An epiphany

My sweet Sophie

Several years ago I had a friend who had an epiphany every other day. No, not the religious meaning associated with Christianity, but the simpler definition of a sudden realization of momentous importance to your life. Such realizations often come in a very ordinary moment, like doing the dishes or mopping the floor. I’m not sure what I was doing—maybe napping because I seem to do a lot of that lately. But I suddenly realized that I have been in a funk without knowing it. I need, as they say, to get my groove back.

It began with my inability to settle down and read any book through to the end. Nothing grabbed me, spoke to me. For the last two weeks, I’ve started and abandoned maybe ten books, everything from mysteries to food-oriented nonfiction, some well-reviewed, others by authors I usually enjoy. I really did begin to worry that I was becoming a dilettante.

Then I realized I have not settled down to one writing project since the publication two months ago of Irene Deep in Texas Danger. I’ve dabbled with a memoir, though now I do have 6,000 words, but it is slow going, bouncing from my blog to remind myself what happened and back to the memoir to fit events and feelings into the story. I also started a new Irene story, Missing Irene, and wrote 4700 words before I put it aside. I’ve even been a bit lackadaisical about blogging. Perhaps the only thing I follow through on is cooking meals for family and friends.

So I started thinking about why. That’s how my mind works—I want to know why, what’s behind something. I’m not depressed so why am I not settling down to what I consider my work. Well, these are, as we all know, troubled times, and I feel obliged to keep up with what’s happening and, more than keeping informed, often comment on it. I think that’s the conscience of my father speaking through me. But if Greg Abbott signs a bill wiping out the water break requirement for construction workers, I think the voting public needs to know about it. And if Justice Sam Alito jets off to luxurious resorts with a rich businessman who has business before the Supreme Court and then denies knowing the man, I think we need to know about it. Right now I’m in suspenseful agony worrying about those people in that lost submersible (I once went in one, though it hovered just below the surface—my children thought at the time I was extraordinarily brave but in retrospect I think it was those Carribbean rum drinks). Never again. But I am appalled at the heartless attitude some people are taking. My prayers are with those five souls.

And emails—I get 150-200 emails a day. Last night my friend Mary told me she was cleaning out her emails. She had a backlog of something like 250,000. I was absolutely appalled. I never go to bed with an unread email, and once I read it, I either answer, discard, or file. I deal with it. Back in the day when business was transacted on paper, the mantra was if you pick up a piece of paper, never just put it back down: deal with it. The same applies to emails, to me, though I realize not everyone is as compulsive as I am. My emails keep me in touch with friends, other writers, blogs, and miscellaneous pieces of news. I enjoy them.

But my point here is that it takes me most of every morning to deal with what’s come in on my computer overnight, and by the time I do I am often distressed, tired, angry, whatever. And then I turn to my writing. I need to reverse things: write first, social media later, but old habits are hard to break. Maybe I turn first to emails because I’m expecting something wonderful, like a letter from “The Millionaire.” (His money wouldn’t go very far today).

And then, it’s been a rough year for my family. We’ve lost Christian’s mother and for a while I was afraid of losing my brother. His recovery, if it is that, is slow, and I am still worried about him. I spent a difficult two months thinking every day with my beloved Sophie might be the last. She is doing so much better now, but there are ongoing medical concerns. And the Burtons had to say goodbye to one of their dogs. Maybe I’m just reeling from family trauma. And now it’s summer in Texas, hot and uninspiring.

I don’t think, however, pinning a label on anything fixes it. It’s up to me to dig myself out of this hole. I’ve done it before, and I can do it again. So watch for me, I hope, to be more dedicated about my work, to take fewer really long naps, to get my act in gear.

Oops, it’s time to cook dinner for the family. But I think I feel better already. Thanks for listening.

 

This, that, and cheese

Do you what a difference six or eight degrees in temperature can make? Today we were in the upper 90s, lots better than the 106, 108 we’ve been having. And the humidity is low. This morning I put the top down on my car on the way to an early morning haircut appointment—about a 25-minute drive by my back roads route. What a glorious way to begin the day.

My funk is disappearing, although my uncertainty about walking is not. When I went into the salon, I asked a stranger to get me started—it’s that first step. I’ve found all kinds of people so willing to help me. Coming out, just because I’d been spooked, I asked Rosa, who does a terrific job with my hair, to walk me to the car. She is like a mother hen, worrying about me. She has a two-year-old who has been slow to walk, and this morning she said I walk just like him—awkwardly (not her word), like I’m looking for what I can hang on to next. At home, I walk just fine. It’s a matter of a comfort zone.

Had lunch with an old friend I haven’t seen in too long today. But he too worries about falling, takes my arm, declares I’m not going to fall on his watch. We had a great time catching up on kids and grandkids (he knows my kids, needs a refresher course every now and then) and I’ve met his, kept up with their doings through the years. But we ended up in a kind of morbid discussion of people who were ill and who had died—to the point that I told him so-and-so had died, he exclaimed, “She died?” And then we both laughed. It was like too much. I guess it’s age, though he’s a good fifteen years younger than I am.

Proud that tonight I finally finished edits, rewriting on my Murder at Peacock Mansion manuscript. And then I cleaned out the cheese drawer in my fridge. Central Market has the most amazing wall of cheeses from all over, mostly Europe and the US. I can't resist buying, often of course the one they have on display. I tend to end up with a hunk of this and a hunk of that, and I’m not sure what any of them are. So tonight I made fromage fort, a recipe that is all over the web now but I originally found through Jacques Pepin, who said his father used to make it.

Take about a pound of leftover cheeses, add three or four cloves garlic (the garlic gets really strong so go gentle), a tsp. of pepper, and a half cup dry white wine. Blend in food processor (I’m sure Pepin’s father did not have one, but it’s the easy way to do it). You end up with a spread that is different every time but earns its French name which means “strong cheese.” If you use leftover Roquefort or blue, it’s a whole different thing. Tonight I had cheddar, havarti, manchego, and a few I didn’t know what they were. Saving tasting it for tomorrow night’s dinner guests.

Yep, writing, cooking, entertaining—I’m getting my groove back. Now for my self-confidence.

My kind of day

Yesterday I was in a funk. I started the day with a teeth cleaning, which took a good chunk of my working time out of the morning. Then thing after thing piled on my desk--who knew I'd agreed to judge a contest? Why did people send me pdfs for the newsletter when I can't work with them (probably my basic program plus lack of computer expertise)? When am I going to read that book for my class? Homework with Jacob seemed interminable, and I had to firmly convince him that I had not made the deal he said I did--yes, he alphabetized those words. Even a belated birthday dinner at LaMadeleine with Jordan and Jacob didn't cheer me much, though it was good and fun (Jordan's great car wreck happened on my actual birthday). At the end of the day, knowing I'd written over 2000 words, I was still in a funk.  This morning Elizabeth offered an opinion that hit home: she said every time I go to the dentist, I'm in a funk for the entire day. Hope she hasn't jinxed me for future dental appointments. I really like the hygienist.
Today was much more to my liking--I had no obligations until I got Jacob at three. I wrote 1700 words, worked on the upcoming issue of the newsletter, did my yoga, and did a bit of reading on The Virginian for my class--it's been years since I've read it. Jacob's homework went smoothly, and the world seems in its place.
Sophie likes this kind of a day too, because she's inside with me, except for occasional trips to the back yard. This afternoon, she cuddled with Jacob while he sat in a big, comfy chair and played on the iPad for a few minutes. That dog is so spoiled--she doesn't realize what the world is like for many dogs. I think, though, she senses Elizabeth is leaving us because when we meet for wine at night, Sophie sits and stares into Elizabeth's face. "I'm so cute, how can you leave me?"
I've noticed a new pattern in my life: I like to eat lunch at home and have supper with friends because I get so much more desk work done that way. Tonight was dinner with Betty at the Blu Crab Café. We split Chilean Sea Bass with Potatoes Dauphinois, a stacked dish with some kind of tomato relish and microgreens on it. Good but rich--I couldn't have eaten the whole thing.
To top my day off, I got a birthday present from my brother and his wife today--there must be something about the full moon that calls out belated birthday celebrations. It was a package from Amazon and when I saw a gorgeous, oversize cookbook called Charcuterie my first reaction was, "I didn't order this but it sure would make a great present for John." Then I saw the note that it was from John and Cindy.
Later tonight I'll finish the day off with a glass of wine on the deck, while Elizabeth and I catch up on our days. Life is good.