Marry me

 

My friend’s daughter is getting married today and so I’ve painted a card for the happy couple. A blue iris symbolizes the promise of a bright future, steadfast trust, faith and wisdom. And since this is a Korean wedding, I think the color blue is a good choice because in this culture, it symbolizes a happy and bright future—one filled with calm and wise decisions.

As most of us know, marriage is not about the one day you say I do, but it’s about the journey, the day by day fidelity. In fact, it’s a lot like writing a novel. (But that’s a story for another day).

Painting this blue iris got me thinking of my own marital journey which has not always been calm. However, I will say this--even in the most tumultuous moments, I have always known deep in my heart that I made the right choice in marrying my husband twenty-one years ago. In fact, I am more certain than ever that my pledge of trust and faith and wisdom to this remarkable man was an even better choice than I could have imagined all those years ago. I am grateful and glad that I took that leap of faith.

Creative Friends--you can never fully know what the future holds in store for you. But know this--life as an artist can help guide you. Ask yourself—to what project shall I give my full devotion? Open your eyes and notice images. When you look out the window, what is the first thing you notice? How do you feel about the color blue? Why does the autumn season carry such a gorgeous sadness for you? What are the recurring symbols in your own unique life? What animals speak to you on a deeper level? What words reverberate for you as if their very consonants whisper comfort? The sound of their vowels offering peace. When have you felt most deliciously alive. And who was the person beside you?

If you find that the same person is with you during those times when you have felt the most alive--then marry him, my friends. Marry him.

Love,

Jamie

Consider the Funny Hat

 

My family has a long-held tradition of collecting hats. Some funny. Some serious. Some just plain ridiculous. My father had many great hats. He would show up at our house every Thanksgiving wearing his red and black plaid lumberjack hat--the one with the faux fur ear flaps. He bought it at Ocean State Job Lot and now I have it. For some crazy reason, my older brother did not claim his inheritance of the crazy hat collection.

Go figure.

Among Papa Callan’s collection, I also found a faux Russian Cossack hat, as well as a a delightful wide brimmed rain hat--bright yellow in the style of the Morton Salt Girl. With ear flaps. Everyone in the Callan family loves ear flaps. (Okay, not really.) I also found a bunch of souvenir baseball caps, but I can’t abide by them—mainly because they’re worn with no sense of irony—so into the donation bin they went.

My mother did not collect hats. Rather, she collected wigs. Same thing, really, if you think about it. They keep your head warm and you can change them up and achieve a unique look with each one you chose, depending on style and color.

And yes, since I’m a certified Callan, I not only collect funny hats, but I collect wigs. Well, not so much anymore. These days, I’m more interested in fascinators. That’s because I took a fascinator workshop at Spencertown Academy Arts Center and I learned how to make my own fascinator. I’ll show it to one day, if you’re very, very good.

Creative Friends--we’re in Halloween season and the shops are filled with silly accessories. The possibilities are endless. Why not take this opportunity to try on a new identity? Think about the art of it. What historical moments would you like to reference? What famous people are you channeling? How can you turn the volume up. Or down? Or mix that reference with something so highly personal that no one will every guess what you’re doing. But, you’ll know.

Love,

Jamie

A Crash, A Concussion. And years later, the Memories.

 

That’s me on the left--the girl with the scowl. And there’s my brother, smiling. It’s 1962. There’s a whole lot behind this photograph. My father posed us in front of the new car he had just bought to replace the Ford that was destroyed when my mother and I were in a crash on the Connecticut Turnpike. She was still in the hospital when this photograph was taken, barely alive--her hip, knee and ankle shattered. I survived--a miracle, since this was in the days before safety belts and I was thrown through the windshield landing in the grass on the side of the highway.

But why the scowl? I am eight years old, about to start the fourth grade. Mrs. Poole will be my teacher in September at Belltown Elementary School and I imagine I’ll be able to get out of school work, because I have a concussion.

But Mrs. Poole was strict and she didn’t buy this tactic. That’s all I remember from the fourth grade. The rest is a concussive blur. The next thing I remember is waking up and it’s November 1963, I’m in the fifth grade and the teacher tells us we can go home early because our president has been shot.

That’s how a lot of my childhood felt--like slides in a Kodak Carousel--moving fast, flipping through the years with some jumbled images from vacations and holidays and then some years--just blank. Completely blank.

But here’s the remarkable part about being seventy-two years old--my brain has started filling in the missing pieces. Everyday brings new discoveries. I may not remember where I put the car keys, but I remember the jump rope song from second grade. (Miss Mary Mack Mack Mack), not that your asked.

It’s all a miracle. Truly.

Creative Friends-- If you are reading this and you are young--slow down and observe. Write things down. Record events. Take pictures. Do whatever you can to hold onto your memories. And if you are old, like me and memories have begun to slowly trickle back into your consciousness, then take the time to honor them. Build on the memories available to you now and slowly fill in all the missing pieces. And then, like Proust after his taste of the Madeleine—your story be illuminated.

Love,

Jamie

Creative Enchantment

 

Last night, I returned from a month away at my artist residency at the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts. Even now, the enchantment of a residency is still with me, buzzing around me. How can I describe it? It’s kind of like spending the summer at camp--where you meet wonderful new friends and you swim and learn how to make lanyards and you sit around the campfire and laugh and cry over the scary stories.

In the case of an artists residency, there are no scary stories, but rather nightly artist talks and writers readings. Oh, and composers playing music. Singing. Walks. Intense conversations. Heartfelt revelations. During the day when you’re working, things are relatively quiet, but as you walk down the path to the studios, you can feel the buzz of the artist worker bees. It’s energizing and inspiring. Pictured above, are the chairs under the tree where we generally take our boxed lunches. And talk.

But, sometimes you don’t take your lunch with the group. You are too immersed in your project and you lunch alone in your studio because you want to stay in that creative dream space, deeply immersed in a state of enchantment.

Once you’ve experienced living in a place made up entirely of creatives, it’s hard to imagine a world without this sense of camaraderie along with the freedom to be completely yourself.

Creative Friends--find a place where you surround yourself with people who care deeply about the holy act of bringing beauty into this world. You can find your creative space in your own backyard. At a local cafe or library or knitting club. You can find your creative space in your own heart, among your people. Truly, you don’t have to go to an artist residency—however, if you can, I highly recommend it.

With love and gratitude,

Jamie

A Long and Winding Road

This is the path to the studios at the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts. I've walked it for over forty years, starting during the summer of 1982, when I first arrived as a writing fellow.

 

And so now, I am currently the oldest fellow, surrounded by writers and artists and composers in their twenties and thirties. A few in their forties and fifties. But still, they're young! And, oh my goodness, they're so talented, so inspiring, especially to someone like me who's been around the block a time or two. Or five or six or seven or eight.

 

Just call me Grandma Jamie. Actually, I prefer the moniker--Fellow Emeritus--the wise old professor.

I like being old. And I don't want to pretend I'm not old. In fact, I am leaning into this age thing, because it has some delightful benefits. The younger fellows are super-nice to me. Maybe it's because they think I'm not long for this world.

 

Just kidding! I plan to stick around for a while yet.

 

The other day, a poet commented on how I was very good at yoga. (Yes, we practice Ashtanga yoga here at VCCA.) I replied that this shouldn't be surprising because I've been practicing yoga for over fifty years. She looked at me, full of wonder. Fifty years. Incredible.

 

Even to me, it seems incredible.

 

Creative Friends--don't let a number stop you from fully living your life. Be brave and a little adventurous. Open your heart to the unexpected opportunities. Most importantly, be generous to those who are just now beginning their journey. This is not about simply offering up your hard-won wisdom, but rather it's about being a good role model. In the immortal words of Marilyn Monroe--we all get old and we all lose our looks in the end. In order words, no one gets out of Planet Earth alive. So, before you go, make sure you follow the camper's creed and leave this place a little better than you found it.

 

With gratitude to Virginia Center for the Creative Arts and all my fellow artists throughout the decades.

 

Love,

Jamie

A Tale of Two Towers

 

                        The author looking out at the Twin Towers. Photo by Robert Carioscia.

This week during my 7 a.m. novelist group, one of the writers presented an excerpt from the novel Let the Great World Spin by Colum McCann. The novel is about Phillipe Petit’s death-defying 1974 high-wire walk between the two towers of The World Trade Center.

Colum McCann describes the reactions from the spectators down below on the streets of Lower Manhattan that early morning in August. Some were confused, some were awed, some mesmerized. Some imagined a terrible fall from the enormous towers. But some were just annoyed by the interruption on their way to work.

Two years later in 1976 when I was en route to my temp job downtown, a man stood beside me at the cross walk and pointed up at the still-new Twin Towers and he told me how he witnessed Phillippe Petit’s spectacular high-wire act. This man was so enthralled by his experience, that he wanted to describe the excitement of the day to me--a stranger on a street corner. And so simply by listening, I became a witness to a witness.

Yesterday was the anniversary of 9/11 and my friend Elizabeth told me about her habit of emerging from the subway and then looking for the towers in order to determine whether she was facing uptown or downtown. We all did this back then--as a convenient way to find our bearings after emerging from the darkness of the tunnel.

It was something we all took for granted. But no more.

Loss has a shape. When it first arrives, it’s hard and sharp. It’s all angles. It pokes and pings. Then as time passes--say twenty-five years--loss grows softer, more rounded. Perhaps covered in mist.

But still, no less painful.

Creative Friends--our world is changing all the time. Be a witness. Listen. You may find loss. Tragedy. Even horror. But if you keep your eyes open, you might also be rewarded by unexpected delight--the surprising beauty of a lithe young man on a high-wire as he transverses the distance between two towers.

Love,

Jamie

Our Mother, Our Selves

 

Gloria Marie Steinem and her mother, Ruth Nuneviller Steinem

Like her daughter—Gloria Steinem’s mother, Ruth Nuneviller Steinem—was also a writer. In fact, she was a reporter and an editor for the Toledo Blaze--although, she was made to publish under a man’s name. Those were the days. Everyone accepted it. But then, maybe not. Maybe they just pretended that they accepted it.

Once Gloria’s father left the family, Ruth went on to suffer from several nervous breakdowns and later as a single parent with little money and little support, she raised Gloria on her own. Gone was the opportunity to fulfill her own dreams and ambitions.

Here’s what Gloria Steinem said about our mothers and daughters:

A lot of us had mothers who were driven crazy by society. Or who just couldn’t be powerful through no fault of theirs. Society wouldn’t let them be powerful. In some sense we were motherless. The women’s movement allowed women to become each others mothers. And to support and model and hope and praise and love each other enough so that we could begin to repair the early damage.

This is why we had Consciousness Raising Workshops. At this point in time, it may seem quaint, but back in the late sixties, women did not feel safe freely sharing the growing sense that the world felt terribly unfair. We were told to be grateful if we were able to find a husband and our only ambition in life should be to keep a tidy home and care for the babies. I know this because at fifteen I begin attending Consciousness Raising Workshops with my mother (who like Gloria’s mother had a nervous breakdown). We were joined by my mother’s very progressive cousin, Beatrice. I am forever grateful for this sisterhood. And I believe it was hearing these women’s stories that made me want to be a writer and to make a difference in the world.

Creative Friends--in honor of Gloria’s memory, I would like to suggest that we mother each other, that we encourage each other’s creative endeavors and ambitions. Let’s make the world a kinder, more generous place--so that we may all feel the power of being loved and mothered and supported.

Love,

Jamie

And I Will Always Love You

 

I have always loved Dolly’s music and I especially loved her 1980 anthem to the plight of underappreciated office workers.

Working Nine to Five. What a way to make a living. They use your mind and they never give you credit. It’s enough to drive you crazy if you let it.

As a young mother, I worked for Estee Lauder alongside the most brilliant, funny, creative women I’ve ever met. (This was after experiencing massive sexism in male-run companies and making the very conscious decision to work for a company run by women).

Still, it was a hustle--out of bed at 5:30 in the morning to write, then waking up my baby daughter to bring her to childcare. Hustling down the subway steps, rattling around in the metal box on the Lexington Line, alighting at 59th Street and running across Lex, Park, Madison, Fifth and then into the GM Building where all the Lauder Girls switched out our sneakers for high heels. Then, we put on our lipstick and got to work at our trusty typewriters.

Perhaps this is what I appreciate the most about Dolly--her work ethic. Here’s what she had to say about a woman’s career:

After you reach a certain age, they think you’re over. Well, I will never be over. I’ll be making records if I have to sell them out of the trunk of my car. I’ve done that in my past, and I’d do it again.

I feel exactly the same way about writing.

So yes, I have always loved Dolly. I admire her can-do spirit as well as her unapologetic feminine-feminism--how she used her womanly charms to disarm the folks who tried to get in her way--how she championed the rights of all people, created her Imagination Library, how she supported scientific research.

She did all this while sporting an over-the top blonde bouffant and really big bosoms--so big that you would think they’d get her way.

They did not get in her way.

Creative Friends--be yourself. Work hard. Keep your sense of humor. And never give up. And like Dolly, I will always love you.

Jamie

Take me home, Country Roads

 

Almost Heaven. West Virginia.

Okay, not exactly West Virginia, but I’m happy to announce that a week from today I’ll be on en route to Virginia in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains where I am so lucky to have received a three-week writing fellowship to the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts.

My first residency at VCCA was in 1982 when I was a mere child. Okay, I was actually twenty-eight and I had just published my first novel--a YA titled Over the Hill at Fourteen. It was inspired by the 1980 ad with a fourteen year old Brooke Shields asking the question--What comes between me and my Calvins?

The answer--Nothing.

If you’re old enough, you might remember that the ad created quite a stir. NAL asked me to write a novel about a fourteen year old fashion model inspired by Brooke Shields.

The novel was a big success. It came at exactly the right time. And as they say, timing is everything.

Until it’s not. Over the course of my career, I have been in and out of vogue. (Maybe more out, than in.) Back in the aughts, while all my friends were getting big book deals and appearing on Oprah and Good Morning America, I was busy spinning my wheels. Yes, I was writing and writing, but somehow I did not sync up with the times.

And so, no. I have never had that kind of big break-out, life-altering success.

Perhaps I never will.

Why am I telling you this? Because despite the fact that I have found peace with my life under the radar, I have never given up on the dream of life-changing literary success. Even at this advanced stage of life. And so, returning to the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts is deeply meaningful to me.

Creative Friends--your journey is your journey and it’s yours alone. It will have surprising twists and turns. There will be detours along with periods of great stagnation. There will be departures and arrivals and sometimes and reunions, returns.

Here are your instructions: Put your dance shoes on. Pen to paper. Get the guitar out. Have faith that you are on the right path. Keep your eyes wide open and enjoy the forever-changing view.

Love,

Jamie

Begin and Begin Again

 

 

My friend told me that she loves Irises. And so, I thought, well, then I’m going to paint an Iris for her! Never mind that I’ve never tried to draw or paint an Iris. I just got to it. And then, shortly into this ill-fated endeavor, I realized the extent of my hubris.

An Iris is a complicated flower. All those ruffles and ridges. The floppiness of the thing, those crazy petals. It makes no sense! But, once I began I couldn’t stop. My first try is the colorful one in the middle. My husband glanced at it and said, how nice! You’re painting the broccoli from our garden! I was highly offended, until I realized he was teasing me. Although, I do admit the stems do look a bit broccoli-esque.

My next try is the one all the way to the right. I actually kind of like this one. It’s so sad. So poignant! To me, it looks like a faded illustration you’d see in an old flower book. But it’s the color that makes this painting sad—but this color is actually a mistake. I used the sort of micron pen that when you apply paint, it gets muddied. So, I was left with this grey color, even though it intended it to be a bright turquoise blue. What a surprise to end up with this faded Iris!

My most recent attempt is the Iris on the left. It’s still a work-in-progress. I haven’t had a chance to apply color to it, and so it’s all potential. This one kind of thrills me.

In fact, all three illustrations thrill me and truthfully, I love them. I love the one that’s kind of funny and looks like broccoli. I love the little one--the sad one that looks neglected and very, very old. Poor thing! And finally, I love the third drawing because it’s unfinished and it’s all potential.

Creative Friends--resist the urge to judge. Let your work live on its own terms. Let it reveal itself to you and be what it wants to be. Your job is to simply get close enought to listen and hear what it’s trying to tell you. Lean into that mystery and then begin, begin, begin. And begin again.

Love,

Jamie

The Art of French Socks

 

Look at this! One sock has big dots and the other sock has stripes and little dots. What could it possibly mean? These socks do not match! Something strange is going on here. Have I lost the matching sock in the wash or is it that my eye sight is failing? Perhaps I’m losing my mind?

Actually, none of these things. In fact, these socks were given to me by my artist friend, Cheryl Fortier, who recently retired as Resident Director of the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts in Auvillar, France. Beginning in 2009 Cheryl--along with her charming husband, John Alexander—welcomed visiting artists-in-residency from all over the world. I am lucky to have experienced the joy of a writing residency and later teaching alongside Cheryl at VCCA/Moulin à Nef. Truly, it was the experience of a lifetime.

So yes, my socks are French. And the mismatch is purposeful. Artful. Given to me by an artist. Whenever I look at my feet, well, I have happy feet. They’re a reminder of Cheryl and John, VCCA Auvillar, my wonderful experience and the enduring joys of imperfection.

Creative Friends--re-think the orderly life. Reconsider your urge to make things match. Be brave and a little wild and find the beauty in chaos. And as always, have fun.

Love,

Jamie

My Life as a Redhead

 

I began coloring my hair red after I turned thirty. Perhaps it was an homage to my Irish heritage. But since I was deprived of the red, I gave myself the hair color I felt I deserved.

I started with henna, but as you might know, once you’ve dipped your toe into the waters of hair-colorie, well, it’s a short trip to full-on Clairol at home in the bathroom sink.

This allure of the red hair came from more than my Irish ancestry. I grew up with a steady diet of I Love Lucy and Million Dollar Movies featuring famous red-heads like Rita Hayworth and Ann-Margret, but I related more to the comic red-heads, the girl next door types like Shirley MacLaine—the ones who weren’t obvious beauties but got the plot moving in unexpected directions.

I eventually grew my red hair long and then I got bored with it and cut it myself into a sort of mullet, which was a disaster, so I disguised the crazy choppiness by pulling it up into a lopsided Cyndi Lauper style ponytail. And then, there I was by 1991--sitting in a UCLA classroom wearing my Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown tee-shirt with fake shoulder pads. It was a look. Okay?!

A little aside---I once met the director, Pedro Almodóvar and when I introduced myself, he gave me a kiss on each cheek. Evidence that people like red heads!

Unfortunately, once I returned to Connecticut to teach at the very proper Fairfield University, my red hair became a liability. And so, I experimented with more subtle shades of red. And then brunette. And then, brunette with a fuchsia streak. When I moved to Cape Cod--land of Lily Pulitzer pastels--I went blonde. And then variations on the blonde theme.

And now, and now? I’m a natural platinum blonde from the Land of Upstate. (Okay, grey!) Truth is, I no longer think about hair color all that much. I have the hair of an old woman and that’s because--I am an old woman!

Creative Friends--in your life time, you will try on many identities. My advice--allow yourself free rein. Have fun. Make mistakes. (More importantly, make friends!) But know this--one day, you will return to yourself.

And that is the greatest pleasure of all.

Love,

Jamie

How I Got Published in Modern Love

Twenty years ago, on July 23, 2006, my essay The Semicolon Was Our Blinking Caution Light appeared in the New York Times Modern Love column.

This was the story of how I met the man who would become my husband in my creative writing class at Fairfield University—how we flirted with one another, but we didn’t get romantic until many years later. (He was my student, after all.) By necessity, we took a slow, circuitous path to love. Oh, and it involved a semicolon.

You can read the essay here: The Semicolon Was Our Blinking Caution Light

Over the years, people have asked me about the secret to getting published in the Modern Love column. And so, to celebrate the 20th anniversary, here goes:

1. To begin with, I read the column every Sunday without fail. I studied the essays and thought about what made each one compelling.

2. While my essay was about meeting my husband, it was also a tale of surviving a difficult divorce, the Northridge Earthquake, moving from L.A. to Connecticut. It was also about my mother’s death and cancer and the transformative power of love.

3. I wrote the essay fast and left it a little unpolished, so that it did not sound like some writerly-writer wrote it. It sounded like an ordinary woman with a story to tell wrote it.

4. I opened the original essay with I am kissing my student. I will admit, this line was a bait and switch, because the truth was, by the time Bill and I kissed, he was no longer my student, but he had become a good friend. And he was an adult student, older than me. However, one must never underestimate the power of the first sentence.

5. Finally, I wrote the story from the heart. I didn’t overthink it. And I was brave.

And you are brave.

Creative Friends--you have many stories to tell. Your assignment this week is to think of some interesting (or even puzzling) experiences you’ve had throughout your life. Now, put these stories in a tumbler, shake them up, and then pour them out. See how you’ve created a brand new cocktail—a completely fresh way of looking at your life!

All you have to do next is add a garnish and then serve.

Love, Jamie

Get Your Ducks in a Row

 

Well, I’m sitting here thinking about getting my ducks in a row--my ducks being the completion of the novel I began in 2017 (nearly ten years in the making!)

I’ve been thinking about what will I do when I type the words Fin and then hit send. (Hey, that rhymes! Okay, it’s a rhyme by association.) Gawd, I’m already exhausted.

And, I’m sad. This is the part they don’t tell you about in the M.F.A. program (or at least not in the macho boot camp style M.F.A. program I attended in the 1980’s). No, there was no crying allowed! Although, I cried all the time. And I still do.

Perhaps this is why it has taken me so long to write my novel--because I really truly enjoy writing. It’s not terribly strenuous. Maybe that’s because I write in bed in the morning (yes, just like Edith Wharton) and then I cry at the end of the day. Also, I suppose I’m a homebody these days. Perhaps too, it’s the world at large--the smoke from the wild fires rolling down Canada to Upstate New York. Perhaps it’s the current politics. And then, there’s my age.

Oh, do not ask “what is it?“ Let us go and make our visit. (T.S. Elliot’s J. Alfred Prufrock knew all about growing old, feeling utterly misunderstood, and being sensitive and shy.) And yet, Prufrock still went out to that party with the ladies asking questions--despite the fact that he could hear the mermaids singing and imagined himself as a pair of scuttling claws along the ocean’s bottom.

And despite a million decisions and indecisions, he dared to eat a peach.

Creative Friends--There will always be reasons to eschew the wider world, but there comes a day when you must loosen your grip, uncurl your fingers and open up your palms to new possibilities. Reach out to the evening’s warmth and yes, dare to eat a peach.

Oh, and go ahead and cry. I give you full permission. In fact, dear friends--I support you in this noble endeavor.

Love,

Jamie

Well, I'm sitting here thinking about getting my ducks in a row--my ducks being the completion of the novel I began in 2017 (nearly ten years in the making!) 

I've been thinking about what will I do when I type the words Fin and then hit send. (Hey, that rhymes! Okay, it's a rhyme by association.) Gawd, I'm already exhausted. 

And, I'm sad. This is the part they don't tell you about in the M.F.A. program (or at least not in the macho boot camp style M.F.A. program I attended in the 1980's). No, there was no crying allowed! Although, I cried all the time. And I still do.

Perhaps this is why it has taken me so long to write my novel--because I really truly enjoy writing from the bed (yes, I write in bed, just like Edith Wharton) and then crying at the end of the day. And I suppose I'm a homebody. Perhaps too, it's the outer world--the wild fires from Canada, the current politics. My age.

Oh, do not ask "what is it?" Let us go and make our visit. (T.S. Elliot's J. Alfred Prufrock knew all about being sensitive and shy, growing old and feeling utterly misunderstood.) And yet, Prufrock still went out to that party--even though he heard the mermaids singing and saw himself as a pair of scuttling claws along the ocean's bottom. And despite the million decisions and indecisions, he dared to eat a peach.

Creative Friends--There will always be reasons to eschew the wider world, but there comes a day when you must loosen your grip, uncurl your fingers and open your palms to a new possibility. Reach out to the evening's warmth and yes, dare to eat a peach. Oh, and go ahead and cry. I give you full permission. In fact, dear friends--I support you in this noble endeavor.

Love,

Jamie

 

 

If I Could Talk to the Animals

 

Life on La Belle Farm is generally peaceful and quiet, but yesterday morning Farmer Bill and I were startled out of a sound sleep at about 6 a.m. by a very loud and incessant squawking and screeching. Whattheheck!!!??? What is this?!

We checked the windows to see what sort of crazy kids were out there in the hay field starting up a punk rock band, but we couldn’t find anyone. And then, came a thump-thump-thumping on our roof as if a couple of bobcats were up there duking it out, vying for territory.

Finally, things quieted down and later that day, the farmer (and resident birder) discovered the perpetrator of all this racket soaring into the sky, taking flight. He told me what we’ve got on our hands is a Bald Eagle. He said our bird has a seven foot wing span and does not yet have the white head of an Adult Bald Eagle, but rather a mottled brown head of a Juvenile Bald Eagle. In order words a teenager.

This morning while in the garden picking red raspberries I caught sight of our Juvenile Bald Eagle. He circled over my head, taunting me with his gorgeous wing span. Perhaps he wants to be my friend?

Okay, perhaps not, because shortly after this, I found a strange splattering of white on the walk way to our front door. A message? A warning?

And now, as I write this, Farmer Bill comes in to tell me that our Juvenile Eagle has left a half-eaten rabbit in the middle of our driveway and then flown off. No cleaning up after himself. But perhaps this is a peace offering to make up for the splattered white on the front walk? Then again, perhaps just a suggestion for us to prepare a savory dish of Lapin aux Pruneaux for our young visitor?

Creative Friends--nature is always offering you unexpected lessons. Pay attention and be patient. And who knows, perhaps one day you’ll learn how to talk to the animals. and you can tell your resident eagle not to leave his droppings on the front walkway.

Oh, and if people ask you if you can talk Rhinoceros, you’d say of course-ros, can’t you?

Love,

Jamie

America, My Beautiful Ruin

 

America has always been complicated, unpredictable, a little wild. It’s stitched into her very fabric. Mood swings, unruly behavior, followed by moments of beauty and radiance. Kindness and cruelty. Then, hopefully—clarity.

In the summer of 1976, when we celebrated her last big birthday, I was twenty-two and had just returned from a year abroad. I arrived in New York City to discover it had fallen into a state of disarray, if not ruin. President Ford famously refused to bail out our bankrupt city and left us with streets filled with trash and rats.

That summer as New York prepared to celebrate America’s 200th birthday—as the tall ships sailed beneath the Verrazzano Bridge and then up the Hudson—a sinister malaise descended over our streets.

Although, the tourists seemed to enjoy the spectacle--a much needed distraction after Watergate and Vietnam—but many of us were unmoved. This, despite the Bee Gees telling us that we should be dancing, dancing, dancing. Many of us just weren’t in the mood.

We looked for work and a cheap place to lay our heads. We navigated the fetid streets of the Village, untold dangers huddling in the darkness.

We were oblivious to the fact that a killer was in our midst, that Son of Sam had already begun his tenure. Still, some of us could smell death in the air and we grew cynical.

By 1980, Reagan was in the White House and it seemed as if all our friends had cut their hair short and slicked it back and gone and got themselves an M.B.A. along with a job on Wall Street, making a ton of money. This paid for the truckload of coke and the stamina to dance all night at Studio 54, finally succumbing to the clarion call of disco.

Creative Friends--yes, our country is unruly and undisciplined. She has mood swings and she’s most certainly unfinished. But at 250 years old, she is still quite young.

Let’s not give up on her. Rather, let’s stay hopeful. Watch for better days—because like the wayward daughter, your country will return from her extended sojourn and she will be smarter and stronger for having gone on her very strange voyage.

Love,

Jamie

Working on a Mystery

My husband and I just returned from a long weekend in the Adironacks. We stayed at the Mirror Lake Inn overlooking Mirror Lake. This felt very appropriate considering we were there to celebrate our anniversary, a time of reflection. A time to look back at all that has gone before this moment—twenty-one years of marriage along with eleven years of friendship and romance. And before that, a life in which I could not have imagined finding myself celebrating a wedding anniversary on Mirror Lake.

I didn’t know it at the time, but this man is the reason I left Hollywood and moved back to Connecticut. He’s the reason I survived the Northridge Earthquake. He’s the reason why I took the teaching job at Fairfield University. He’s the reason why I have stayed in the Northeast.

But back in 1994 the future was uncertain.

This marriage has been an ever-unfolding mystery. Every day a new adventure. But, if you ask me at any particular moment, during the ordinariness of the day-to-day, I might say no--it’s not all that mysterious. But when I look back on the years with Dr. Thompson—it seems as if the universe has rearranged itself so that the two of us could meet. Truly, it’s all been a mystery—how I ended up in Woods Hole where he worked as scientist, how I watched him from our deck overlooking Waquoit Bay, digging for clams in the summer and scalloping in the fall. And how he’s now in his garden, with the turnips and the strawberries, the lettuce, the peach trees, the great red barns, the expanding universe.

We are now in our seventies, and our marriage continues to expand in amazing and surprising and yes, sometimes challenging ways. But as I write this, it all feels like a miracle.

Creative Friends—You will always working on a mystery. This can mean bad news and it can mean good news. It just depends on where you want to place yourself on the meridian. My advice--find a good place and pause. Breathe. Bask in the glory of the moment, knowing that nothing lasts forever.

Love,

Jamie

My Father, the Spy

The other night Dr. Thompson and I watched a Jack Ryan film on Netflix. He likes that kind of thing. Me--not so much. However, I will admit that I am interested in the CIA and their goings-on. This is because I was raised by a spy. Okay, it’s true that right up until his death Papa Callan denied being a spy and so it was never completely confirmed.

But, I did grow up with rumors quietly passed between aunts and uncles, cousins and family friends that my father worked for the CIA. My father himself said that at the start of World War II he met with a mathematician in New York City and that she wanted to recruit him to decipher codes. Papa Callan was always very good with numbers. However, he claimed he did not become a code-breaker, but instead joined the Yale V-12 Naval program and then shipped out to Okinawa.

Here’s some more circumstantial evidence:

Papa Callan brought our family down to Key West where we spent the weeks leading up to the Cuban Missile Crisis poolside at the Key Ambassador Hotel, while he was stationed on a Navy ship--just sixty miles from Havana “for training purposes.”

My parents lived in Dhahran, Saudi Arabia from 1976 to 1991 where Papa Callan worked for Aramco, helping the Saudis nationalize their electric grid.

In 1982, Papa Callan just happened to be in Kenya on a photography safari and was “caught up” in coup.

As a volunteer with The Executive Service Corps, Papa Callan arrived Kuwait in 1990, just months before the Iraqi invasion.

And finally, among Papa Callan’s papers, I found a Cold War Recognition Certificate, thanking him for his service, signed by Donald Rumsfeld.

Creative Friends--you will never fully understand your parents. This is not a tragedy. In fact, this not-knowingness is the very thing that drives you to create, to imagine different possible explanations for mysterious events. Do not feel sad that you won’t ever truly know your father (or your mother for that matter.) Be happy that you hold within you a never-ending mystery that will continue to fascinate and challenge and inspire you until the end of your days.

Happy Father’s Day.

Love,

Jamie

Praying Mantis Rings Them Bells

 

We’re sending our prayers. We’re keeping you in our hearts, our thoughts.

Whenever someone shares sad news, you’ll read these words. We might respond with the missive, sending prayers. And yes, it does feel inadequate. And perhaps even cliché.

You ask yourself about your prayer. Will the prayer you send out into the universe even be heard? You wonder if it will simply fly away into the wind and the person on the receiving end will never receive it, will never find comfort in your prayer. Will they be left bereft, sad, lonely?

Is this a reason not to send prayers? Even if your prayer is not heard by someone in charge of human activities--someone who could actually rearrange what happens on the earthly plane--consider the possibility that the trees will hear you? The sky, definitely. Perhaps the garden will hear your prayer.

Perhaps that’s why the peonies shiver every time you pass by them.

Keep walking. The grass hears your approach. The earth feels your uncertain footsteps, as you climb up that hill, tears welling up, streaming down your sun kissed cheeks. Stop and listen, because the earth is sending you prayers. The Praying Mantis on your patio table is absolutely, without-a-doubt, sending prayers.

Why are we stingy with our prayers? And while we’re at it--why we so stingy with the I love you, I love you, I LOVE you!!!

Perhaps we feel foolish? Or we’re afraid of appearing vulnerable?

But, aren’t we actually vulnerable?

Creative Friends--Let’s start a trend—let’s open ourselves up to the mysteries of this world. Let’s pray or chant or meditate. Let’s ring them bells. Let’s keep people in our prayers. And let’s tell them that we love them.

Because we do.

Peace and love,

Jamie

 

Our Common Thread

 

                                The author's daughter in a jacket embroidered forty years ago.

I embroidered this denim jacket when I was twenty-nine years old and pregnant with my daughter. During that year, I was often house-bound (or in this case apartment-bound). This is because I suffered from extreme morning sickness. Morning sickness that lasted all day long, everyday, for the entire length of the pregnancy.

Embroidery gave me something pleasant to focus on as my belly grew big and my body seemed to betray me. During those long months, I breathed and dreamed and pushed the thread through the tough denim fabric, and then with some effort, pulled the thread out the other side. Over and over again, developing a nice rhythm. It took me nine months, the time it took to grow my baby in my belly.

I finished the jacket just before I was rushed to New York Hospital. It took twenty-two hours of intense labor, after which I had a baby girl as well as a beautiful jacket. I gave the embroidered denim jacket to my then-husband. It was my gift to him—a new father—and so I never really expected to see it again--especially after our divorce.

Today, that baby girl is now forty-two years old. And the jacket that I thought had disappeared into the winds of time--has been returned to her. In fact, recently when my daughter met me in Baltimore, she showed up wearing the jacket with the girl embroidered on the back. When I saw the girl I had embroidered, it felt as if had time-traveled into my past and I was meeting up with an old friend with whom I had spent hours musing over needle and thread.

Embroidery is an intimate act. You’re up close to the fabric and working the needle can be very physical. It involves the fingers, hands, arms, shoulders and even the chest and stomach. So yes, I knew the girl on the jacket very well. She’s an old friend. And she’s also someone I birthed.

Creative Friends--when you birth something into the world--trust the process and know that no work is ever lost once it is made. And this is true even if your hard drive swallows up your novel or that special chord is forgotten or your ex-husband steals away with a treasured jacket. No matter what, your creation will always live within you and your beautiful mind. And sometimes it will show up on your daughter’s back.

Love,

Jamie