Friday, May 2, 2014
Morning...5:29, a hot cup of raw-honey-sweetend Russian Caravan by my side, the rooster making a racket, the kiddos upstairs sleeping, the world blushing into light from behind my friends the trees (hemlock, spruce, birch, pine).
It's been a literary week. Two nights ago my book group met at The MacArthur House (have I mentioned this here, yet? No I think I have not. More on that soon) and discussed, passionately, Why We Love Alice Munro (and, fortunately for all of us, why some do not).
There was wine, food, good company, and two hours of talk about her women, her landscapes, her craft. I came home blushing.
Last night I drove with my dad to Green Writers Press's book launch for two new releases: Leland Kinsey's book of poems, Winter Ready and Patti Smith's book, The Beavers of Popple Pond.
It's been a long time since I've been to a reading, a long time since I've been out on the town in the evening without my kids.
The reading was wonderful, but as wonderful was sitting in the darkness of the pew, sans children, almost alone, feeling words wash over me.
I slipped my feet out of my shoes and thought: I could become some eccentric, crazy old lady in not too long.
I thought: there will be a time, soon, when I am not defined by my children.
I thought: what will I do with my life then?
I'm still figuring that one out, as I hope you are each still figuring that one out. Just exactly who you want to be. What you will do with this "one wild and precious life."
One of the things I love most about Alice Munro's stories is the way her narratives take sharp and surprising turns, just as the lives of her characters do. The way her protagonists relentlessly chase after their own happiness (without predictable outcomes for those turns).
I've always related to those women: their restlessness and their constant desire to know themselves better.
And I blabbing? I am blabbing.
The sun is up. The tea is near-empty. Good morning, dear friends. Your comments here keep me going--without them I'd be a fool.