Absence Makes the Heart Grow Fonder

Dear Winter,

Excuse me, but there’s no nice way to put this. Darling, you’ve outstayed your welcome. At first you were exciting—even mysterious—with your mountainous snowbanks reaching for the steely sky. You were delightfully dangerous, the way you menaced unsuspecting pedestrians with your sharpened icicles. And your bitter winds brought my wandering heart back to the laptop and the coffee. Don’t get me wrong; I appreciated you. Truly, I promise; I loved the glint of falling flakes like diamond dust in the air, loved the darker days when the world pressed in close to my window as I hammered away at my novel, loved the chill that nipped at my nose. You had so much to offer, so much doom and gloom to mingle with the Christmas lights and the feasting and the cottony nostalgia.

But then you had to ruin everything. As the old adage goes:  “After three days, fish and friends stink.” Well, I gave you a LOT longer than three days. A foot of snow falling overnight seemed rather a charming idea—the first few times. But when the piles at the end of the driveway began to surpass me in height, I knew you had gone too far. And your icicles lost much of their charm when they started tumbling down at the worst possible moments, banging and shaking the house like we were under attack. So distracting. Then the short days got depressing and claustrophobic, and everything began to drag. You took life, put it in slow motion, and misplaced the controls. If I were you, I would start looking before people attack you with pitchforks—the good old-fashioned way.

Seriously though, it’s spring. In other words, time for you to LEAVE. I should be able to see broad swathes of grass by now, maybe even the first few flowers. Frankly, I ought to be able to plant my garden soon (says the woman with the black thumb—don’t ever take botanical advice from me). Winter, you’re cramping my style.

When this is all over, I’m probably going to need counseling just to deal with all the emotional scarring—like that traumatic vacation week I had to shovel every day (at least, that’s how it felt). Not cool. Every time I see hot cocoa or mittens or plow trucks, I get this irrational urge to walk outside—barefoot—with short-sleeves and shorts. And I might just punch the next person who sings the FROZEN theme song (which will probably end up being me).

If I haven’t made myself sufficiently clear (since you can’t seem to take a hint), let me put it plainly. I’m breaking up with you. All those short days we spent together—well, they’re over. I have a thing for spring (and poetry too). I’m thinking green, sunshiny thoughts. I’m yearning for blue skies and warmth and pollen (not the allergies though). All those gifts you couldn’t give me, no matter how hard you tried, and I don’t fault you for that. But enough is enough—can’t you tell when no one wants you around?

As I said, you were fun…for a time. Then I started needing a change of scenery. Hate to say it, but that’s life. Don’t take it personally though, since I’ll eventually tire of spring (what am I even saying?), and I’ll get bored with summer and autumn in turn. Come December 2016, I’ll be wishing you back again. Thing is, I can’t look forward to your return if you NEVER LEAVE.

From this moment on, I’m just going to ignore you. I’ll stop obsessively checking the window like a crazy person to see if the snow is gone yet (not that I do that, or anything). I’ll grab my favorite books, spread a quilt out on the lawn, and recline with a glass of lemonade in hand. As my fingers stiffen with frostbite and my body temperature plunges to dangerous levels, I’ll console myself with the notion that my demise will be your fault. (Who am I kidding? I would never be that puerile.) I’ll listen to birdsong on my iPod and paint tropical scenes on every wall in the house.

Sooner or later, you’ll just have to take the hint.

Sincerely,

Elizabeth Joy Brooks

P.S. Check the Southern Hemisphere. Maybe someone wants you there.

 
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Dear Spring,

I realize this might not be the best way to start our relationship, since we’re just getting to know each other again and all. But this is insane—you are obscenely late. And I can’t frolic in dandelion-filled meadows until you come.

 

All best,

Elizabeth Joy Brooks

 

P.S. PLEASE SAVE ME FROM WINTER!!!

Jack Frost Roasting on an Open Fire...

...chestnuts nipping at your nose...

 

 

That’s not how the song goes? Dear me…how embarrassing!

Be that as it may, winter is hurtling toward us with icy wings outspread to engulf the world—or something equally dramatic. Days are shortening (in the Northern Hemisphere at least), and I am beginning to remember why it is that winter gets to me after a while. Sure, I like autumn; I love the colored leaves and the scented air and the tempered chill. But then snow falls. Fortunately, I haven’t had to shovel yet this season, but my body knows that, sooner or later, this will change. I get sore just thinking about it. Even with the overhead lights on and seemingly every lamp in the house glowing without the dimming hand of their proper shades, the shadows still gather in looming squadrons at the corners of my vision, about the edges of the room where even the lamps’ cold gleam can’t reach. At times like these, I wonder why I claim to love both autumn and winter. What’s wrong with summer? Isn’t spring really the most delightful season of all? (It almost is.) What on earth led my addled mind to believe I actually enjoy the cold drudgery and the weary days when even coffee takes no toll on the sluggish highway of my thoughts?

Without fail, I always forget how gross winter can be. I lose sight of the long hours scooping, lifting, shifting snow, only for it to fall anew. The process feels meaningless. I move frozen water, and it melts. All that work for seemingly nothing, since in the long run, what have I really gained? Come winter’s end, I have no lasting souvenir of all those sweaty hours torturing my arms and back as plow trucks rev their engines and squeal out of the intersection as if that will impress me. Dude, if you really want to impress me, get out and help me shovel! But I digress.

Like drudgery and misery, pain fades quickly. On Sunday, for instance, I ripped off the tip of my toe—fortunately not to the bone—and already that’s ancient history (which says nothing about my attention span). Looking back, I can’t honestly recall how much it hurt, though I know it did. Another example—after writing and rewriting last November’s project about a quarter million times, I set the work aside, spent the summer lollygagging, and promptly forgot how much effort I’d put into it. Now, my head knows it was a boatload of blood, sweat, and tears, but my emotions are in denial. So here I am, typing away, feeling as though my completed book were simply handed to me, as though it were merely dropped into my lap, as though I didn’t actually work for it as much as I should have. Stuff and nonsense.

Back to winter. Of course I remember the wonderful details:  the warm fuzzy feelings, the pleasant moments, the tantalizing smells. I tend to block the other times, the ones with tears and tissues and torment. So reviewing my life is like watching reruns of my favorite show through a nostalgia filter. It is idealized and inaccurate. Still, I wonder if that’s a measure of how we cope, if we’re meant to magnify the good times, within reason, and to lose sight of the days that ached. Just think—if the weight of every dreary winter stuck with me always, I believe I would soon learn to dread the changing of the seasons. Instead I take delight, though each year I learn anew. But alongside this painful rediscovery rests the compilation of nostalgia from all my previous experiences. That outshines the sorrow of winter and dying.

Every season is bursting with memories and happy ghosts, moments pressed between the pages of my history to rustle and breathe anew when the wind catches them just right. And winter is wind like no other. I am haunted by a thousand snapshots of icy-tipped noses above steaming hot chocolate with the sticky red of a candy cane pressed between cherry fingers. I seem to hear, even now, voices layered over each other, past choruses joining with present in ethereal harmony. Nameless nostalgic tremors seize my spine, whispers of memories filed too deeply for my grasp, but there and comforting just the same.

Some seasons trap glowing moments better than others—at least, I find it so. Spring is spectacular, and summer has portfolios of its own, but autumn and winter combined are the true archives. Perhaps that is because more events are crammed between their covers than in the other half of the year. Last NaNoWriMo (I can’t help but smile in recollection), I wrote a book. Since then, I’ve polished it to my satisfaction. This year, I finished three books and two partials, and now I have my editing cut out for me, which is by far my favorite part of the process. I can’t tell you how many wonderful feelings come from that alone. Then Thanksgiving rolls along with family, food, and fun new adventures. Christmas follows, and do I even need to elaborate? After that shines New Year’s Day, which has the added gloss of being my birthday. So I wonder if spring and summer are merely the seasons of recovery meant to prevent autumn and winter from growing old.

That’s one issue I’ve been struggling to learn, but don’t worry, because I’ll eventually forget how difficult it was. You cannot have good moments without bad; you cannot have highs without lows; dawn would mean nothing without night. For every stellar writing day, I have five lesser ones. That’s life. And trying to seize the same enjoyment every time is as pointless and harmful as trying to lift a semi. I would strain something. Consider:  if I ate ice cream every night, aside from getting fat, I would also get bored. Ice cream would stop being special, because I would soon take it for granted. But if I tasted ice cream infrequently, not even once a month, it would always be new—it would always be a highlight.

So this season, I’m trying to remember that nostalgia comes with patience and, like cheddar, it’s better aged. Happy moments aren’t fluttering birds to be caught—they are gifts dropped unexpected on our doorsteps. If I rush headlong into the holidays with the goal of accruing as many fuzzy feelings as I can, I wonder if I’ll end up disappointed. And I don’t want to wear myself out chasing something that wasn’t meant to be manufactured like that. What I am going to do is enjoy this season for what it is and what new treasures I will chance to stumble upon, knowing that retrospect will lend me the honeyed glow I crave.

I’m also going to buy seven floodlights and a lamp. Winter, beware.

Late Summer

 

I am at the kitchen sink, scrubbing dishes, staring out the window at the rock doves and the lone chickadee pecking at the bird seed strewn across the gravel drive.  As I stand transfixed, mounds of suds pile high above the scalding water, popping and melting, speared by tendrils of steam.  On the high grassy bank behind our house, the ugly dead stalks of this summer’s lupines slouch like broken spines into the long wavy grass and the spent lilies.  Fallen apples litter the walk up the hill to the yard where the freshly mown lawn conceals vast armies of ticks (I discovered that the hard way when dozens tried to make friends with me).  The old oak stands twisted and sorry, with rusty chains hanging from the remnants of branches, creaking and squeaking whenever the wind blows.  And scattered about round the base are bits and fragments of board, the derelict treehouse, shattered on the earth and shaded by the crackly dry leaves of the massive, rotten limb that fell one windless day. 

Hazy shadows catch the waning sunlight and spin realms of gold to tinge the broken horizon with strange and breath-taking beauty.  What a mastery of colors—the complexion of the sky in late summer.  The warm dishwater on my hands is cozy against the backdrop of chill and impending winter.  Of all seasons, this one is most glorious. 

I turn my head toward the big picture window behind me with its fish-bowl view of the main thoroughfare.  Cars zip past the gas station across from our house, honking their greetings to the world.  As the haunting wail of a siren ricochets through the tight little valley, the river picks up the sad song and carries the melody.  Long after the ambulance is past, the last few notes linger in the air.  Faithful J. cleans up dark, oily stains on the frost-buckled pavement as old fishermen perform their daily ritual, topping off their tanks and buying a paper.  Dogs bark impatiently from driver’s seat windows as owners converse beneath hesitant streetlights.  So much input, so much wonder in this one place.  So many people, so many histories, so many births and deaths and one-true-loves.  This evening has me dreaming in poetry. 

I move back to the sink and my view of the lawn and the treehouse.  The piled dishes wait patiently.  Of course, I could plow through them faster if I wanted to, but each rhythmic scrubbing motion is another chord in the strain of this evening.  Besides, I’m being silly, like I always am when I’m alone in the house.  I have the Civil Wars playing, and I’m singing my heart out, harmonizing with the CD, filling in the gaps between lyrics with my own renditioning.  I may sound terrible—I don’t care.  It’s fun.  After all, you don’t own an album until you make it personal, until you feel each note in your very bones.  So I sing with Joy Williams and John Paul White about wanting to leave, and burning walls, and loving an outlaw.  I sing about faithless Henry and how years burn.  And I cry when I sing Sacred Heart. 

I travel the world in this twilight of solitude.  I daydream; I go starry-eyed.  I see the wooden chairs at the table, and I inwardly roam through great forests of spruce and pine, or vast jungles full of draping vines and lurking monsters.  I think again of Tarzan.  And all the while my mind moves on a thousand other tracks as well.  What would it be like if I were the only person left on earth, if this whole realm was my dominion and mine alone?  Growing up, I loved Z for Zachariah and The Time Machine and the countless stories of smallness and lonesomeness and genius.  Wouldn’t it be great, I think to myself, wouldn’t it be fun if I bought a whole heap of canned foods and hid out in the forest somewhere for a year, subsisting only on my meager stock of provisions?  Talk about a weight loss program.  But just imagine the adventure.  On the other hand, I could simply read about it in a book while I sip my coffee or eat my ice cream or brew my own root beer.  Now there’s a thought. 

I could sail on the high seas and fight pirates, circumnavigating the world accompanied only by an oversized rat and a sickly pelican with a box of crackers to share between us.  Maybe a vacation home in Hawaii would be an excellent spot, preferably overlooking a live volcano.  The prairie calls to me, and the desert.  Wide open skies and dry ground and red rocks, they beckon my soul.  I am entranced.  I could go back to Africa and live there again.  Or I could just write about it, safe in my cozy, little Alpine cottage, all scented with wood fires and the mingled aromas of baking bread and rosemary chicken.  My books would be there too, to line the walls and keep me company when loneliness is dreadful instead of wonderful. 

Or you know what, I’ve always wanted to be a spy.  It’s not too late now to join the CIA, is it?  Really, though, I think I’d much rather sit back and read The Gallagher Girls.  Or maybe I could be an astronaut.  But then there’s always Star Trek. 

I stare out the window, only to see my face reflected back at me.  At some point the light behind me brightened while the world before went dark.  Glaring bulbs obscure the nighttime splendor and the now empty driveway.  A shade would be nice, something to block out the lonely void, but the window over the kitchen is bare.  The house is smaller now, with inkiness cocooning it.  Oh, the unforgiveable speed of time. 

I finish with the dishes, dry my hands, and spread a towel over them to keep the dust at bay.  Shivering, I close the creamy curtain over the picture window and block out the gas station.  On the island sits a bowl of home-harvested tomatoes, and I pick through them, selecting the ripest.  I even grab a green one, because I’ve never tried them green before, and newness is good.  Beside the chimney, the clock ticks mournfully as I fry the tomatoes and fill the air with garlic and thyme and rosemary.  I sprinkle pepper and sneeze just for the fun of it.  I am in love with life. 

Sizzling contentedly, the tomatoes fry down into a goop, and still I sing.  You’d think my voice would be gone by now, but the music carries it past all realms of reason and endurance into forever.  Defying the heat and the oil, the green slices of unripe fruit (or is it a vegetable) refuse to soften, and the sides begin to burn and brown.  At last I turn off the burner and stow the cooking away for later when my family is back and ready to eat.  And I sit down at the kitchen table to write, but as my pen rises poised above the paper, headlights crawl up the steep driveway and the sound of a revving engine fills the tiny room.  They are home.  Time for reality.  I slip away my notebook and store these beautiful moments for later, later when the world is small and lonely and ugly, later when I need to remember how much in love I was today.