Can One Have a Family Without Drama?

There’s no other time of year that reminds you just how single and childless you are than the Holidays. Everybody else spends the Holidays with their partner, children, parents, siblings, grandparents, and/or in-laws. Single people like myself spend the Holidays with families too, just not our own families. Oh, we might be related to the people seated next to us at dinner, but we enter these family gatherings as a guest, and then we leave. Sometimes we leave feeling sad and pining for a family of our own. Other times, we leave feeling relieved and confident that we’re the lucky ones.

Lately, I’ve been debating which of these scenarios is more appropriate – having a family of my own, or being alone. I have mixed feelings about both.

Despite having a traumatic childhood, my idea of “family” has always been a positive one. My father was a volatile man, but also loving (in his own way), brilliant and extremely witty. My mother was calmer, a good listener, a pillar of emotional strength, creatively inspiring, and also funny. I would often tell her that I not only loved her, but I also liked her, which always made her smile. Likewise, if my siblings and I weren’t related and met as strangers, I’m sure we would still be friends. That’s a good feeling.

It was also a good feeling to have a partner, to love, to be loved, to be in love. It was a beautiful experience to be supported, to laugh with someone (to be able to make them laugh), to care for each other, to be able to confide, to share the wonders of life and discover new things together, to feel like we weren’t alone in this world, to know that we had each other’s back.

Not that being in a relationship was all roses and butterflies. In fact, it had its fair amount of drama, even before my late husband got sick.

Several months into our relationship, when we’d started letting our guards down a little more, I remember Kaz saying that he considered his Home a sanctuary and that all the world’s drama should stay outside (his diplomatic way of telling me to not bring my bad moods inside). I understood this on an intellectual level, and it sounded great, but it didn’t seem very practical.

Having grown up with all kinds of drama inside the home, I thought that was normal. Not necessarily extreme rage, violent outbursts, police being called, and people locking themselves in the bedroom for days, but the open expression of unhappiness and taking one’s bad moods out on others. I actually thought that’s what “home” meant – the freedom to shake off the shackles of societal pressures and behave any way you want. What a relief to come home and just be unhappy without pretending!

Suffice it to say, I don’t think like that anymore.

Growing up, being a caregiver, watching someone slowly die, dealing with multiple losses and years of grief, as well as years of living and writing alone, has all shifted my attitude. I don’t just want drama left outside my home, I want it as far away from me as possible.

It’s strange – all the aforementioned experiences have made me less prone to worry and less sensitive to insult, but far more sensitive to my immediate surroundings. Someone can break something in my house, and I won’t get upset. But if they raise their voice for any reason, I cringe.

I don’t like emotional outbursts, I don’t like complaining, I don’t like it when someone is moody, I don’t like loud noises, I don’t like negative tones of voice, I don’t like rudeness, I don’t like it when someone talks too much, and I really don’t like it when someone interrupts my work (which feels like an invasion of privacy).

I like peace and quiet. I like rooms with doors (that I can shut). I like being alone and not having to talk to anyone. I like having my own space. I need my space. I like being free. I like not having to deal with anything other than myself, my dog, my house, my work. (I’ve written about some of these themes before: protecting my head space, living the solitary life, and being alone vs. being lonely).

All of which brings me back to the central question: can one have a family without any drama? If not, is it better for someone like me to be alone? Or is some happy medium possible? Maybe separate offices, separate bedrooms, separate houses?

This reminds me of the painters/partners Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera who lived and worked in two houses that were joined by an elevated bridge. There’s actually a term for this kind of relationship now – it’s called Living Apart Together (LAT). And apparently, it’s growing more popular.

I know couples who live in the same house and have studios/offices on separate floors or away from the house altogether. I know couples who live in different cities. And, of course, there are couples who live in the same house, sleep in the same bed, work in the same office, and are perfectly fine despite being joined at the hip (I don’t get it).

I know families who are having all kinds of problems with their children: obesity, lack of appetite, anxiety, depression, personality disorders, drug problems, and more. And more than one couple that’s heading for divorce (the Pandemic has definitely not helped).

Maybe the answer is to find someone who doesn’t create or bring a lot of drama, and is wonderful enough to endure whatever drama arises. The right person will be someone who helps make it easier, not contributes to making it worse. Because, honestly, I don’t think life is possible without any drama.

Being alone might minimize it, but it’s certainly not a shield. As we all know, anything can happen at anytime. And living apart might help, but not necessarily (and might not always be possible).

Anyway, it’s worth thinking about. I hope to one day find the right situation, the right balance between togetherness and apartness, union and individuality, freedom and commitment. It would be sweet to host our own holiday gatherings, invite family to join us, and then to be left alone again. Alone but together.

The Museum, House and Studio of Diego Rivera and Friday Kahlo (photo source: Pawel Toczynski)

A Literary Life

A couple of weeks ago, I was walking with a new writer friend who is disillusioned with her day job. When she said she’s craving a literary life, I responded with an enthusiastic YES! And we mused on what that would actually look like.

My definition of a literary life is one where you make a living as a writer. Perhaps I’m a romantic, but a true literary life also means you’re writing projects that you want to write, as opposed to just writing for money (a combination of both is acceptable).

Examples of people who led/lead literary lives, some more happily than others: Joan Didion, Stephen King, Virginia Woolf, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Toni Morrison, Ernest Hemingway, Ronan Farrow, Shirley Jackson, and countless others.

Ironically, since the pandemic hit and quarantine life began, I’ve been living a semi-literary life, at least getting a taste of it. Being sent home to work and having a light workload afforded me much more time to myself, not to mention the general shutdown of everything and inability to go anywhere.

For the first time, I was home all day and still collecting a paycheck. My time was not entirely my own; I still had to check work emails and be available for conference calls, etc. But this took up only a fraction of the day. The rest of the time I was almost living That Life.

What does a literary life mean exactly? For one thing, it means a lot – and I mean A LOT – of time alone (the primary reason why this life isn’t for everyone).

I live alone so this is easy, but even if I had a partner or roommate, I would still need to spend a large part of my day by myself. Often I wonder if I’ll ever meet another partner who understands and is able to respect my need for long stretches of solitude.

While alone, I am mostly thinking, also watching movies or television shows,  making notes, researching, outlining, reading, talking to myself, and, yes, writing. 

When I’m IN THE ZONE, I rarely answer my phone. I prefer not to deal with people or really the world. I do take breaks but I really try to stay in the zone as much as possible and avoid outside distractions. This is the only way I can concentrate. Even then these measures are not always enough.

Sometimes I have to turn my phone and WiFi completely off. I’ve pulled back from the many volunteering activities I used to do, and, even now that things are opening up again, I only occasionally go out. The few times I did venture out, I was so quiet that people wondered if I was okay.

By no means, am I a workaholic.

I’m less confident that I’m not becoming a bit of a hermit.

I’m not sure everyone understands my behavior, how seriously I take my writing, or the countless hours necessary to write something good (it doesn’t help that I’m a slow writer).

Regardless, I’m absolutely determined to make a living as a writer… and every day I get closer.

In the past three months, I’ve managed to finish my screenplay and write two freelance articles. I’m now in the very early stages of writing the next screenplay. 

Soon, my time will be 100% my own, as my job let me go due to COVID (my last day is July 31). But I’m trying to think of it in a positive way. Like maybe this is another step towards my goal.

 

 

Don’t Call it a Shrine (Living with a Loved One’s Things)

“What do I do with their things?” is one of the biggest dilemmas faced by those who have lost loved ones. At first, it might feel sacrilege to give anything away, or change anything about their closet or room. After a while, there’s this growing pressure to do something. But do what? And when? How long is too long to keep things just the way they were? How soon is too soon to change them?

The answer is… there is no answer. It’s up to the individual, and what feels right.

After my late husband Kaz died, I made the unusual move of immediately giving away some his belongings to friends and family. If someone asked for something, I gave it to them without question, and without really thinking about it.

I saw his possessions as little pieces of him, and at the time, I saw giving his things away like spreading him around, seed-like. Later, I wished I had waited and thought about it a little more, but there was no going back. And there was still A LOT of stuff left.

In the years that followed, I gave away more things – some that he had specifically bequeathed, others that I thought he would want certain people to have. For example, he had drawn several designs for a “Mom” tattoo that he never actually got. I framed the drawings and sent them to his mother on her birthday.

I tried to give his favorite clothes (especially his favorite shoes) to people I knew, but I still ended up with several shopping bags, some of which I gave to Goodwill.

Most people were supportive of my decisions, but a couple people expressed dismay. They didn’t deter me. In general, I tuned out the naysayers and drama-makers while I was grieving, and still do to this day.

Of course, I didn’t give everything away. I kept the things that meant the most to me, things that reminded me of Kaz and embodied his energy. I still have clothing, books, artwork, music, films and knick-knacks that belonged to Kaz… some of which I keep in my home office, behind my chair. I call it Kaz’s Corner.

When I Skype with people, this is what they see in the background.

Kaz’s corner in morning light

The opposite side of the office, my desk area, looks like this.

That framed motorcycle print is the one that Kaz had up in his office, and the Yohimbe Brothers album cover to the left was on the bathroom wall in our old apartment.

On the shelf below are more of his things, as well as my mother’s. She was an artist, so I’m lucky to have things that she made, including artwork and pottery. Below is a mug that I use to drink tea, and (in the background) a bowl that I use to hold pens. Her artwork is in every room.

mug made by my mom

While there are things that belonged to Kaz and my mom all over the house, my office holds the highest concentration. This is where I want their spirits around me the most – the place where I’m the most creative and do my best thinking.

It’s no surprise that the office is my favorite room. It’s where I feel the most like me. It’s  private and warm. In it, I feel protected, loved and safe… which gives me the wherewithall to write and live courageously.

This year I’m taking on a new job and a lot of new responsibilities, while at the same time exploring deeper issues in my writing. I’m grateful to have this safe space, where my muses and guardian angel spirits keep me company.

Please share how you have incorporated your loved one’s things into your daily life. I think it helps people to know how others deal with this.

 

 

 

How Do You Define Success? (aka Wishing on a Star)

Photo by Mike Cialowicz

One night in late July, I arrived home around midnight after a long shift at my part-time job. A few minutes later, I was standing on the side of the road staring up at a particular corner of the sky as the dog did her business, when a light suddenly zipped through the stars. I had never seen a shooting star before, but I recognized it immediately. The short line of light happened so fast, if I had blinked – or been looking anywhere else in the sky but that exact spot – I would have missed it. I let out a little yelp of excitement, and then quickly closed my eyes. I made a very simple wish: to be successful.

As we walked back to the house, though, I started to feel misgivings. I wasn’t sure if just wishing for “success” was specific enough. Could I amend the wish now? Or did I have to wait for another shooting star? What did I even mean by that? What did success look like for me? I thought about it for the next few days.

A couple of weeks later, people started buzzing about the Perseids:

The (Perseids) shower is visible from mid-July each year, with the peak in activity between 9 and 14 August, depending on the particular location of the stream. During the peak, the rate of meteors reaches 60 or more per hour. They can be seen all across the sky; however, because of the shower’s radiant in the constellation of Perseus, the Perseids are primarily visible in the Northern Hemisphere. As with many meteor showers the visible rate is greatest in the pre-dawn hours, since more meteoroids are scooped up by the side of the Earth moving forward into the stream, corresponding to local times between midnight and noon. Some can also be seen before midnight.

This year the Perseids were supposed to begin on August 12^th. Several friends said they were planning to stay up (or get up) late to see them, but I was too tired (it was another work day). Around 9:00pm, I went outside with the dog for a few minutes of stick-throwing in the backyard, where it is completely dark but the eyes adjust. Between throws, I stared up at the sky again. Another quick beam of light suddenly shot across the sky – my second shooting star! I didn’t know if it was part of the Perseids or not, but I quickly closed my eyes again and wished for something more specific than before: to sell my memoir.

On further reflection, it occurred to me that selling the memoir would be great, but would that in and of itself mean that I was successful? Maybe finishing the memoir would be successful enough. Or maybe success had nothing to do with the memoir, or any other project. The more I thought about it, the more difficult it became to define “success.”

Everyone’s vision of success is different. One can be successful in the traditional sense (i.e. “rich and famous”) but still not feel entirely successful if other areas of life are lacking, or if one never has time to enjoy it. I know people who define success purely in terms of money – if they no longer need to work, or if they never have to worry about money, that is success. I know plenty of other people who aren’t rich or famous, but feel successful because they’re raising happy, healthy, confident children. I know others who seemingly “have it all,” but still want more.

Then I remembered a drawing that I used to repeatedly draw as a child. The image is etched into my mind.

The drawing was of a house… a red brick house with three floors, including a pitched attic. The house always had five windows, two on the first floor, two on the second, one in the attic. I always filled in each window with yellow, indicating that the lights were on. The house also had a chimney, and I always drew smoke coming out of the chimney. The outside of the house was a tidy green lawn with several flowers growing. In the corner of the page there was a large yellow sun, its rays represented by alternating long and short strokes. Elsewhere in the sky I drew several black birds, in the shape of wide “M’s”. I never drew any people. I always imagined them inside, sitting around the cozy fire, enjoying each other’s company. The drawing was my childhood image of a happy home (albeit not very energy-conserving).

Sometimes I think that drawing – what it represented – is what I’ve been searching for all my life.

Yes, I want to sell my memoir and screenplays and make films and win awards and be recognized for my art and work with amazing people and make lots of money. But all of that is simply a means to an end. Ultimately, I want the same thing I’ve wanted since I was a little girl: security, family, peace, warmth and time to enjoy it all.

And really… I have some of these things now, or a version of them. Though I don’t own it, I live in a house with two floors and an attic (no fireplace, and not brick). I don’t feel the kind of financial security I want, but I’m working towards it. I’m single but I live near family and have a dog I love. I generally do feel peaceful and warm, and I do take time to enjoy it all.

We could always have more money in our bank accounts, more stuff, more friends, more recognition, and so on. But we’re also rich in other ways right now. We are alive. We have ourselves. We have each other. We have nature. Perhaps how we treat all of the above is the real measure of success.

10+ Tips for Rural Living

Huyck Preserve, Rensselaerville

September 9^th marks my first anniversary living in rural upstate New York after 19 years in Los Angeles. By now, the story of my moving here sight unseen has become a popular tale among friends. What I didn’t realize is how many people thought I wouldn’t be able to handle the isolation, the brutal winters, the humid summers, and so on. Who knows, there might have been a bet or two on how long I would last!

But I proved the naysayers wrong and adapted to my new surroundings well. For anyone considering making a similar move from the big city to a rural area, here are some suggestions on how to make it work:

Be outgoing 

Assuming you’re not a total hermit, the best way to meet people and learn information in a rural area is to be outgoing. Don’t be shy about asking for introductions. In the beginning, I met people through a few key introductions by people who live here, or who used to live here. I also ventured out on my own and introduced myself to folks. It helped to cast a wide net.

A new friend showing me and Ruby a fabulous swimming hole in Leeds

Get referrals

One of the challenges of moving anywhere new is leaving behind your trusted mechanic, dentist, veterinarian, etc. Sometimes it takes years of trial and error to find these folks. When I moved to this area, the first thing I did was ask the guys at the local feed store to recommend a good veterinarian and bike repair shop. Others recommended a great mechanic, dentist, chiropractor, massage therapist, and more. The people who live here know who’s who and what’s what.

Classic car, Oak Hill

Find common ground

A new friend who also happened to move here recently summed it up perfectly: “I’m on a mission to make friends.” That means being proactive – finding groups that interest you, and activities where you might meet folks. It also means sometimes going out when you don’t feel like it, going out alone, doing things you wouldn’t normally do… basically stepping out of your comfort zone. I have traveled an hour or more to get to an event or visit a friend. It’s always worth it.

Get a part-time job

Obviously, not everyone can do this… but I would highly recommend working part-time at a local business. Earlier this summer, I was fortunate enough to learn of a chef’s assistant position at a local farm-to-table cafe. I applied for it even though I’ve never been a chef’s assistant before, and got the job. Working at this popular local spot lead to not only meeting more people, but also learning more about agriculture, cooking and animals.

Be “social”

There is an actual saying here called “being social” that describes when a person stops to chat with you before, during or after performing a service. For example, when my mechanic Bill works on my car, he chats with me and makes me laugh (his nickname for me is “California Niva”). Same with lady at the post office. Rarely do I just fly in and out of the post office without saying hello to Barbara, or us chatting for a few minutes. The last time I was there, she gave me a marrow bone for my dog. The point is, slow down and get to know people a little.

Be a good neighbor

Social interactions are really important in a rural area. It’s not just about making friends. People can also be resources, especially your neighbors. You might need to take refuge in their house when your power fails in a storm. So, get to know their names, say hello and good morning and have a nice day. When they wave to you, wave back! My neighbor Bob, who’s in his 80’s, and I became friends after he said Ruby could play in his fields. We’ve since had many philosophical conversations while standing in his fields. When his wife recently passed away, I baked him a pie and brought it over. I also helped him with his yard sale, and he lets me share a raised bed in his garden in return for my help with wedding and planting.

Start walking

I’ve seen some amazing scenery while walking through my neighborhood and met people too. I also think there’s something good about being seen on a regular basis. Every day I pass this one farm where a dog lives that is friends with my dog. The owners and I don’t talk much, but whenever they see us coming, they let Bronson out so he can play with Ruby. Even the farm workers recognize Ruby and wave to us from their trucks as we pass.

Support local businesses

This goes without saying. Local businesses remember their customers, and will greatly appreciate your business.

Be a good guest

In the country, people invite you to their homes a lot faster and more often than in the city. Any time you go to someone’s house, bring something or, even better, make something.

Nectarine and blueberry upside-down cake

Pick up after your dog

One might think that in the country, it’s okay to not pick up after your dog. Wrong! People are really sensitive about their yards and property. I always pick up after Ruby, even in fields where no one can see us. I did, however, make the mistake shortly after moving here of throwing the bag in someone else’s trashcan. In the city this wouldn’t be a big deal, but after a few times, a woman came out of the house to ask me to stop because the bags were making her trashcan smell. Noted! Now I carry the poop bag all the way home and throw it in my own trashcan.

More suggestions:

• Invite people to visit you
• Travel and explore the area
• Be nice to everyone you meet because everyone knows each other!

Living in a rural area can be a fulfilling, rich, culturally diverse experience. But just like living in the city, you have to work it!

Seeing the Stars at Night

It’s funny how life turns out. I never thought I’d be living in the country. I’ve always been a city girl, the kind that screams at the sight of a roach, and jumps on the furniture at the sight of a mouse. On our one and only camping trip, Kaz found it amusing how paranoid I was in the tent at night. “What’s that? Did you hear something? Is there something in the sleeping bag with us?”

And yet, I was always trying to get us out of the city. To Joshua Tree, to Santa Barbara, to the coast, anywhere but inside the urban jungle. When he was sick, and especially when he got depressed, one of my most frequent questions was: “Why don’t you sit outside?” “And do what?” he’d respond. “Just feel the sun on your face, the wind, listen to the birds, breathe some fresh air. It’s good for you!” But sitting outside on Hollywood Boulevard wasn’t his thing. I don’t blame him.

I often think of him now and wonder what he would say about my current life, if he would have been willing to make this kind of move to the country (probably not, his work was in the city), if it would have even occurred to us (again, probably not). I know he would have loved the roads around here, which are perfect for motorcycle riding. He probably wouldn’t have liked the winters. But I think he might have liked the solitude. He was kind of a loner, or at least a homebody. He liked being at home, playing his video games, watching television, relaxing. He would have enjoyed how much I cook here.

Who knows. He might have been surprised by how well I’ve adapted to the solitude because I was always the social one. I still am, but in smaller spurts. Ironically, I relate to his homebody-style more now than before. It’s hard to describe how much I love living in the country. It’s not perfect. I do miss certain things about the city, but on a day-to-day basis, I feel more content than I have since Kaz was alive.

As I write this post (the original by longhand on a yellow legal pad), I am sitting in the backyard on a weathered metal rocking chair that has a cotton cushion. I’ve sat on this chair all through winter. I call it my “outside office.”

The sun is out. It’s in the 60’s. The clouds are mere wisps. There is a strong breeze blowing, and a family of black flies buzzing around me. In the distance, the flowers that line the edges of the house have just begun to bloom. Ruby is lying nearby in the grass, her eyes half-open in that way dogs do when relaxing in the sun. This morning she was sniffing all over the yard instead of the usual stick-fetching, and I was reading a book. It was peaceful, both of us doing our own thing, occasionally looking up to check on the other. Some people don’t want to deal with flies or dirt (which is unavoidable in the country), the wind, the quiet, and so on, just like some people prefer air conditioning to open windows in cars (I’ve always been the latter).

Apparently, there’s such a thing as Ecotherapy, which is literally contact with Nature, and it’s becoming more important as the world grows more populated and the environment continues to deteriorate. This article in the Washington Post discusses concerns that health officials have about how people in the future are going to get enough (unpolluted) nature to stay healthy. “The World Health Organization predicts that 70 percent of the world’s population will live in urban areas within 30 years.”

If I’m still here in 30 years, I’m pretty sure I won’t be one of those people. I like seeing the stars at night.

Writers and Dogs

My dog, Ruby

I think every writer should have a dog (if possible).

Dogs are the ultimate companions for people who like to be alone. They’re quiet enough to let you work, but active enough to unglue you from the chair every now and then. They’re more demanding than cats, but less demanding than children or other adults. You can concentrate with a dog in the room. You can read with a dog outside (I do this every day). They open your eyes to things, and take you outside of your head. They keep you grounded.

Dogs also give us the opportunity to love and nurture another being. Initially, I was worried that owning a dog might be too distracting, but I actually enjoy the responsibility. Sometimes it’s frustrating, like the other day when I had to stop a really great writing flow to take her to a vet appointment. But ultimately, it’s always rewarding (I was glad I took her to the vet).

Their loyalty is good for the soul, perhaps even the ego, which we all know is fragile with writers. Dogs never get mad at you, or criticize you, or even question you. All they want is to please you, to be near you, to love and be loved by you. People have told me that when I leave a room, Ruby will stare at the door until I return. That loyalty is another reason why she’s allowed to be off-leash so much. She might run off to chase something, yes. But she would never just run away.

Ruby brings so much into my life, it’s hard to put it into words. She has helped (and continues to help) me heal from loss. She makes me laugh. She reminds me to play and be curious, to stretch and get plenty of rest. She provides me with companionship and affection. She protects me better than any alarm system. She also provides structure to my day, which is broken up into three-hour stretches of work followed by a 30-minute break outside (longer when it’s warm out). She sleeps while I’m working, but when I’ve worked for longer than usual, or past a certain hour, she will come over and put a paw on my leg, like “okay, it’s time to stop now.” Sometimes I feel like I belong to her, not the other way around.

The other day I told a friend that “if I were to die before my dog, she would be my main concern.” I try not to think about it very often, or of the more likely scenario that she will go before me. But every now and then I remember that Ruby and I only have a relatively short time together (hopefully, the long end of short). My next thought is always the same, “That’s why I’m giving her the very best life I possibly can.” Whenever that day comes, I will mourn her terribly, but I will also know that she lived a great life, full of fun and love, and we gave each other all that one could possibly give to another.

Here are some photos of other writers and their dogs (many of which I got from here):

Amy Hempel

Donna Tartt and Pongo (photo by Jill Krementz)

Dorothy Parker and Misty (photo by Roy Schatt)

E.L. Doctorow and Becky

Edith Wharton and her pups

John Steinbeck and Charley

Kurt Vonnegut and Pumpkin

Maurice Sendak and Herman (photo by Tim Knox)

Stephen King

Virginia Woolf and Pinka (photo by Gisele Freund)

William Faulkner and pups (photo by Henri Cartier-Bresson)

For those of you who own cats, you’re also in good company.

Tennessee Williams and Sabbath

William S. Burroughs and Ginger

More pictures of writers and dogs: https://www.tumblr.com/search/writers%20and%20dogs

A fun post about pets who were loved by famous authors: http://www.brainpickings.org/2013/04/29/literary-pets/

A site that shows writers at work – some with their pets: http://writersatwork.pfauth.com/

Happy creating!

A Former Angeleno’s Take on Winter

Before moving to upstate New York (and once I got here), the main question people asked me was, “Have you ever lived through a winter there?” It seemed to be the main concern. I shrugged it off, “No, but I grew up on the East Coast and lived in Vermont for four weeks in January. I’ll be fine!”

But I was a bit apprehensive.

Living in Los Angeles, a city that fluctuates between warm and hot, for 19 years was long enough to thin my blood. I became one of those people who shivered when it was 60 degrees out, and froze when it was below 50. I had visited the East Coast in wintertime, and even seen some snow in Joshua Tree Desert once, but it was fleeting (and freezing).

I tried to mentally prepare myself for winter by reading three winter-based books last fall: Ethan Frome by Edith Wharton (star-crossed lovers try to kill themselves by sledding into a tree), The Half-Skinned Steer by Annie Proulx (old man gets lost and freezes in Wyoming blizzard), and We Have Always Lived in the Castle by Shirley Jackson (two sisters – one a murderer – struggle to survive in old, haunted, cold New England mansion). BRRRR!!!

Then the first major storm hit New York in mid-November, dumping 5-7 feet of snow on Buffalo (a nightmare). But where I live, 350 miles to the East, we got nothing.

Since then, we’ve had snowfalls of several inches and temperatures low enough to freeze an entire lake. This is pretty mild compared to what it could be. People keep telling me the worst is still to come. To which I say, BRING IT.

As it turns out, I have sort of fallen in love with winter.

I live in a rural area, which is different than living in a city, and if I had to drive to work, I might feel differently (to be fair, they clear the roads pretty quickly here, even the smaller country roads). But I think winter is gorgeous.

The patterns, textures, skies and colors… I haven’t experienced it in such a long time, I’m actually fascinated by the fact that everything nearly dies, or seems to die but actually doesn’t. It reminds me of the desert in the way it’s so harsh, but still teaming with life.

The beauty of seasons, something I used to miss in LA, is that they are literally Nature at work. They’re also a marking of time. When you live in an area that’s sort of the same every day, you can wake up one day and suddenly realize six months have gone by and you hardly even noticed.

I still can’t handle being cold so I am EXTREMELY bundled up when I go outside. I wear at least two of everything and lots of thick cotton, wool, down and silk, which is very warm. For extra cold days, I wear a fur babushka hat over my normal hat. I look ridiculous, but it keeps me cozy even though it’s freezing. I still read outside, take long walks, hike, and do everything I did before except ride the motorcycle.

Perhaps the biggest reason I’m enjoying winter, though, is Ruby. We spend no less than two hours outside every day, and her joy is absolutely contagious.

The big open space above is the frozen lake, btw.

If you live in a big city and have warm clothing, I highly recommend going outside, even in the cold. Take a walk to the nearest park, river or lake, enjoy the fresh air. There are still a few birds singing. How they survive the temperatures, I have no idea, but it’s lovely to hear them.

I am very much looking forward to seeing spring. In the meantime, I hope you’re able to enjoy winter’s beauty… and of course, stay safe and warm.

Peace and light.

What Makes a Home “Home”

Yesterday marked three months of living in my new home, and I’m happy to say that it’s actually starting to feel like “home.”

What is it that makes living quarters actually feel like that? For me, it’s a few things.

Decorating

Living room wall

The other day I finally unpacked all the artwork I brought with me from L.A. and put some of it up. This wasn’t as simple as it sounds. I now live in a 2-BR apartment, instead of 1-BR, and have significantly more wall space. Also, the living room is green, which is tricky. So, before I put anything up, I walked from room to room asking “which color theme are you?” and tried to listen to what each room told me.

The living room wanted only black and white artwork which won’t clash with the green.

The bedroom asked for the big yellow painting I used to have over my bed in L.A., and my mother’s pastel-colored artwork. It’s going to be a powerful, feminine sanctuary when it’s finished.

Bedroom wall

The hallway claimed all the rock ‘n roll artwork, including the Coop lithograph, which now hangs just outside the kitchen.

Hallway corner

Coop lithograph

The kitchen and the bathroom are still undecided.

Most of the artwork used to belong to Kaz, and reminds me of him. But in L.A., every wall also held an image of Kaz. Now, only my office (the smaller bedroom) has images of him. My office is the most private room in the apartment, not only because it has two doors which I can close from the inside, but also because it’s where I do my most creative thinking, spend most of my time, and feel the most content. It feels right to have Kaz with me in this room.

There’s still a long way to go with the decorating (rugs, matching towels, TV stand, etc.), but putting the artwork up was a big first step.

Cleaning

I know it sounds like I’m getting all domestic, but seriously, once you start cleaning your house, it’s Home! The other day I spent a couple of hours vacuuming, dusting, tidying up and mopping the kitchen floor. It felt good! I’ve also decided to go to war with the critters. A clean house is the first battle move.

Candles

In lieu of no fireplace, I’ve been using candles to add, if not real warmth, then decorative warmth. Some of them are scented (nothing overpowering), and make the house smell lovely.

Cooking

Some of you may recall that, for a long time after Kaz died, it was difficult for me to cook like I used to, and this was painful because I really love to cook. Now that I live in the countryside, where restaurants are far and few between, I’m back in the kitchen on a regular basis. I’ve made Chili, Meatloaf, Quiche, Frittata, Pumpkin Pie and Ice Tea, which I heat up for hot sweet tea in the cold afternoons. Soon I will make my first soups. But my specialty seems to be Apple Crisp.

It started in late September when I went apple picking with some friends and came home with 20 lbs of apples! I made my first batch of crisp with half of those apples, and the rest of the apples I brought to friends in NYC. My mother and I used to make apple pies together when I was a kid and, to this day, nothing recalls that feeling of home to me than the smell of yummy, buttery apples wafting throughout the house.  A tip: don’t throw away the apple peel and grinds right away. You can boil them to make hot cider and/or add them to tea for flavor.

(had to go big with this pic)

Fresh Apple Crisp made with hand-picked apples (can you smell it??)

Traveling

The first two months of being here, I went to NYC four times (!) and Washington D.C. once. I’ve seen lots of my family and friends in the city. I even saw Kaz’s mother in D.C. But after all that visiting and traveling, I cannot express how nice it was to come home to the quiet, natural beauty and slow pace of my new neighborhood, the comfort of my own bed, and the peace of my own office.

Staying Home

I don’t know when I’ll be traveling to the city again (maybe Christmas). For now, it’s nice to just plant roots and settle in. I guess staying home reinforces the feeling of Home.

All of these simple things have helped me adjust to the new reality and feel less homesick. I’m building a new life and a new career in a completely new environment. It’s a lot. When I unpacked the artwork, it was like reuniting with old friends. A little bit of Hollywood in upstate New York. 🙂

Can you think of other things that make a place Home? Design tips welcome!

The Solitary Life

It’s been thirty-eight days since I arrived in upstate New York, and so far it’s exactly how I imagined it would be: gorgeous, quiet, clean and solitary. Several people have asked how I can possibly like being alone all the time. “I would go insane,” they tell me. “How do you manage not to?” (some visual clues at the bottom of this post)

First of all, I am not entirely alone because I have a dog.

Secondly, I’m not entirely alone because I take walks and pass by neighbors (everyone waves to each other up here), and sometimes we even strike up conversations. I also get out of the house for errands, events, meetings and socializing with new and old friends in the area. So far, I’ve been to a brunch, an Oktoberfest party, a lecture, a business meeting, two book club gatherings and an afternoon of apple picking, which was a lot of fun.

Thirdly, I’m not entirely alone because I go to New York City (aka “the city”) every few weeks to be with family, friends and colleagues. Soon, I’ll be venturing to New Jersey, Philadelphia and Washington D.C. to see more people. These weekend trips are wonderful for many reasons, not the least of which is they keep me on my toes. Driving in New York City is no joke.

All that said… I am definitely alone most of the time. Here are a few reasons why it doesn’t bother me.

I’m writing. When I’m not writing, I’m reading. When I’m not writing or reading, I’m checking social media, riding my motorcycle, cooking, walking, watching television, sleeping or, like previously mentioned out and about, in and out of the city and so on.

My daily schedule is broken down into blocks of time that start at 4:30 a.m. and end around 9:00 p.m. The 4:30-7:30 a.m. block is what a friend and I have dubbed the Plath Hours, after Sylvia Plath’s habit of working between four and eight in the morning, before her children woke up. We actually check in with each other via Twitter with the hashtag #plathhours. Feel free to join us if you’re interested. We don’t do it every day. Actually, the past few days, I’ve been writing at night instead of the morning. We dubbed the night writing hours #poehours.

My schedule includes a total of nine hours of writing time every week day, but I’m not writing the entire nine hours. I’m also checking email, social media, doing research, keeping up with my Modern Loss editing, and reading online journals. The point is, I’m at my computer working, with little to no distractions.

The rest of the day is broken up between playing with Ruby and regular day-to-day activities. We spend roughly three-four hours per day outside – rain or shine. I use this time to read and exercise (I’ve done both in the rain). Ruby plays fetch, chews her sticks, and explores the vast and many mysteries in the backyard. Afterwards, she sleeps under my writing desk on a bunch of pillows (rough life, I know.)

At 4:30 p.m., if I have errands to run, this is when I ride the motorcycle. Luckily, it’s still warm enough to ride. If I don’t have errands, Ruby and I walk to a nearby creek. She’s recently befriended a beautiful Doberman who lives at a farm along the way, and now he follows us to the creek. The dogs end up swimming, wrestling over sticks, and chasing squirrels and chipmunks. I’m not sure how we’ll keep up this routine when it gets cold, but I’ve thought about taking up cross-country skiing as a way to stay warm and still be outside.

A friend recently teased me that I’m living “a monk’s life.” It’s not as severe as that, but he has a point. It would definitely be nice to balance this solitary life with human company at the end of the day. I sometimes wonder what life would be like if/when I live with someone again. I’m pretty sure I will still spend a lot of time alone, in my office, with the dog at my feet.

I guess what I’m saying is that I see this lifestyle continuing on some level. Maybe I won’t live in the countryside, or maybe I’ll live part-time in the countryside. Either way, I plan to always have a place where I can be alone in a quiet, private atmosphere, and hopefully a fireplace or wood burning stove.

For now, I’m okay with things the way they are. Most of my energy is going into my work, which fulfills me in a way I haven’t experienced in a long time.

When people ask me how I like this new solitary, country life, I just smile. “It’s good for the soul.” It’s also producing results. More on that later.