Daylight now plays secondary to darkness. Not the awesome state of Dec. 21, but the gradual nibbling away of four minutes a day of sunlight. That doesn’t sound like a big bite of time until added up and you’re twenty-eight minutes behind the game in taking a walk, taking pictures of the last of summer’s flowers or merely reading without a lamp.
Temperatures are also supposed to be heading to lower numbers. The boys will wear shorts until their friends pull out sweats or long jeans. It’s all relative. In March sixty degrees suggests that a sweater can stay in the car or at home. In October someone will pull out a jacket and hat, maybe even gloves, when leaving for work. Spiders find their way into the house, spinning webs where no one wants to see a creepy critter hanging. The hummingbirds are gone, but the geese increase in number, pooping everywhere and honking at ungodly hours.
Since the pandemic, things have changed. Or maybe it’s my age. Instead of planning a fall and winter wardrobe, I found new black pants, a pair of jeans, a new sweater, and comfortable shoes. A writer’s life is simple without office mates remembering that you’ve worn the same long black turtleneck for a few years.
Open the windows for cool sleeping. Bake apple crisp or apple pie or apple cake. Celebrate the passing of mosquitos when walking the old dog. If it wasn’t for November 5, this could be the best time of the year.
Mountains, hills, and the conical peak of Volcan Santa Maria stretched across the horizon. Church steeples poked up around the valley. Pigeon’s cooing, roosters crowing, and dogs barking punctuated the afternoon. Mayans in colorful dress walked easily up and down the narrow steep cobblestone streets.
I recognized the little park where we had enjoyed the sun’s rays before entering the restaurant. Flags flowed gently in the breeze above the two cement benches. The park would become our landmark. Left to our Spanish school, right to the restaurant and down the hill to our homestay.
“Me and Mama Jody feel the same way when we are around Lake Atitlan,” I reminded her. On many occasions Jody and I discussed buying property around the lake and looked at homes for sale. Surrounded by mountains, volcanoes, and water, Lake Atitlan was our sanctuary. Cradled by the universe, the heart of the mother, we felt loved, protected and at peace.
Eventually, Crystel and I made our way back to our homestay for dinner at 7 pm. Within days we had established a pattern: breakfast with the family, language school, return for lunch, fitness center, afternoon café for hours of reading and writing, finally head back for dinner and lastly bedtime.
Sidewalks, Xela
Crystel was our de facto leader. I was content to follow her on the uneven and unpredictable sidewalks that were not wide enough for two people to walk side by side. She helped with bank business and researched cafes, restaurants, and excursions. I gave up any semblance of being in charge. On occasion when I did assert myself and speak on her behalf, she let me know that it wasn’t wanted. I was to be her companion on this trip, the friend who had inferior language skills and was inept at GPS. I was comfortable to step aside and allow her caretaking. It was a gift to be her mother, a speck on the wall, and observe her engagement with others, be fully in the moment, and witness her desire to learn.
“It’s right here,” Crystel said. She stopped at a pistachio-colored building front with a tan door.
Entrance to our homestay was through a dimly lit garage. A motorcycle with parts and tires strewn about rested against a cement wall. Broken dusty chairs stacked in a corner. Drywall and crumbled brick swept in a pile. Oil cans, assorted tools, and dog dishes near the rickety steps that climbed to the roof. At times dried dog poo could be spotted. Once I very carefully climbed the stairs to the roof to see if I could escape to a sunlit area to read and write only to be disappointed. Discarded items, unused pot plants, and cement blocks held sheets of tin in place.
“Mama Beth,” Crystel whispered. I opened my door. “What’s that?” she gestured.
Beth and Crystel, El Paredon
I loved it when she visited me, searched me out. We had an easiness about us. Could provide each other company without talking. I sniffed back a sob. On my bed was a piece of sheet rock and plaster dust. “It must of fell from the ceiling or wall.” Sitting with my legs dangling over the bed my back ached from the strain. The mess wasn’t there when we left after lunch for our afternoon workout and café outing.
Crystel wanted to laugh. It is what we have both done to relieve tension. She thought better of it after seeing my face. My eyes were red from crying. My face flushed.
“I just finished talking with Mama Jody. I’m so depressed. The clutter and dirt really get to me.” I pointed to the corner of my room and the top of my console. More plaster dust, more debris.
I brushed off my bed. Crystel climbed in with her book.
“Now, I’m worried about bed bugs and fleas. Any time I see a spot on my pillowcase or bedding, I put a finger by it to see if it will jump.”
At dinnertime, Ms. Amsterdam told Crystel that she would not pet the dog if it were her. “The dog has fleas,” she said. Crystel’s hand sprung from the little white friendly dog. “I have flea bites on my ankles because I let the dog in my room.” Mr. England added that there were bed bugs in the mattresses.
Crystel stiffened. “I like it here,” she said. “The food is good. The family is nice.”
“I agree. The food is simple and wonderful. I never have to spice anything. The portions are just the right size.” I shifted to lean my back against the headboard. “I hear you laughing and using your Spanish. You could have done this trip by yourself. Did you hear Ms. Amsterdam say that another student looked at my room and then left? She said she couldn’t do it.”
What is my purpose in all this? This trip was for her. It was supposed to be about her growth. Her lessons. Not mine. What is the meaning here?
I sensed that Crystel didn’t want to move from our homestay. She could be imagining how it might be to live with her birth family.
My PTSD was triggered our first night at the homestay. I hadn’t been able to shake it. It took me some time to figure out why I was on heightened alert and couldn’t sleep. It occurred to me that it was about the mess and the chaos that I grew up in. As a teenager, anxiety built inside me until I exploded and got on my hands and knees and scrubbed our kitchen and hallway floors bit by bit. I’d start at my parents’ bedroom, move backwards to my sister’s, then mine, change water and start again in the kitchen area. A table knife in my soapy pail of water was to get what the scratch pad wouldn’t.
Chaos meant no one was in charge. If no one was in charge, I wouldn’t be safe. At any minute things could spiral out of control. If I could just clean the house, I’d be safe. My parents were of no help. I had long become the surrogate parent to my younger siblings.
I breathed deeply. “We are leaving for El Paredon on Friday,” I said. “Maybe a long weekend away will be just what I need to reset.”
I can do this. It’s not that bad. I don’t want to hurt the family’s feelings by leaving. I don’t want to take money away from them. They counted on us. Crystel is doing great. Fitting right in with this Guatemalan family. I can do this. It’s not so bad.
El Paredon, Surfing
El Paredon, a remote surf beach town on the Pacific Coast of Guatemala with a black sand beach was on Crystel’s must-do list. She had learned how to surf in Hawaii and wanted to visit surfing destinations. Maybe at El Paredon, I’d find my epiphany. Sunrises and sunsets were known to be spectacular. I imagined relaxing on a sunny beach and enjoying the outdoor hotel pool, lounging, healing, and napping. Crisp clean white bed linen and towels. Fluffed up pillows. A TV to scroll in the evenings. A private bathroom with a warm shower. Falling asleep to the sound of the ocean.
Before leaving for our long weekend, I folded the blankets on my bed. Removed my sheets and pillowcases. Set them by the washing machine.
Every birthday I consider what the past year has brought and what I hope the upcoming year will bring. This year as I entered a new decade, my focus was also tempered by the awareness that my time isn’t unlimited, and I want to use it well. What will the coming days and years consist of? Family and friends, health upkeep, travel, fun and for me, writing.
At first, asking what role writing will play in my life seems silly. Creative writing isn’t something you have to retire from. I can write as long as the words and ideas come. But the deeper question is—What are my expectations about publication?
Widely published authors like Stephen King and Joyce Carol Oates can continue publishing as long as they care to. It’s a different matter for the writers I know, who have a modest number of publications. Like it or not, the marketplace may decide for them. Because it’s a personal and potentially painful decision, writers don’t always discuss the dilemma.
In the past 20 years, I’ve written two book-length memoirs, but I’m not seeking publication for either of them. I learned what I could about writing books, but it wasn’t enough. The real gift is what I discovered about myself through the writing process. I’m proud of myself for doing the work. I’m at peace with the idea the books won’t be out in the big world.
Instead, I’m focusing on writing short memoirs, essays and blogs. My talents and skills are better suited to short pieces. Most years I publish one or two. Not a breath-taking record, but enough for me. Knowing my words and ideas find an audience in an anthology, literary journal or blog is plenty.
Publication plays a small part in my commitment to writing. I write because it helps me make sense of my world.
Two quotes sum up my outlook. The first comes from a blog by Amy Grier who was struggling with her writing and the state of the world in November 2020. Her thoughts are still relevant:
“Writing tethers me to the world in a way nothing else does . . . I don’t know who will be president, what’s happening to my country, even what will happen to me. But I’m going to write anyway. It’s my remedy for despair. It’s how I will survive.”
The next comes from an interview with Margaret Atwood, who offered a few rules for writers. After making practical writerly suggestions, she also said this:
“Nobody is making you do this: you chose it, so don’t whine.”
For as long as it pleases me I will honor my creative nature and write anyway.
Very true, Ellen. And you have been published, just not those two memoirs. A former college friend of mine, who won a Pulitzer prize, just wrote about her process for producing a weekly column. This past week she had a topic she was trying to work out and she wrote and wrote and wrote and produced nothing that came near what was in her mind. She’s a truly professional writer who knows enough to understand that sometimes that is the process she has to go through to work through something that doesn’t need to be written for others. Thank you, Margaret Atwood for another brutal insight.
I agree, writing is the important thing. Sometimes publication happens, sometimes it doesn’t, and sometimes we don’t even want it to! Writing can, and should be, its own reward.
👏🏼 Sounds like a perfect course of action for you, Ellen.
When I saw your photo, my first thought was how good your ergonomic posture is, a sign of a true pro. 🙂
Oh funny! I slouch plenty, but glad I impressed you. 😆
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One response to “Spiders, Jeans and Apples”
Love seeing the fall colors