This is the summer

This is the summer of strong Earl Grey, drunk without milk in a ceramic mug or a white paper cup, both of them bearing the blue Darwin’s logo on their sides.

This is the summer of freelance projects: a two-part feature story, an annual report, some calendar and publicity work, the usual book reviews and some author Q&As for Shelf Awareness.

This is the summer of libraries and coffee shops: hours spent with my laptop, elbows on a green table, answering emails and wordsmithing sentence after sentence.

This is the summer of sunflowers and roses, of tall purple iris and pink snapdragons, of smiles from the guys at my florist and drawing a deep breath every time I walk in.

This is (another) summer of local adventures: a weekend in Falmouth, a return to Marblehead, a glorious Sunday in Lenox, a Friday at Wingaersheek Beach.

This is the summer of Amanda’s salsa, scooped up with tortilla chips or spooned onto burritos, huevos and quesadillas every chance I get.

This is the summer of long runs on the river trail, past loosestrife and birdsfoot and Queen Anne’s lace, through morning haze and thick humidity and evening light.

This is the summer of blue and purple hydrangeas, of bright yellow beds of black-eyed Susans, of tall gangly daylilies in every shade of red and orange.

This is the summer of boot camp workouts in parks and parking lots, sweating and laughing through push-ups and burpees, growing stronger and feeling grateful.

This is (another) summer of yoga on a green mat: Tuesday evenings, Friday mornings, the occasional Saturday afternoon.

This is the summer of pink streaks in my hair, freckled shoulders and striped skirts and my Wonder Woman bracelet.

This is the summer of soaking in my Cambridge neighborhood, while readying myself for what’s next.

Advertisements

Read Full Post »

August Break 2018: happiness is…

Happiness is: dahlias in the morning light (courtesy of my beloved florist, of course). And settling in for a morning at Darwin’s, my very favorite place.

Read Full Post »

Tuesdays in the Square

When I thought about the shape of this freelancing summer, I knew one thing: it would still include lots of time in Cambridge.

I’ve been working on several projects for Harvard, which means I sometimes come into the Square for meetings and research. But, more simply and importantly: this is my neighborhood. I love it here in Cambridge, and whether I’m sending out resumes, writing book reviews or meeting friends, there’s no place I’d rather be than Harvard Square.

Tuesdays this summer, in particular, have fallen into a routine I’m loving.

First: a morning with my journal and laptop at Darwin’s, drinking tea, writing and answering emails. Sometimes I meet up with a friend and we co-work for a while, taking breaks to chat. Other times it’s just me: elbows on a green table, sunshine pouring through the plate-glass window at my back.

The sunset walls, the cheerful baristas, strong Earl Grey or ginger peach in a deep mug and a sweet-tart lemon scone: all of these are deeply familiar delights. I nod to a couple of other regulars, and either ease or dive into the work, depending on the day.

Around lunchtime, I close my laptop and head to the Harvard farmers’ market, where I get lunch from Amanda: homemade Texas tamales, elotes (street corn) slathered with garlicky sauce and spices, and a container of salsa roja to take home to my husband.

I find a shady spot, if I can, to perch and eat my lunch. The people-watching at the market is always a treat, and then I go pick up the week’s fruit from my favorite produce guys. I loved chatting with them about the World Cup earlier in the summer, but we also talk about the weather, the market or whatever comes to mind.

I run a few errands or go work at the library for a while, then frequently meet a friend in the afternoon for (iced) tea. Inevitably, I’ll run into another few folks I know (or see some of my favorite baristas), and sometimes I go by the florist to pick up a bouquet for my kitchen table.

Making the rounds, seeing my people, walking the familiar streets I love: this is my place. And on Tuesdays, especially, I get to glory in it.

Read Full Post »

Andiamos en Sevilla

When people ask us what we did in Sevilla this summer, I usually arrive at some version of: we walked. And walked. And walked.

Walking is my favorite way to explore a city – whether treading familiar paths in Boston or Oxford or NYC, or discovering entirely new settings in cities I’m visiting for the first time.

Fortunately, Sevilla is highly walkable, with rambling cobblestoned streets lined with beautiful, brightly painted buildings, and dozens of plazas that appear around unexpected corners.

We walked several miles a day while we were there – through narrow twisting neighborhoods, along broad avenidas, down to the river and back again.

My feet were plenty sore by the time we left, but I enjoyed every ramble. Andiamos, indeed.

Read Full Post »

saving my life: one puzzle piece at a time edition.

Jen posted recently on Instagram that some seasons feel like this: being knocked to the ground and having all your pieces scattered, like a puzzle.

When this happens, the pieces often will not come together again in the same way. You can know this, and still not have any idea what the new picture will look like.

I am standing on the edge of such a season: the open space of summer, the still more open space of the job hunt, the aftereffects of so many changes over the past couple of years still settling in.

Some days, I can admit this to you quite calmly, and on other days, I am trying not to slide into blind panic about what’s next.

I know – since I have been here before – that this is the human condition. We all get our lives rearranged, or decide to rearrange them ourselves, every now and then. And we walk through, and survive. But meanwhile it’s the small things that save our lives, over and over.

So here, because I need to make the list every so often, are the latest things that are saving me:

• This line from The Last Jedi: “Hope is like the sun. If you only believe in it when you can see it, you’ll never make it through the night.”
• Getting out on the river trail: summer breezes, so much lush green, thickets of wildflowers, and the light.
• My neighbor’s dog, Riley, who knows I’ll always stop to pet her and will happily plonk herself down on my feet while I do so.
• The guy at the phone repair shop, who fixed my cracked screen twice in one week (!) and gave me a case he had lying around.
• Peonies and good cheer from my beloved florist.

• Every single kind email from a colleague, friend or acquaintance, with job leads or encouragement. There have been many of these, and I’m grateful.
• Being in the middle of several good books at once, which is the best kind of middle.
• Lauren Winner’s words from Still about being in the middle of one’s spiritual life, which resonate deeply these days. And this line from later in the book: “This is the story you will wrestle with forever.”
• Texts from friends near and far, checking in.
• Granola bars and peanut butter crackers. I am an inveterate snacker.
• Every single drop of chai, Earl Grey and compassion from the folks at Darwin’s. That last is, not surprisingly, the most important.
• Ginger peach tea, when it’s too hot for chai or just because it’s my summer drink.
• Tamales and fresh salsa from Amanda every Tuesday at the farmers’ market.
• Kicking butt with Erin and other strong women at Monday night boot camp. And following it up with yoga.

What’s saving your life these days? Please share, if you want.

Read Full Post »

June is…

June is sunrise before 6 a.m. and sunset after 8 p.m., the days stretching longer and longer to hold the fullest amount of light.

June is strawberries and asparagus, rhubarb and the first sweet corn. June is the long-anticipated return of tamales and salsa at the Harvard farmers’ market every Tuesday.

June is turning on the box and ceiling fans, tending a basil plant on the front porch, finally moving my geraniums outside.

June is weather whiplash: from 55 to 85 and back again in the space of a few days. “If you don’t like the weather, wait five minutes,” people say, in both my West Texas hometown and my adopted New England city.

June is peonies and honeysuckle, roses and clematis and the first day lilies. June is thickets of wildflowers along the river trail: purple clover and wild daisies, tiny birdsfoot trefoil and tall elderberry bushes in full flower.

June is transition: the shift from the frenetic pace of the school year to the slower-but-not-stopped rhythms of summer.

June, this year, is more change piled on the change that has characterized the past year: my beloved boss retiring, other colleagues moving on. June is wondering what’s next for me as I dive into the job hunt, again.

June is the start of summer reading: light fiction, lots of young adult lit and mysteries, the latest stack of review books.

June is veggie quesadillas and huevos cooked on the stovetop, fresh fruit whenever and however possible, lots of lemonade and ginger peach tea.

June is stepping into summer and wondering what it holds.

What does June look like where you are?

Read Full Post »

Marking time by flowers

It begins with the snowdrops: shy and white, pushing their way through the frozen ground when the snow melts just enough to let them through. Then the crocuses – those tiny, fierce fighters, deep purple and lavender and sometimes bright gold.

The forsythia come next – “fountains of pale gold,” as L.M. Montgomery wrote – then the daffodils, slender green stems lit like candles at the ends. The hellebores arrive around the same time, creamy white petals giving way to earthy green. Then the hyacinths and scilla, carpeting the still-bare ground with blue and pink and white.

The green stems of tulips start to uncurl, and they bob their vivid heads in flowerbeds and gardens. At nearly the same time, the magnolias unfurl their lipstick-pink buds, and the lilacs appear, filling the air with their delicate scent. The lilies of the valley hide under their broad green leaves, till suddenly – seemingly all at once – the tiny bells burst forth.

For several years now, I’ve been marking time by flowers here in Cambridge.

It’s both a reliable pleasure and an unexpected delight: every winter I start watching, paying particular attention to a few spots I know well. The air smells like snow and then damp earth and, eventually, the tang of mulch; the trees fuzz over with buds and then leaf out seemingly overnight. Every year I wonder if it will really happen again. And every year, somehow, it does.

The season unfolds in a slightly different rhythm at my beloved florist’s shop: amaryllis and anemones, daffodils and ranunculus, buckets of vivid tulips and early peonies. The lilies and sunflowers have already appeared there, though they’re not blooming in the flowerbeds yet. And this year, I’ve been growing flowers in my kitchen: first paperwhites, then geraniums.

Outside, right now, there are wisteria and columbines, the last of the cherry blossoms and dogwoods, the first spikes of tall purple iris. I’ve spotted a couple of budding yellow roses. And all my friends who garden seem to be on peony watch, according to Instagram.

There are many ways to mark time, of course: the alarm clock, the calendar with its dates and boxes, the annual rhythm of the academic year. We are heading into summer, which means the slow season for classes and events, though some things never stop entirely. But as we wrap up another semester, the outdoors is bursting into glorious green life: bellflowers and dandelions, azaleas and wild geraniums, rhododendrons and violets and so many others I can’t name.

It’s almost too much, this abundance, after months of barren brown earth and bare branches. My eyes can hardly take it in; my soul feels sated, full of color, and at the same time it craves more. It is both ephemeral and lasting, this pageant of color and light: it changes daily, weekly, but it makes a living tapestry that endures.

By now it’s a rhythm that lives deep in my body, my fingers thrumming with the awareness of new life, new growth. It is at once a universal and a particular kind of glory: it happens every spring, but it’s still a wonder.

Soon the calendar will flip to June, and the lilacs will go over, to be replaced by roses and peonies, rhododendron and mountain laurel. I’ll be watching for columbines in every color, for iris in purple and white and gold, for poppies and jasmine and honeysuckle, for other delights I don’t know about yet.

You can’t schedule meetings by flowers, maybe, but I’ll be happily marking time by them, all summer long.

Read Full Post »