Refilling the Well

Sometimes

you empty your well

and

need to refill it

so

you find a lake

and a kayak

and you set off

and all is quiet

and

the sky so blue

the clouds so white

above

and

below

and

you stop

and let the well

refill

ahhhhhh

you say

ahhhhhh

xx

Such a Morning!

Morning

Lake Chautauqua, NY

29 April 2012

Such a morning!

xx

The Transforming Power of Snow

The much-awaited blizzard arrives

and transforms the dull browns

begone brown!

hellooooo white!

and just when I'd been thinking

Why don't we live in the South?

the answer comes

in pure white mounds

and vast vistas of white 

and silver

and gold.

Love that snow.

Do you?

Back to Work

Since it's officially too cold outside to be lolling around in the hammock or the kayak or on the swing, it's a good day to return to the work-in-progress.

The book that I finished this spring (THE GREAT UNEXPECTED - out next fall) has a wider canvas than the one I'm working on now.  It seems to go like that: a longer book with many scenes is often followed by a book that is more spare and condensed.

I'm looking at these ducks on the lake, the simplicity of that image.  That's the sort of thing that is appealing right now.

Back to it . . .

Autumn 100%

It's one of those perfect autumn days here on Lake Chautauqua in western New York.

After two weeks of gray skies and wild winds, sun!

The leaves are just past peak, with more on the ground than on the branches.

Get out the rakes.

Squirrels and chipmunks are busy.

Time to get serious about storing those nuts.

Have to stop for lunch, right?

Love the shagbark hickories . . .

and the geraniums still blooming . . .

And when I come inside

it may not be possible

to write something chilly or harsh

because all the day's bounty

will fill up the room.

If I have a sad or wicked scene to write

it will have to wait

for a gloomier day.

You know?

The Blue Kayak

One of my most favorite places to be: in my blue kayak on the lake. I've had this kayak for over twenty years. It's a sit-on-top kayak, perfect for these hot days, when you can dangle your legs over the side.

My husband has his own kayak.  We like to explore coves and creep up close to fallen tree trunks.  Ducks and chipmunks scurry in and out, birds swoop through the branches above.

The quiet of a kayak skimming through the water - so serene, so peaceful, so restorative.

Have you been in a kayak? 

The Lake

I'm experimenting with a Flip video.  Don't expect too much.

Northern Spring

After witnessing a full-blown spring down south (North Carolina), we've returned to western New York state where spring is just beginning.  Hungry for green and for flowers, I gathered up a few plants at the local farm market: geraniums (above) and lettuce (below):

No plot is ready for these wee plants, but they were calling my name.

Bushes and trees are just beginning to bud:

You can see the pale greens from a distance:

And you can spot my husband's sense of humor:

Writing? Right.  I'll resume soon. Have to dig in some dirt first  . . . Are you a digger?

Snow Terrain

 

I tried to get these two photos side by side in order to show the wide expanse of our frozen and snow-covered lake, but I was not able to merge them as I hoped.  That's my husband out there, testing the ice.  It felt as if we might be on the Alaskan tundra: snow as far as the eye could see and, except for the thin line of the opposite shore, a beautiful blue-white light enveloping all.

We followed many animal tracks. Deer tracks led in a straight line across the lake; rabbit tracks disappeared into bushes; and squirrel tracks (below) led from tree nests to holes dug in the snow and dirt to retrieve nuts, and back to tree and up to nest:

Snow at the Lake, again

We continue to have beautiful, gentle snowfalls of about three-to-six inches nearly every day. The snow changes everything, all is new, and you (I) want to take a thousand photos . . .

The lake is frozen. Snow covers that vast expanse (in the background here):

I had been out on cross-country skis; that's my husband in the photo, on snowshoes. Afterwards, he said, "I don't really get the point of snowshoes."

The vistas are surreal and the close-ups are magical. These are down at the lake's edge:

 

And me, I am twenty feet tall:

Night, all . . .

Turning Points

Two weeks ago, on the day I finished the last draft (of this round) of the new book, a few dozen white birds landed on the lake. Swans? Snow geese? Perhaps one of you can tell us what they are.  Beautiful they were, but short stay visitors. Off they went to the south, and off my manuscript went to the east, to editor and agent.

Then it was limbo time: catching up on delayed obligations while awaiting word on the ms.

The snows came, gently at first and then blizzardy all around, and now there is a still, frozen, white beauty outside:

When the snows stopped, the agent and the editor weighed in: ta da! All is well. The book survives. There will be more to fix and polish, but these first viewings are key.

Outside, I look back in and see the inside and outside reflected back and forth:

And it somehow reflects the book: I am in it and out of it, in every word and every image.

Maybe you will see my tracks:

The next stage includes discussions with editor and further polishing and revision. That will take anywhere from weeks to months. But right now, I'm relieved and content.

'Night everyone; stay warm if you are in snow country.

Stones and Story

November brings stillness to the lake: tourists are gone and boat traffic is down to the occasional fishing boat. It's a good time to work, and sometimes 'work' entails loosening or emptying the mind, or, what Grace Paley once referred to as 'sitting like a dope in a chair time.'

If it's possible to be outside, that's where I'd rather be. I could sit here:

But I am unable to sit for very long in a chair and do nothing, so my empty-the-head time is down by the water's edge, poking through the rocks, walking the shore.

No matter how many times I walk the same stretch, I always find something new:

That something 'new' might be something very old and much like the 'new' stones uncovered in writing a story. There is this one, that one, and ah, look what's under here.  And in that one stone are dozens of new pieces to explore. Sometimes the most challenging part of writing a book is not what to include, but what to leave out. There is so much world out there.

Back up the hill now, mind refreshed.  Pause here at the swing:

And now: ready to get on with the story . . .

Light on the Lake


Right now, the sun is directly over the lake, and the light is so bright and dazzling it hurts the eyes.  A passage in The Unfinished Angel (Sept 09) refers to this light, contrasting it with the 'golden light' that surrounds the homes of the dying:

Sometimes when the sun is directly overhead and shines onto

the lake, the light is so bright it pickles your eyes and you have

to turn away from it. But the golden light is different; it becomes

paler and paler so that you have to strain to see it, and you wish

your eyeballs were bigger, and then, then, it is gone.