Path of [De]Light
Now that I’m back in a part of the world where the seasons make sense, I have no problem grasping that the winter solstice is only days away. It’s getting colder, and the days are definitely getting shorter (in sub-tropical Los Angeles the shorter days seemed an artificial contraction created by the movie studios…). As darkness descends over the house in the late afternoon, it’s easy to feel gloomy, though. Something in my DNA wants to retreat into a deep cave and stay by a warm fire until spring. But I remind myself that this is the darkest it will get, and at the solstice on December 21, the days will begin to lengthen once again. In the meantime, I only have to put on my coat and go for an evening stroll. The Christmas lights in my neighborhood—a modern continuation of ancient human traditions to combat the darkness—are extravagant this year. Entire trees are closely covered with twinkling lights in colors that stray from the conventional red, green, and white to icicle blue and bright violet. Front lawns are strewn with wildlife made of lights, including flamingos, crocodiles, and my favorite, a giraffe. Giant round bulbs that seem to contain swirling, glowing snow dangle from branches, and several houses have devices to project falling snowflakes onto their siding. As I wander from one surprising display to the next, I am grateful to my neighbors for creating such light-filled delight!
Processing
In the past, I would return from my travels with dozens of rolls of 120 mm film carefully annotated and stored in a light-tight bag in my carry on. Once home, I would unpack the rolls and line them up on my desk, type my brief notes into my computer, put everything back into the bag, and as soon as I could, drive it to the one facility I trusted to process my film. My memories of the trip, no matter how fabulous, would begin to recede as I returned to the immediate cares of daily life— restocking the refrigerator, catching up on sleep, sorting the mail, doing laundry, and taking care of family needs. By the time the processed transparencies were ready for pick up, I would be ensconced in “normal” life, and I would feel the anticipation of a child at rediscovering the photos. Viewing was a ritual. I would set aside a time, usually in the evening when the lightbox was most effective, and relish every row of images in their plastic sleeves. It was my way of processing the experience and beginning the selection that would lead to creative output. Now, as I return from LA, my hundreds of digital images from Nikon and iPhone have already been downloaded onto my laptop. Adobe Bridge makes it easy to review everything quickly and organize it efficiently. But I still preserve the ritual. I don’t study the images until I’m home and all my molecules have reassembled. Then I set aside a special time to do my own processing. I experienced so much family love and encountered so many unfamiliar landscapes in LA that it will take more than one evening to review it all!
Moisture
November is the beginning of the rainy season in Los Angeles, a city wedged between the ocean and the mountains that receives only 15 inches of rain a year. In my five weeks of residence here, I’ve experienced only two “wet” days, and only one qualified as an actual rainy day. Drought is a serious problem here, so any moisture is cause for celebration. As the weather dips into the 50s, people come out in their winter finery—boots, wool hats, sweaters, and even umbrellas! It’s hard not to look like a tourist in short sleeves and sandals. Coming from the year-round humidity of the DC suburbs, it’s also hard to adjust to this desert climate. My skin is parched, my nails are brittle, and I’m thirsty all the time. But as I wander with my camera, I can appreciate how well the vegetation has adapted to these harsh conditions—succulents and cactuses thrive in low-maintenance gardens in front of many houses. Their unusual textures and intricate configurations attract my lens like pollen attracts a bee. After the rain, all the plants perk up, and its a pleasure to see the difference a little wet nourishment makes to the landscape.
Tday LA
Waking up to bright sunlight, blue skies, and temperatures in the sixties is certainly not a hardship, but it also can’t possibly be November. When I go for my California morning walks, I look for evidence of the season and find plenty in the elaborate harvest wreaths on front doors, but no signs whatsoever on the front lawns. Palm trees, agave, flowering hibiscus, cactus, bougainvillea, and roses are definitely not signs of the season! I am quite sure the Pilgrims never set foot in this land of sunshine and citrus fruit (and isn’t it interesting to speculate how different our national identity might be if they had…). The only trees wearing autumnal colors are the plane trees with yellow-brown leaves still clinging to their branches, and the red-orange sweet gums, both varieties that I suspect were introduced and adapted to this environment. There is one indicator of the season here that does surpass the East Coast, though—the bounty of produce in the grocery stores. Fruits, berries, and vegetables, many of which I never see at home (Satsuma mandarins are stacked high everywhere) expand the possibilities of Thanksgiving dinner. My daughter-in-law is planning three pies (pumpkin, apple, and chocolate cream), and our free range turkey will be ready for pick-up at the local specialty store. The most necessary ingredient for the feast is already here—family. We won’t have to travel far to share our gratitude with the ones we love.
Being Present
By nature I am a worrier, so it takes a lot of practice to keep my mind in the present. The point of any practice is to work at it until it gets easier, but letting go of expectations is particularly challenging for me. These days, however, I’m being taught to stay in the moment on a whole new level by my toddler grandson. He is two and a half, an age that provides hourly delights and challenges for him (and for all those who are involved with his care). His tender and demonstrative nature combined with his limitless curiosity, substantial vocabulary, improving dexterity, surprising strength, and superhuman physical energy make him a teacher like no other. Every morning I must put aside any thoughts I have about desired outcomes or grander goals and simply go with the flow. One morning, he might decide to climb into the car seat on his own while simultaneously describing every step required to start and drive the car (he has a little trouble pronouncing the word “ignition,” but he knows where it goes in the sequence). That afternoon, he will want to avoid the car seat all together and concentrate completely on the fallen leaves on the sidewalk. As I have discovered in other areas of my life, my best coping tools are ingenuity, distraction, gentle nudging, absurd song lyrics, and a sense of humor. Sometimes there are tears, but these are amply compensated for by the most generous hugs in the world. When I crawl into my bed at night, it doesn’t take long to fall asleep. I barely have time to bring to mind the things I’m grateful for, so I’m glad the list is short: another day of being present in the life of my grandson and his family.
To Life!
To gaze into the eyes of a newborn is to witness life in all its glory and mystery. And when that infant is your grandson, the feelings of joy and awe are overpowering. Those dark eyes seem to hold a direct connection to the universe, and I am drawn into their depths as if looking into a bottomless well. It is amazing that this tiny being is already himself, different from his brother, different from his father (my first contact with a newborn), entirely unique. We forget this about ourselves: the particular combination of molecules that makes us who we are has never occurred before and will never occur again. No one else looks through our eyes, no one sees as we see. Our spirit is entirely our own, yet we are all somehow connected. I feel this as I hold my grandson, wondering what he sees as he goes to sleep. I watch expressions flutter across his face—a frown, surprise, worry, a beatific smile—as if he is practicing all the aspects of being human. He has arrived with great good fortune in a family that cherishes him. We all look forward to helping him grow into his life.
New Horizons
My body clock tells me that autumn is deepening, but here I am in Southern California, where the morning sunlight is brighter in November than at any time of the year in Virginia. This is only part of the strangeness of living in a new landscape. My long stay in LA has been planned for months with a very important and joyful purpose—I am here to help out my daughter-in-law and son after the birth of their second boy (any day now!). That sounds so altruistic, but my motives are purely selfish. Thanks to Airbnb, I have found a friendly studio not far from their apartment, and I get to be a part of their lives while experiencing a very different life of my own. As my husband generously holds down the home front, I have the grounding of my family here to mitigate the disorientation of being in a new place, one I've visited often but never gotten to explore on my own. After I drop my toddler grandson at preschool, I have several morning hours to wander with my camera, and that crystal bright California sunshine makes everything photo worthy. The shapes and colors of unfamiliar plants and flowers are irresistible. I am very attached to my home in Virginia, and I miss my studio, my kitchen, my garden, and my familiar routines, but after only a week here, I sense the possibilities for growth in myself and my work. And the laughter of my grandson reminds me to enjoy every day. William Faulkner wrote, “You cannot swim for new horizons until you have courage to lose sight of the shore.” The mountains out my window remind me that I've left the Atlantic far behind.
Purple Power
Time to bring in the houseplants. I try to put it off as long as possible, knowing that my poor plants will have to adapt to cramped spaces and varying degrees of light and humidity. They come inside so full of themselves, having soaked up just enough sunlight and nutrients to get them through the winter. My task will be to keep them happy (and alive) until next April. The clivia don’t mind too much—they’re already in their dormant period and will gladly huddle together in front of the big studio window until I start to water them at the beginning of February. The orchids are less certain, especially since the dryness of the last two months hasn't pleased them. Only one plant seems eager to get indoors and that’s the purple secretia (it’s already taken over all the containers in the garden). Secretia (Tradescantia pallida) has many common names, but whatever you call it, it’s my hardiest indoor plant. I can put it anywhere, in soil or water, and it will thrive. In the bathroom, I have it in a handblown purple glass vase, and it twines itself up the shade cord. In the bedroom, it hangs off a curtain rod in a ceramic pot and droops to the floor. I have so much of it growing outside that I just cut off the last 10 inches or so of each plant and stuff the pieces into vases of water, where they will root and stay healthy until I plant them outdoors next spring. Meanwhile I get to enjoy the unusual deep purple leaves that compliment all the shades of live green as well as giving depth to winter flower arrangements. I sometimes doubt my ability to keep houseplants healthy, but secretia has shown me I definitely have a purple thumb.
Asters
Asters
scattered through my garden
in purple disarray.
(They never take my advice.)
Dancers
bowing to the autumn breeze
in cheerful ignorance.
(I’ve told them winter’s coming.)
—ACF
Letting Go
Watching the first yellow leaves of autumn drift to the ground, I find myself commiserating with the trees. Time to let go, they seem to say, and I realize the message of the past month has been just that. I finished six months of hard work on an educational app for the National Archives, and it is now making its way into classrooms around the country (Congress Creates the Bill of Rights). I released a new edition of flower prints, "Limelight," as part of a large commission. My house was burglarized, forcing me to reconsider the importance of things and replace my most necessary equipment. And I will travel to my mother-in-law's funeral for a last goodbye. "Tout passe, tout casse, tout lasse," my Parisian mother used to say (everything passes, everything breaks, everything wears out). As an infant temporarily abandoned during World War I, she had grown up with a much more fatalistic take on the vicissitudes of life, and she found comfort in reminding herself that change is the only constant. But there are other, more positive aspects of change: release, relief, and renewal. Letting go is hard at times, but it clears space for something new to arrive. An empty hand can open to new gifts. My daughter-in-law is weeks away from delivering her second son. I will travel to LA to lend support to the family. What better example of positive change than the arrival of a newborn. And what better way to fill empty hands than holding the baby and hugging his older brother.
Fish Chowder
My mother-in-law Rita took great pride in her home, and she was an intimidating housekeeper despite working into her mid-seventies as a school nurse to 700 elementary school children. Her house, an expanded salt box in the traditional style of New England, was not very big. I was always amazed that she had brought up four tall children in that space. She made it work, though, and made her guests welcome. As the girlfriend and then bride of her eldest son, there was some negotiating between us at first, but after the birth of our son, I became a bona fide member of the family. Though we lived in Virginia, and my in-laws lived north of Boston, we got together several times a year. Rita was always nervous on our travel days, as work or school meant we couldn't get going as early as she would have liked. But no matter what time we got in, exhausted from the long, stressful drive, she would always have the table set for us, and a big pot of her special fish chowder warming gently on the stove. I can smell it in my memory and feel the relief that always came as I walked in the back door—home!
So in memory of Rita/Mom/Mémé , who died last week at age 88, I offer her fish chowder recipe. May it provide comfort and a sense of homecoming.
2 lbs. haddock or any firm white fish (she always got the freshest, just down the street)
8 medium potatoes peeled and cubed
2 medium onions chopped
1 cup evaporated milk or half & half (plus regular milk if desired)
1) Simmer potatoes and onions with water to cover until not quite cooked (10 minutes)
2) Lay fish on top of potatoes and simmer on low heat until it flakes.
3) Add evaporated milk or cream (and as much regular milk as desired).
4) Add salt and pepper. Some of the potatoes and liquid can be removed and blended to give a thicker broth.
It always tastes better when made the day before (especially after a long car trip!)
Plum Presence
There are certain places that seem to be linked forever to special people, and one of these is Plum Island, Massachusetts. I'm thinking about it now, because the person who will always live there in my mind is my mother-in-law, Rita, and she is dying. A vital woman, active, attractive, and efficient, she has tragically disappeared into Alzheimer's over the past few years, robbed of identity and memory, but watched over safely and lovingly by her daughter and family in Tennessee. Now she is fading quickly, and it seems it won't be long before her spirit returns to this wild and beautiful barrier island. She brought her kids here when they were growing up, and then brought her grandkids during Mémé's Summer Camp, an annual ritual that all the off-duty parents appreciated. She loved to pick the wild plums the island is named for (before it became a federal wildlife refuge and picking was forbidden), and her delicious beach plum jam delighted any recipient. And most of all she loved to take long winter walks there with her husband of 60 years when the beach was deserted. No visitor could stop at their house nearby without being urged to take a walk there. They knew it was their treasure. If I get back next summer, I'll look for her among the plum bushes behind the dunes. It wouldn't surprise me to catch her sneaking some illegal fruit for her next batch of jam.
Signs
Signs are beginning to appear. Fat bumblebees asleep on curling basil leaves. Bushy purple Asters and tall spikes of Goldenrod overtaking the garden. Arcs of drying wood oats catching the late afternoon sun. Autumn. The equinox this week gives us one day of balance before our hemisphere starts its tilt towards darkness. In our region, we ease into the season, with cool mornings, warm afternoons, and late harvests. But the first chill sends a signal to get ready, to pull in, to prepare. I find myself wanting to cook a lot of the wonderful produce that is the bounty of the fall, not to eat right now but to save for later. There must be something in my DNA that is letting me know it's time to hoard for the cold months ahead (even though I live in a world where strawberries are available all year round). Winter isn't here yet, though. I still have delicious cool days (and delicious warm apple pies) to enjoy. And my favorite season for long walks and reflection.
Attachments
There was a series of audacious thefts in my neighborhood last week. In the middle of the night, one or more burglars pushed open unlocked doors of two story houses and grabbed any portable electronics within easy reach. I know about this, because I was one of the unfortunate victims. Actually, my husband and I were very fortunate victims, because as we slept we heard nothing. My office was not far from the porch door that we'd thought was locked but wasn't. I had carefully laid out my devices and my camera in their chargers on my desk so I would be ready for an early start the next day. I'd like to think this "grab and go" arrangement made it easy for the thief to leave quickly, and as a result, we slept undisturbed. I can't deny it will take a while for the sense of violation and fear to dissipate, but I know it will. And meanwhile, I have lots of opportunity to consider my attachments. We all rely so much on our electronics—my iPhone was like an additional brain, storing all my contacts and appointments, keeping me in touch, and preventing me from getting lost in unfamiliar places. My iPad was my portable desk. My camera, well, that was the filter through which I captured my perspective on the world. But all of these are just things. Even if I had imbued them all with my personal spirit, my insurance will help me to replace them. Having this happen is a startling reminder of what really matters, the splash of cold water that wakes me up to being present in this one lifetime, right here, right now. The cords that attached to my devices are useless now, but the only charge I really need is love. The connections that count are those to family, friends, and the reality of the bountiful earth that supports me.
Forest Fables
Ever since I can remember, I've brought my imagination with me to the woods. When I started reading, my favorite books were fairy tales and fables in both English and French. They thrilled and absorbed me, and some of my earliest outdoor memories are of playing under trees and making up stories. As a nine year old in France, I spent my after-school hours wandering through the walled park that was our back yard creating solitary adventures. Our house had been an aristocrat's hunting lodge, built in the 18th century, and my play space was made up of several acres of gardens and woods. I had unusual freedom for a little girl, and I loved to follow the gravel paths under the dark trees, or ride my enchanted horse (a rusty second-hand bicycle) to the very edges of the property. I was always searching the shadows for creatures who lurked just beyond my sight, magical beings who might make a difference in my life. The difference, I know now, is that I learned to look, and my senses (and extra senses) still come alive every time I'm in the forest. I recently discovered a fascinating book that got me thinking about these connections, From the Forest: A Search for the Hidden Roots of our Fairy Tales, by Sara Maitland. [The British title is so much more evocative: Gossip from the Forest: the Tangled Roots of our Forests and Fairy Tales.] She argues that fairy and folk tales, among the earliest expressions of human culture, are intimately linked to landscape, and the primeval forest is the inspiration for most of the stories originating in Northern Europe (think the Grimm brothers' collection). She spent a year traveling to twelve different forests in the British Isles, and she weaves a naturalist's clear-eyed observations of forests and forest-management practices with a fiction writer's imaginative links to the people and perils of fairy tales. At the end of each chapter, she retells a fairy tale, reinforcing her musings and her discoveries. It was a delightful read, and I was grateful to discover I'm not the only one who goes to the forest looking for a deeper meaning and connection (though I am always accompanied by my enchanted camera).
For several years, I've been working on a fantasy trilogy aimed at 10 to 12-year-old readers. The stories take place in a mysterious forest on the coast of France, and fairy tales play an important role. Stay tuned!
True Blue
What is the true hue of blue? Is it the infinite blue of a clear September sky? Or the light wave blue of the rainbow? Or the arresting blue of a spike of delphinium blossoms? Artists use the term "local color" to designate the "pure" color or hue of an object seen in daylight and separated from everything else (see my Local Color edition), but one seldom gets to look at any color without other colors to affect it. I love blue flowers, but they're rarely a real deep blue; most of them drift towards lavender. I'm thinking about this as I contemplate the tiny, intensely blue blossom of the Asiatic Dayflower, also known as Mouse Ears (Commelina communis). It's a wildflower—or a weed, depending on your perspective—that has insinuated itself into a sunny patch on the stone wall in back of my garden. Related to spiderwort, its elegant stalks have spread sinuously around the feet of a climbing rose. I keep it contained but wait impatiently for the first blossoms to appear at the end of summer, just so I can experience that startling blue. It reminds me of the blue my husband uses in his huge oil paintings. He calls it cobalt, but I call it true blue.
By the way, color shifts from monitor to monitor (device to device), so I can't guarantee my viewers will get the same blue thrill from my photo. I recommend heading out to a meadow and hunting for the real thing.
Sustenance
Almost every Saturday throughout the year, I make a trip to my farmers market. I go there to buy the local fruits, vegetables, and pasture-fed meat that make up our meals—the obvious nourishment we need to survive. But walking through the happy summer crowd last weekend, I realized I go there for deeper sustenance. First there is the sensual pleasure of so much color and form and scent and sound. Next there is the atmosphere: people are eager and curious, and they are usually taking their time, wandering with spouses and children, talking and smiling. Then there are the farmers themselves, the hard working producers of all this bounty. Many of them get up at 4 a.m. to drive into the city, yet they are relaxed and courteous. I've known some of them for years, and it's just natural to ask about health and family and exchange that most basic of human needs: connection. As I lug my bags back to the car, I realize that the produce may be heavy (99-cent peaches are hard to resist), but my heart is lighter. I am buoyed by the sense of belonging to a community, and this will sustain me for another week.
Spider sense
Since I didn't get around to planting any annuals this year, flowers are sparse in my August garden. Thankfully I can count on my non-stop cleomes (Cleome hassleriana). Another one of my easy-care "invasive" plants, cleomes are South American annuals that reseed generously. They begin flowering in June and keep blooming until we get a hard frost in late October. They don't mind heat or dry conditions, and any flower that can look so cheerful in the droopy part of summer is welcome in my garden. I've wondered why their common name is spider flowers (I seem to be drawn to all things arachnid this summer). They do have a spidery appearance—the stamens stretching out from the flowers like long legs dancing in the air—but the way they bloom continuously is like watching a spider weaving its web as it climbs. A ring of darker new flowers forms a crown at the top of the flower head, and as they open they become lighter and softer, their stamens reaching out around them. The flowering keeps moving up as seed pods extend out in a whorl around the stem. If I cut them back, they branch out and form new flower heads, but I like keeping a few uncut, just to see how far they will climb. Taller than me! When the seed pods are dry I collect them for re-seeding next year. Though every summer I'm surprised by cleomes that spring up in the most unexpected corners. Just like garden spiders.
Book Harvest
As August slips towards Labor Day, I begin to feel the deeply-rooted childhood dread that school will be starting again. Then I remember I'm a grown up, and I don't have to go back to school! But now I choose to go back. For the past eight years, I've been returning to the classroom as a volunteer doing one of my favorite things—helping students tell their own stories and then making those stories into books. Last year's crop of books is on display for the month of August at the Arlington Central Library. I'm especially proud of these books and the students who made them. For the first time, I worked with fifth-grade English Language Learners (also called English for Speakers of Other Languages, ESOL), a group of students representing El Salvador, Guatemala, Mexico, Mongolia, and Pakistan. We worked on three main projects through the year, building on their ability to tell a story. The first was an autobiographical "Close-Up" book with their photo made into a mosaic of pages on the back of which they wrote facts about themselves. The second was a comic book based on a fable from their country, and the third was a story about their family, illustrated with photos and drawings and designed on iPads. Using the Shutterfly app to make their family stories meant they ended up with a book that was professionally printed, bound, and "published." I worked with a fabulous team at Long Branch Elementary School that included their Language Arts teacher, the school librarian, the school IT teacher, and another writing volunteer (yes, it does take a village). Learning to tell stories effectively is fundamental to self-expression. Together we watched the students grow in their confidence with both their verbal and written skills (and their drawings were wonderful, too). Seeing stories in book form makes them special. All of these books will become family heirlooms, made more precious because each of these authors represents the hopes of an immigrant family.
Another spin-off from my years of encouraging student stories is Book Bubble. The Arlington Public Library is creating a series of videos using student stories and illustrations from the Long Branch creative book projects. The first one went online this spring. It's a delightful story opportunity for young children and a marvelous showcase for the work of student authors.