bit mad. Not in a funny way--people are often saying, "Oh, this world's just crazy, isn't it?" and then going right on to join in the craziness. But I mean realizing that the world really is significantly messed up, and trying to find ways to resist the craziness.

Recently I came across the following, and I guess that's what had made me decide I need to not be satisfied with discovering excerpts, but actually seek him out and learn from him:

When despair for the world grows in me, and I wake in the night at the least sound in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be -- I go and lie down where the wood drake rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds. I come into the peace of wild things who do not tax their lives with forethought or grief. I come into the presence of still water. And I feel above me the day-blind stars waiting with their light. For a time I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

Bozo's and Brownsville

Today was one of those days that help you connect past, present, and future.

Drazen and I drove to Brownsville. We took Highway 70 instead of the interstate. This was, after all, a free day, with no need for hurry.

Driving Hwy. 70 takes me back to my younger years in a way the interstate never could. If we had driven I-40 all those years, I suppose my only memories would be of whatever book I was reading at the time, or maybe of a water tower or two that you see along the way. Or the inevitable sibling squabbles that were part of every longish trip we made.

But Highway 70, with its two lanes and slower pace, was made for looking out the windows and noticing things. The nurseries and concrete statues along the way while it's still called Summer Avenue, the undulating hills that start up once you leave city limits, the cotton fields with flowery white beauty against their darker stems, the horses and cows in their pastures, the quaint houses in small towns, and eventually the swampy Loosahatchie and Hatchie bottoms were always enough to hold my interest for an hour.

And today we did something that I always wanted to do when I was growing up. We stopped in Mason and had lunch at Bozo's Hot Pit BBQ. Growing up, we did eat barbeque from Bozo's, but it was never on our way to Grandmother's. I remember going there as a group, a whole bunch of us, maybe for someone's birthday, after we'd gotten to Brownsville. And I remember various family members being sent to pick up barbeque to eat back at Grandmother's. But to just stop on the way and sit down and eat--this was a first.

For those who don't know, Bozo's has been around since 1923. The servers were all wearing tee-shirts celebrating their 86th anniversary. And this is the place used to film part of the 2005 movie Walk the Line. I remember when watching the movie thinking it looked awfully like Bozo's and being delighted to learn via the credits that indeed it was.

So, we had lunch, then drove on up the road. We visited my 91-year-old third cousin, then walked around the square, where many of the businesses have changed names and purpose over the years. But The Economy Store, which Granddaddy was part of starting, is still going strong--with different owners for many decades now, but still related to the original other owners, and related to the cousin we visited.

Granddaddy's "Christmas Furniture Store" (last name was Christmas) is now "Lock, Stock, and Barrel," but it was neat to peer in the windows and see that it is at least still a furniture store.

After that we went to my grandparents' house, whose current owners have graciously given me permission to enjoy the grounds if ever they are not home and I want to stop by. So we walked around, seeing how the sweetheart roses and crepe myrtle have grown, how the family is still using the same old swing frame--and of course I had to sit and swing a while. We looked at this plant and that birdhouse, the laundry line and the doghouse, and naturally each time I looked in any direction, images of people and memories of events came along with the views.

From there we went to the cemetery, and for the first time I actually didn't cry too very much. I tend to get very caught up in the past when I go there alone, being hit with the thought that an entire part of life is just over--but somehow being there today with Drazen, and the fact that we had gone to Bozo's and planned to go again, made a difference. It sounds funny, but it really did.

We looked around for a while at the various gravestones. For America, it's a pretty old cemetery. Another time I'll have to share some photos I made there on a visit with my sister a while back.

Then the sun was getting quite low, and we left. We drove back via Koko Road, with its beautiful tree tunnels and cotton fields and curvy hills. Then back through Stanton and again to Bozo's, this time for a shared piece of German chocolate pie. And we even got sandwiches to take home for Sunday lunch. (Meat, slaw, and buns all packed separately, of course. You can't beat their customer service.)

Then back home to Memphis, with the memory of a lovely day to savor. And the thought that we'll go back again just made the whole day better.


A church down the road from Bozo's, photo taken on another trip. No snow here yet!

Moving Thoughts

Ha,ha. Not that I expect anything I write just now will be moving. No, tonight it's just thoughts on the subject of moving. Maybe the first of a series. Time will tell.

This is our first time to both sell and buy a house. We've moved before, more than once. But it was from house to house (to house, to house....) the first three months of our marriage, visiting friends and family as guests. Then it was the big move across the ocean, to live in Zagreb for two years in a rented house, then moving from there to the house we shared with Drazen's parents.

Then we crossed back over the ocean to live in a little bitty (for America) apartment at the graduate school, and after three years moved into a larger apartment on campus.

Then we bought the house we live in. So it's the first house we ever bought, and we bought it from its owners. We met them from the get-go, and we wound up meeting their friends and being introduced to many of our neighbors through them, so that we quickly felt at home.

The whole thing of going through real estate agents has been a new experience. And rather strange for me, since before we just talked directly to the owners of the house.

As it is now, we haven't even met the people whose house we will be buying. And had I not happened to come home when I did the first time our potential buyer looked at our house (thinking he would have already left), I would not have met him. It's all done via the agents. Whenever we've gone to look at other houses, no one is home, which to me feels very strange.

And so I find it interesting, given this indirect, impersonal way of looking for and checking out houses, that the following has transpired.

On that day I happened to come home while our looker was finishing up his looking, the first thing he said to me was, "You guys have the greatest books!" (I hear the conventional wisdom is that houses with lots of books don't attract buyers.) It turns out he is working on a Masters in English literature, so of course he noticed all the literature and other interesting stuff that lines our shelves.

Not only that, but as we talked a bit and he learned that Drazen works at a particular neurosurgery clinic, I learned that he is related to one of the founding surgeons.

Pretty cool, is it not? But that's not all.

Curious about the owners of the house we are set to buy, and with Google at our disposal, I looked them up. It turns out that she is a therapist. I don't know her, but I recognized her name because a friend of mine once shared office space with her.

And when we were looking at their house a third time, pretty much set on making an offer, I couldn't help but notice an awful lot of American and English literature on their bookshelves.

So, I'm wondering if we may have three people in a row with English degrees buying and selling houses to each other. And two of us therapists, and then the connection with Drazen's job. Who would have thought it could happen with real estate agents in the mix the whole way and no personal connections among the sellers/buyers? I know stranger things have happened, but I find it rather unusual in a very cool way.

And it certainly makes it easier for me to leave our house, knowing we're leaving it in the hands of someone whose first words were, "You guys have the greatest books!"