What a new world! Well, every moment is new, but the political shift has permeated everything. I feel changed, hopeful. We will see, won’t we? It’s like this work I do at my computer—sometimes it’s a happy surprise, sometimes a slog.
I guess I told you about my little project, one short poem most days, a string of them almost like a diary. Speaking of diary, I’ve put my diary project on hold for now. I already have two books coming out (!). That’s enough. I decided to use my writing time to do the short poems. Maybe a book of them? In any case they keep me writing, which is the important thing. The more I write, the more likely something good will come of it.
I’m happy to be at the lake. After dreading having to actually cook again, I’ve found I’m kind of enjoying it as long as it’s simple. I’ve found I can swim without hurting my back as long as I do a flutter kick, not the frog kick, with my breast stroke. Hooray! I live to swim. Here, that is, in this deliciously clear, silky water. I don’t care so much for chlorine and concrete pools. I’m also walking—too far sometimes. I get all ambitious. Yesterday I did nothing, worn out from the day before.
My daughter Kelly and her daughter Abby
My 80th birthday was spectacular! Kelly lured me to a restaurant in Bellaire where, surprise! there were a large bunch of family and friends! We all had dinner and then went back to the cottage for cake. But the best part were the letters Kelly and Scott wrote to me as birthday cards. Their childhood was so difficult, so disrupted. Since I’ve come to myself, I’ve felt sad and guilty. But what they wrote was evidence that we’ve all grown up. They’ve more than survived. They’re wonderful adults, kind and generous. And I’m not the same person who dragged them through those hard times, those awful marriages.
Grandson Noah, aptly named, the fish whisperer
“Come to myself” is the truth of it. There’s a true self that seems to be slowly uncovered over the years. If we’re lucky. We’re obscured by our confused thoughts, our damaged and deformed thoughts. They’re like mussels sticking to the metal legs of the dock. The only way you can get them off is to scrape them off. It’s hard work, usually, and it hurts. Okay, stupid comparison, but you get the idea.
Diane Seuss says in an interview, “I imagine many writers feel this: every life phase, every book, uncovers another layer, debrides the burn more deeply. I’m not sure if I’m getting more honest—like nothin left to lose—or if the tone or quality of the honesty has simply shifted.”
These sometimes-daily poems—you could say they keep debriding the surface. I’m weary of clever poems. I’m also weary of simple poems that offer me nothing, that are essentially prose. What I want are poems that are both rich and true. I think of Richard Wilbur. I frequently think of him. He’s sort of my polestar of rich and true poems.
Fall at the cottage.
The cottages have been my polestar. They’re basic. The big cottage has no insulation, only rafters. The little cottage has just enough space for two people. I thrive on simple, on my same ratty summer shirt, my feet on the thick mat of leaves, even on carrying compost to the garbage hole.
Well, it’s not really simple here. We have internet and cable, we have two little gas fireplaces plus the old real one. Merrie’s Market is just over a mile away and has a pretty sophisticated array of food.
The thing is, in my mind, it’s simple here. I’ve been coming all my life. Something in me carries the memory of learning to walk here. Think of that! Still, I don’t think you need to return to your roots to do good writing; I think you need to find the roots in where you are. A true sense of where you are and how you relate to it.
It’s not true that I’ve been coming here all my life. You can measure my closeness to my real self by which years I was elsewhere and the ones when I came here. For a long time, I was wandering in the wilderness. Again, there are all sorts of wildernesses and I don’t think you need a cottage to find your way back.
And where was my son Scott all this time? Motorcycling across the country with his friend Wally, a trip he’s dreamed of for ages. He’ll be at the cottage later, with Adriana.