Disclaimer - I can't watch this. I hate seeing myself or listening to the sound of my own voice. My physical and audio output are never quite the manifestation of my inner reality. Or maybe they are and I don't want to admit it.
But here's a snippet of a new story, "Phoenix", which I read at the Sunday Salon at Jimmy's 43 in Brooklyn. The story will likely be included in the paperback version of Birds of a Lesser Paradise. Enjoy, or be mortified along with me.
xo
MMB
I know I've been quiet lately, but spring is at once very busy and full of reflection time. You see, I get all tangled up about spring. During the Vermont winter, the southerner in me longs for the warm seasons. I picture the garden and dinners al fresco, white wine with ice cubes, babies toddling nude in the grass. But spring also stirs up a little melancholy.
Three years ago, in May, we lost the Dogtor's mother (above, left), just as I gave birth to our first daughter. This spring we lost Mom Mom, the Dogtor's grandmother (above right). Both women were inspirations for me, and I find myself wanting to share the good stuff with them - the babies, the writing, the Dogtor in his prime.
We put Captain Nemo, our first dog, down in April. One of my friends took her own life two weeks ago. I have always given birth in spring, and the weather, the scent in the air, makes me restless as I remember the sleepless nights, the profound changes I've come around to as the Vermont winter fades.
There are gardens to put in, final papers to grade. Bebe Z is walking. I sold my novel to Scribner. When I run, often at twilight, I am bowled over by Vermont's natural beauty, the vernal pools teeming with peepers and red-winged black birds. There is an embarrassment of good stuff in my life right now, but that doesn't keep me from getting a knot in my throat when I'm out on the porch alone, sun setting.
Thinking time is writing time.
How eating a popsicle for the first time is like editing: It's painful, but you know you have to do it, that your life and work are better for it.
Little Z, who just turned 1 this weekend, would grimace, then sign "MORE" manically until the Dogtor gave her more popsicle.
Hedy Zimra was my mentee at Bennington. She was a talented and adventurous artist, vibrant and remarkable, a generous friend to so many of us, and this week the Bennington community is mourning her. I will never step foot in the student center or on the Commons' patio without thinking of Hedy, and the conversations I had with her, unique and strange conversations that I will never have again. She was, in the words of a good friend, entirely singular. She had a soft voice, smart words, and an eccentric sparkle. No one wrote the things Hedy wrote; no one said the things Hedy said. Pictured Above: The shoes Hedy sent me from China, a pair both of my girls wore, a pair my daughter Z wore the day Hedy died, before I knew. Also me in Hedy's green dress, which she sent for me to wear for my reading in Boston. She was there, and it was the last time I saw her. I was listening to her talk as this picture was taken. There is so much I loved about her, and so much I didn't know. For further reading, in words better than my own: All love to Hedy, all love to her family, and much sadness, MMB
Last week, the Dogtor and I drove to Pennsylvania to celebrate the life of his grandmother. Sally passed away at the age of 93, on the cusp of 94. She was a modest Quaker and wouldn't like me going on about her life; this I know. So I'll say just a little. Like many of her generation, she participated in World War II efforts by serving in the Red Cross. She was shot in the shoulder while tending a soldier in Nepal, and later rode a motorcycle on the Burma Road. A line from her high school yearbook: "Her hobbies are hunting birds, and fishing fish, and liking dogs." See? Liking dogs. Heritable. She produced a line of veterinarians, this woman. I like looking at the Dogtor, his sister, and my girls, and knowing they each have a bit of Sally in them. The world needs more women like her, women that seek to do good, are handy with tools, have a sense of fun, and know a thing or two about the natural world. I'll strive to be one of them, and put two more into the universe. xo M
I have a motto for myself: Always sprint up the driveway, in case your girls are watching. Last May, the Dogtor and Dogtor Sr (OPA) ran the Tough Mudder on Mount Snow - 11 miles of military obstacles, a fundraiser for the Wounded Warrior Project. I was 37 weeks pregnant, and I promised myself that a year later I would run that race. And I did. Last Saturday we inched on our bellies through small, muddy tunnels, jumped into sub-40 degree water, hiked ridiculous inclines, army crawled under barbed wire, carried logs, all with mud to our knees. The video above is of our finish, running through dangling live wires while leaping over hay bales. My body still hurts. My forearms are scratched. My knee is upset with me. But we had an incredible time, mostly because we had an incredible team. I was not tall enough for the monkey bars. I was unable to move after dropping 15 feet into freezing water, and it took me 3 tries to sprint up the half pipe into the Dogtor's waiting arms. But Bebe F was on the sidelines cheering for me, and she was watching. xo M
Hi there - This post is for anyone who attended my reading and talk at SVC today. Two things: 1) You can order my book through Connie Brooks, the amazing proprietrix of Battenkill Books. I will sign it before it gets shipped to you. Thanks for supporting an excellent independent! http://www.battenkillbooks.com/ 2)Do your homework! I can't wait to hear how your dinner stories were delivered. Thanks for listening, reading. xo MMB
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