Courting the muse

Name dropping, which won’t mean much to any but us older folk: I was privileged for a few years to count as a friend the late Dorothy Johnson (A Man Called Horse, The Hanging Tree, and a lot of classic western short stories). She told me when her muse talked to her she was on fire and wrote furiously; when her muse was silent, she might as well give up and scrub floors (I don’t think she put it that way).

My muse was silent today. I’m sure she, like me, is distracted by Thursday’s surgery. I wrote a bit of the scene that I thought was coming next, but it didn’t flow and seemed wooden. I wrote the woman who edits for me and told her I relied on her to tell me when my writing was junk. She wrote back that she didn’t think I ever wrote junk—reassuring.

I gave up and read the novel I was deep into—Cleo Coyle’s Dead Cold Brew, one of the coffeehouse series. I’ve read every book in the series and feel that the characters are old friends—one advantage of writing (and reading) a series. The books seem to grow more complicated as the series goes on, and I was really wrapped up in this one though I did thank protagonist Claire Cosi became a bit too much of a superhero in the final episode (I won’t spoil it for you). Still if I could write like that….

I’m ready to dig into a new book—so my project for the evening is to study Amazon’s offering of mysteries.

A friend described on Facebook tonight an encounter in a WalMart where she started out grumpy and ended blown away by several acts of kindness that reassured her about our world. The way she described it, the encounter became one of those times when she was totally present in the moment. Such times are rare and to be treasured.

Two of my grown kids arrive tomorrow (the third will be here Thursday and of course Jordan is already here). Maybe I’ll have such an epiphany with my family together.

Sweet dreams.

Where did the day go?

I planned on a lazy day today, but I had no idea I would be as lazy as I have been. I decided I wouldn’t try to write—might not till after the surgery—but I would read. I have a new Cleo Coyle coffeehouse mystery, and I want to get beyond page 1. But I frittered away the morning on Facebook and emails—plus a brief trip back to bed to ease my aching hip, The afternoon went the same way, and here it is almost nine o’clock. I haven’t read at all, and my bed is calling me.

Some nice things happened today. Christian fixed an Asian dinner tonight—cashew chicken with rice. Really good but a tad too much Siracha sauce for me. They brought dinner out to the cottage, and we all ate together. I don’t see much of Christian during the week when he’s busy with work, so it was a treat to have him here for dinner. Jacob has taken to coming to see me at least once a day but he usually doesn’t stay long, so it was nice to have him eat his dinner and take part in the conversation.

During dinner, I got an email from an old friend—I mean old; she was a couple of years ahead of me in high school and her sister was one of my best friends. She had read the newsletter I sent out a few days ago and was responding to the good news of my recovery which has begun even before surgery. I’ve had really good and satisfying response to that newsletter, and I am flattered and grateful. If you don’t get it and would like to, please email me at j.alter@tu.edu.

Sue and Teddy came by about 5:30, bringing with them their happy enthusiasm for each other and for life. We talked about dogs and kids and neighbors and a bit about politics. It’s uplifting to visit with them—happiness is contagious. People who find each other in mid-life deserve special joy.

Earlier in the day Cyndy Twedell, a minister from my church, came by to deliver my prayer shawl. My neighbor’s mother, now deceased, knit it several years ago, and I nearly wore it out wrapping it around me as I sat at my desk and occasionally rolling my chair over it. I thought with regret that I’d just have to discard it when it fell completely apart but it occurred to me to call Cyndy and ask if the prayer shawl group could repair it. They could, and she returned it knowing I’d need it at the hospital. She told me it been infused with renewed prayers. Cyndy stayed for a cup of tea and conversation, and we had a good visit talking about church, some of the people we’ve lost touch with, different choices in worship, and, yes, a bit of politics—the upcoming women’s marches. As she left, Cyndy offered a kind prayer, one that I appreciated.

To there you have my lazy day. Excuse me now—I’m going to read Dead Cold Brew.