week two

  photo snapped at a roofless abandoned stone house along the potomac river, headed to the Red Thread Retreat last week

last wednesday, i was spending the entire day rushing around, as usual, doing last minute errands and packing my suitcase and tool bag for an 8.5 hour drive northeast to a place where two major rivers join as one.  i was nervous, more than ever.  i felt a little trepidatious about the long drive, didn't know anyone other than the instructors - good friends i've known from teaching all these twelve or thirteen years, lesley riley and claudine hellmuth - and feeling as i've felt for the past few weeks and months, i was hoping i'd be able to rise to the occasion, to enjoy the company, the teaching, the camaraderie.  of course, i was anxious about leaving home, anxious about leaving walter, anxious about teaching, anxious about being "on" for a number of days.  i was an hour later leaving home than i had anticipated, and sad to drop walter off at the kennel; but the day was lovely, with blue, deep blue october skies, a lot of color still left in these mountain trees. before leaving home, i took the time to pack myself a lovely little picnic lunch as a gentle treat for myself somewhere halfway between here and there, in the shenandoah valley, virginia.  it had been my intention to find a lovely rest stop area under trees, where i could spread out a cloth and my lunch, and spend a leisurely hour reading a little, maybe writing a little, and preparing myself to be back amongst a larger crowd (18 women, including myself) for over three days in one house.  a late departure shortened that time to a few minutes, but still i spread the cloth, and savored the moment as a shower of white pine needles covered the cloth, nestled into my hair, found their way into the picnic basket and my drink.  it was alright.  they were dry, and the trees were greeting me in their quiet way.

  thankfully, i had purchased a navigation system back in the summer, which allowed for a much more relaxed drive.  just as the sun began to sink behind soft rolling mountains, i drove up the road to red thread.  it felt like riding a bike, getting out of that car to greet familiar friends' faces.  the house was lovely, tucked under autumn trees.  we had one day of intermittant sun peeking out from a sky that quickly grew grey.  a storm approached.  every one of us would be affected by travel.  the only way out took us down a narrow road right next to a massive river.  but the time that we had there was magical, and nurturing.  i opened.  i knew when, in late evenings, to retreat and tuck into bed.  i was kind to myself, and others embraced me with love and support.  it was a wonderful thing.   by saturday afternoon, it was evident that my departure for home needed to be scheduled a day earlier than originally planned; i'd be driving into the part of a storm that was rushing in from the west, with snow and ice and rain.  another part of the storm was rushing in from the east, promising to swell the river and flood the area, to knock out power and exit roads.  leaving was tough - but new friendships had been formed, old friendships were acknowledged and honored, i taught with ease, i shared with everyone the anxiety and sadness i've been experiencing of late.
laughter was common, stories were open, the red thread was a common connecting factor that pulled us all together.  i was not judged.  i was lifted up by these warm women, and appreciated, and when i left, i was strengthened by all of these things.  pulling out of the driveway and heading down sunday morning's long grey road was no longer a frightening thing.    i spent eight and a half hours driving, driving, driving, watching dozens and dozens of electric truck convoys - hundreds of white trucks - barreling down the highway in the opposite direction, towards the east coast.  rest areas were overflowing with recreational trailers towing cars, with families piling out of vehicles for a quick break.  i ate behind the wheel.  rain fell.  it fell, and it fell, and by the time i reached the tennessee line, the road was cushioned in a shroud of thick fog.  i was grateful for the change in schedule; i was grateful to be safely heading back home, even more grateful to be at the kennel before closing time, to pick up an elated walter and carry him back to firefly road.
on monday, the snow began to fall, first thing.  it fell, in fits and starts, mixing in with freezing rain.  by yesterday morning, the world as i know it here was an entirely transformed place:  all trees were laced in white, and the vision beyond at times was nothing but a thick curtain of pale grey.  when the curtain parted, velvet mountains were on display.   we waited for the power to fail; i cooked black beans and rice, cornbread and curried chick peas.  i brewed hot spicy tea.  i rested.  i remembered.  i loved the taste of winter that surrounded me.  i worried about the rest of the east coast, and prayed for everyone's safety.  i read.  i sat.  i rested some more.
this morning the sun is back out, and the blue sky is a welcome sight.  i'm still in a fog, but a little of the sadness has lifted.  things are always put squarely in perspective, in the days after a natural disaster of such breadth and scope.  i'm safe, i'm dry, i do have this roof over my head.  it has been two weeks since i began the new medication, and i am finding myself a tiny bit more able to cope with the changes that life throws in my path.  i do what i know to be best.  i continue to worry and dwell on things that tend to confuse and frustrate me, but the sadness is not all encompassing.  anxiety is not overwhelming, at least.  the nipping fears are kept at bay, and i have hope.  i've learned that much, about myself, this  week.    pumpkin by my artist friend, julie whitmore. 

this poem was a gift from a new friend, patti edmon, in this morning's email.  i met patti at the red thread retreat, and we both felt that we didn't have quite enough time to talk and share as much as we wanted.  there will be time for that, i know there will.  friends make time.  they do.  xo

 

The Seven Of Pentacles

Under a sky the color of pea soup

she is looking at her work growing away there

actively, thickly like grapevines or pole beans
as things grow in the real world, slowly enough.

If you tend them properly, if you mulch, if you water,

if you provide birds that eat insects a home and winter food,

if the sun shines and you pick off caterpillars,

if the praying mantis comes and the ladybugs and the bees,

then the plants flourish, but at their own internal clock.

Connections are made slowly, sometimes they grow underground.

You cannot tell always by looking what is happening.

More than half the tree is spread out in the soil under your feet.

Penetrate quietly as the earthworm that blows no trumpet.

Fight persistently as the creeper that brings down the tree.

Spread like the squash plant that overruns the garden.

Gnaw in the dark and use the sun to make sugar.

Weave real connections, create real nodes, build real houses.

Live a life you can endure: Make love that is loving.

Keep tangling and interweaving and taking more in,

a thicket and bramble wilderness to the outside but to us

interconnected with rabbit runs and burrows and lairs.

Live as if you liked yourself, and it may happen:

reach out, keep reaching out, keep bringing in.

This is how we are going to live for a long time: not always,

for every gardener knows that after the digging, after the planting,

after the long season of tending and growth, the harvest comes.

~ Marge Piercy ~

Comments

[Vickie]

Wonderfully interesting chronicle of your departure and preparations for; your stay and early return. Lovely photos..I really liked your picnic photo. I worried about you, with the approaching storm, as I worried about a sister and her family just outside of DC and relatives in the West Virginia mountains, and another sister vacationing in Murphy, N.C. I was glad to read you were able to get Walter before the place closed and that you got home safely. And I am glad you are feeling better.
vickie in kc

[Judi]

What a journey! So glad you are satisfied, safe, cozy and feeling better. Blessings....

[Lauri]

I'd been thinking about you, and wondered how this mess of a storm affected you ~ I am so glad you had something of a magical time at the retreat ~ You seem to be reenergized now - it may be what lifts you into a more even and balanced life. You have friends who care for you, a dog that loves you more than the moon, sun and stars. You can carry all these things like a comforting blanket in the days and months ahead, and create more wonderful pieces. Glad, glad for you.

[Karen]

What a lovely post...what a lovely poem... I am so very glad to hear that you've made a curve away from the darkness. The gentle caretaking that you are doing for yourself and accepting from others is such a necessary part of this path - for some of us it a process that is a life-long must.

Wishing you (and Walter) happy walks, good books to read, poetic and productive time working in your studio and lots of hot tea...

[Tina in McLeansville]

it sounds like the retreat was good medicine. keep being kind to yourself. i like that you are opening....that's a very good way of putting it...like a flower blooming. tuck in and enjoy. hugs...xo

[sandra]

Wonderful poem...

The light is coming out once again...

[Vickie hedgerow arts]

your brave heart and the loving ladies of the wild arts are weaving rainbows across the land. mother nature, Mother nature, Nature mother. she is raining hard here but the air is warm from the pineapple express blowing from the south. we will have plenty to stay green and then some. the little goblins and witches will have to trick or treat in sheltered areas or get drenched... mermaids walking and kraken and lagoon monsters would be good get-ups!

[patti/altered attic]

Amen sistah!! Gorgeous photos and so glad your sadness, like the fog, is lifting. You deserve it so! I look forward to next time:)
xoxo

[Barbara]

Love Marge Piercy's writing! These lines are PERFECT: More than half the tree is spread out in the soil under your feet. ... Live as if you liked yourself, and it may happen ... Happy Halloween and so glad you're safe.

[donna joy]

beautiful as always. so hard to imagine snow in other parts of the world when we are in the 80's yr and so ready for fall to come and stay!

[Ginger Davis Allman]

I love your life. You make it sound so peaceful and calm and even the sad days are full of feeling and richness. Still chasing my tail at this stage of life, I look forward to when I'm where you are. Black beans and hot spicy tea, and the time to savor them, sounds wonderful to me. xxx

[susan]

Wonderful, touching post, Nina. Thank you for sharing this with us.
It sounds as if your journey to the Red Thread Retreat was peaceful and healing for you.
But, it's good to know that you and Walter are safely back at Firefly Road, with lots of warm memories of your time away.
Sending love as always.

dusan xo

[dawn]

very nice post and so glad you were able to go and enjoy the retreat :)

[cynthia]

welcome home!

[Jillayne]

A beautiful story... almost like a rebirth in a way; you went in one state and came home again in another. There have been times I have dragged my heels as I was inexorably pulled along in a direction I didn't want to go and when I yielded to it, finally, I realized it was where I needed to be. Sometimes the world knows what we need, even when it escapes us completely.
I am glad you found your way home safe and sound and are taking comfort in it.

[Katrina]

I am so glad you had a chance to connect with these wonderful women and share your feelings. The little picnic looked lovely too. Never feel isolated or alone, although Firefly Road is far from the madding crowd, your friends are just a call or an email away. Happy to hear the meds are kicking in. Mine took 3 months. In the meantime, embrace beauty, enjoy the little things and be good to yourself. Hug Walter for me.

[Gina Cuff]

Loved hearing your story, Nina! Welcome home! (((hugs)))

~Gina

[Theresa Wells Stifel]

Lovely to meet you, Nina. Thanks for sharing. My people were shocked when I actually came home with a bound book instead of pages to frame. I told them it was in honor of YOU! xo

[sally]

Funny how we are always suprised to find others gentler and more forgiving with us than we are with ourselves. Red thread is such a fabulous concept, now made real. Like some of the others I was so taken with The Seven of Pentacles that I had to find it on the web and print it off. Must read that one over and over again. Glad to know you are home with wonderful Walter now, preparing for the hush of winter that will be on us so soon. Thank you for sharing.....I travel happily in your pocket.

[Monica]

It sounds as though things are beginning to lift for you Nina and the retreat sounds like a wonderful space to be in to help you heal, as you share your amazing self with women who want to be in your presence to learn =-)
Keep up the wonderful gentle self care and take yourself on another beautiful picnic when you can, even if it is in your living room, and bake some of your special almond cookies as a yummy treat!! (I hope to try out your recipe this fall now that its cool enough to use my oven!)

[Michele Unger]

I'm glad you were brave and went on the journey. I'm happy the journey's end was with warmth and friends and understanding hearts. I am relieved you traveled back home safely, back to Walter, and to such white, cold beauty. I keep thinking of you, and hoping. XO

[Laura]

Hi Nina! It was such an honor and a pleasure to meet you at RTR. You are exactly as I'd imagined you would be - real. I was so happy to get to spend time talking with you and to learn from you during our class. So glad you made it home to Walter before the snow came. Take care!
love & blessings
~*~

[Mary]

the power came back 3 days ago, but we just got internet today. your blog was my second stop after checking my emails. what a lovely treasure to find your new post. it is always such a calming spot amid my day. thanks again xoxo

[Penny]

You are sounding so much better, I did worry about how the storm would affect you, but you managed, and you managed well. I am glad the retreat was so good for you too.
take care.

[Jan]

Sounds so good --as does your homemaking! Do you share recipes? I am so uninspired these days. Cooking for one is sometimes a chore rather than a delight.

[Jan]

"Live as if you liked yourself" very impotent words. Ii will ponder over those words for a while. I am so glad you found some good I'm your time away and made it home all safe and sound .

[Robyn Ayaz]

Dearest Nina, I haven't visited any blogs for quite a while, long sad story which it now seems may be not dissimilar to your own. My heart goes out to you and I am glad you found support, comfort and energy at Red Thread. I am sure many people have already written to you and that must have been a comfort. I would like to add my voice as a long-time admirer of yours - your work, your pieces in books and magazines and then your blog. Nina, you are a wonderful and inspiring woman and I hope the world gradually becomes brighter for you in every way. Thank you for adding to my personal enjoyment of the world. Robyn in Australia.