Wordless

When my mother-in-law had to stop driving because of her macular degeneration, she gave her car to my two college-age kids to share. So even though they live at Snowstorm University, both kids can drive home whenever they want, which is pretty often. My Beautiful Smart Wonderful Daughter will appear when I least expect it, sometimes waking me up late at night to talk – and then laughing at me in the morning because I don't remember the conversation. She volunteers at the Women's Shelter on Saturdays, and will stop here afterwards to go through our cupboards and take food back to her apartment. Boy in Black will stop home during the week after a drum or guitar lesson, or he sometimes comes home on the weekend if he doesn't have an Ultimate Frisbee tournament.

I think my youngest two boys love having their older siblings home so often, but they don't actually feel the need to say so aloud.

The other day, for instance, I was sitting on the couch in front of the fire when With-a-Why came home from school. He smiled when he saw that his oldest brother was home, but did not even say a word to him as he went over to the refrigerator to get something to eat. Boy in Black, sitting at the piano, said nothing either but in a few minutes, he began playing a Bob Dylan song I recognized, All Along the Watchtower.

When With-a-Why wandered over near the piano, Boy in Black nodded to him, and moved over on the piano bench. Without a word, With-a-Why slid into place next to his big brother, and his fingers began moving over the keys. Sometimes with three hands, sometimes with four hands, they played the familiar tune together. Their posture was just the same as they sat together on the bench, long hair hiding both their faces, their heads close together, sunlight falling on the keys and on their hands.

The song ended with all four hands, all twenty fingers, moving rapidly over the keys. The brothers grinned at each other. Then Boy in Black went back to his Organic Chemistry book, and With-a-Why went over to dump papers out of his school backpack and find a form he needed me to sign.

These two brothers have never needed words to communicate.

Blue Owl in the City

One of the cool things about attending a conference in Big City Like No Other is that some of my conference friends finally had a chance to meet my little sister, Urban Sophisticate, who lives and works in the Middle Island of the city. On Sunday when we were up in her neighborhood to go to an art museum, Artist Friend and I met Urban Sophisticate for lunch. She's heard so much about Artist Friend over the last five years that she always calls him the Famous Artist Friend. Alas, she missed her chance to meet Artist's Friend's younger brother, LovesWildlife, who is the same age she is, because he'd gone home by then; I am sure that after seeing a photo of him naked on a balcony, she regrets that. I mean, perhaps if I had posted the nude photo sooner, maybe she would have tried a little harder to meet us the night we called her at midnight from some obscure bar fifty blocks from her home.

Another night I met Brooklyn Friend for a late evening meal (well, late evening by city standards – to me, it seemed like the middle of the night), and my sister joined us. Brooklyn Friend has lived in the city her whole life, so she walks around the city with complete assurance. I, on the other hand, was heady from walking around the city all day, overstimulated by all the sights and sounds, and as we walked into the restaurant, I was babbling stuff like: "Look! Out the window! All those people! You can see people going by! As they walk to the subway stop! To take a train!"

When the hostess came over, I said, "Can we sit by the windows?" She smiled and pointed to at table over near the window, perfect for people watching. Brooklyn Friend said to her, apologetically, "My friend is from out of town."

Another night, Brooklyn Friend took me and some of my friends to a bar owned by her nephew, a colorful place patronized by hip young people who apparently love very loud music and who gave me the kind of smiles you give to someone's mother. We also walked through Famous Park Where Old Men Play Chess in the Sun, a place so alluring that it caused me to miss a conference session one afternoon.

On Saturday night, my sister told me she'd be at a bar called Blue Night Bird That Makes Hooting Noises. She told me what street corner it was on, as if that information would be enough for me to find the place. But it turns out that certain bars in Big City Like No Other have such a loyal and elite following that they don't feel a need to do anything as unsophisticated as putting out a sign with their name on it. After a several attempts to find the place – and text messages to my sister insisting that her directions were completely wrong – Chicago Friend and I walked through a cluster of buildings, peered down over some railings, and saw a sign below our feet with a picture of a blue owl on it. At the moment, which was sort of like a scene out of a Harry Potter book, the doorway of a small bar slid into our view.

As we climbed down the stairs and entered the doorway that had appeared out of nowhere, Chicago Friend and I found ourselves surrounded by beautiful urban people – sleek, sophisticated, well-dressed. I can't speak for Chicago Friend but I felt a bit out of place as we wove our way through black pants, silky dresses, and wine glasses held at just the right angle. It's not so much that I was wearing jeans and a t-shirt, or that I don't wear cosmetics, or that I don't drink at all. It's that I felt sure I had not been in the city long enough to assume any sort of sophisticated air. To be honest, I think at this point in my life, I'd have to live in a city for decades before attaining any sophistication at all. But we found my sister, and her group of friends, and I felt right at home as soon as they began exclaiming, "Oh! You are Urban Sophisticate's Sister!"

My sister's friends were friendly and warm, smart and fun. They are also mostly reporters. At first I forgot this detail – I mean, they looked like normal people; it's not like they had their press credentials stamped to their foreheads. But within minutes of being introduced, I found myself answering questions, and then follow-up questions, and then being put on the spot with a particularly probing question – and that's when it hit me. I was being interviewed.

I love going to conferences – listening to new ideas, seeing famous scholars up close, catching up with old friends, sharing my own ideas, eating in great restaurants, and talking endlessly about books and science and politics – but this time I had the added bonus of spending some time with my sister and a close friend from Brooklyn, and we had a chance to see just a little bit of each other's worlds.

Glimpse

Because I had the early morning time slot for my presentation at the conference, I got up as soon as it was light on Saturday, showered before any of my roommates were even awake, and went off by myself to find breakfast. I had had only about three hours of sleep, but the cool breeze against my wet hair woke me up as I walked down the streets of the city, which seemed quiet compared to the night before. All the crowds of people, who had been clustered around the doorways of bars and restaurants, drinking and talking and laughing, were gone.

In front of one restaurant, a young man was sweeping the sidewalk with a broom, and pulling out a wooden sign with hand lettering. Farther down the street, an older man was setting up racks of colorful scarves that twisted and glittered in the morning sunshine. Two women were lugging crates of fruit out to the front of a little store, arranging the bright oranges and green apples into tempting displays. In the bright morning sun, the sidewalks were a shifting mosaic of dead leaves, assorted trash, and crumpled advertisements. The smell of coffee and frying began wafting out of open doorways as some places opened for breakfast.

As I stopped for a moment to check my map, I noticed a lone figure coming down the sidewalk toward me. She was a slim young woman, about my daughter's age, I'd say, still wearing her Friday night evening-on-the-town clothes, a tight black skirt and a lowcut silk shirt. Her gorgeous silky black hair blew into her face as she moved along the sidewalk. Her posture, the way she carried herself, with her head hanging down and her shoulders hunched, seemed all wrong for someone so beautiful. As she came hurrying past me, she looked up for a moment, and I caught a glimpse of her face.

She was crying.

Conference tradition: nude photo

At this conference in Big City Like No Other, I ended up sharing a tiny hotel suite with a bunch of male friends. I am not sure how this happened. I think somehow I had the idea that my male friends were sensitive, enlightened guys, and that rooming with them would be no different than sharing a suite with a bunch of women.

I was wrong about that.

The only thing that saved me, I think, was my years of experience living in a household full of teenage guys. So I am used to surviving in a cloud of testosterone.

And of course, there are certain advantages to hanging out with a gang of men. I am the kind of person who feels guilty if I leave food on my plate in a restaurant, but I no longer had to worry about that. As soon as I announced that I was full, this group would swoop in with their forks and finish whatever food I didn't eat. I will admit that the constant banter and jokes and insults that they tossed back and forth kept me entertained. And the conversation improved after I announced a moratorium on talking about football games or stock car races.

The small suite got more crowded as the week went on. Artist Friend, deciding that he needed help in driving me crazy, invited his thirty-something brother, Loves Wildlife, to drive up from the State That Sounds Breakable and join us for a night. Of course, I was thrilled to finally meet Artist's Friend's youngest brother – he had the same laugh, the same teasing energy, the same intense interest in nature – but since the suite was tiny, with every bed already occupied, there was some question as to where he was going to sleep. The guys were happily arguing about who was going to share the pull-out couch with me when I announced that there was plenty of room on the balcony. Loves Wildlife, unbelievably, produced a sleeping bag, climbed out the window, and camped out under the night skies of City Like No Other.

On Friday night, I waited until my male friends were all properly inebriated before reminding them of a tradition I have with conference roommates: one of them was going to have to pose naked for my blog.

My readers, I explained, were expecting it.

I tried Artist Friend first. I thought someone with an artistic temperament would be comfortable with the idea of nudity, and supportive of a friend trying to take an artistic photo. I also thought that Artist Friend, honored that he was the first real life friend I told about my blog, would be loyal to me and my blog readers. But alas, that was not to be. Any readers who have conjured up this picture of Artist Friend as a sensitive, loyal guy, a friend who would literally give me the shirt off his back, or at least take off his clothes for my blog, will be disappointed that he dismissed my brilliant idea with a single emphatic syllable: "No."

And he followed that up with a look that meant, "Are you fucking crazy?"

Philadelphia Guy, after all kinds of incredulous looks and several beers, eventually said, "Well, okay." When Artist Friend expressed his horror, Philadelphia Guy shrugged and said, "I can't say no to jo(e). No one can. Even the Famously Surly Waiters at the Well-known Deli in City Like No Other were nice to her." But his lack of enthusiasm – and his muttering about how he didn't have tenure yet – made me think he was not an ideal candidate. Chicago Friend said nothing, but it was clear from the expression on his face that he was quite happy with the twist in fate that put him in a hotel more than ten blocks away from me.

LovesWildlife, on the other hand, had the proper attitude. He kept laughing and saying things like, "What? You want me to go out on a balcony in the middle of the city butt naked? You've known me for four hours and you think I am going to pose naked for your blog?"

Here, clearly, was the weakest link.

So late that night, LovesWildlife stripped off his clothes and climbed out the window to the balcony. I had planned to take the photo in daylight – natural light is so much better for any kind of photo – but he explained very nicely that there was no chance in hell this event would take place in broad daylight, and that if I wanted a picture, I had better take it now. Artist Friend, who did not seem thrilled in the least at this turn of events, took one glance out the window at his naked younger brother and retreated to his laptop computer, taking comfort in a manly array of football statistics on the Bengals' website.

My original plan had been a nice portrait of all my roommates together, but LovesWildlife was emphatic that there would be no other men in his photo. It's funny how peculiar men can be about those things.

I had explained that I don't show faces on my blog, and LovesWildlife seemed to take that rule very much to heart. In fact, once he had tossed aside the towel he was wearing, he refused to turn even to talk to me, so our conversation consisted mainly of me shouting things to the back of his head. I kept coming up with brilliant ideas: "Maybe you should sit on the ledge! How about if you are tossing flowers off the balcony? Maybe you could be holding a beer? Could you perhaps burst into song for the benefit of all those people peering out their windows?"

And he kept saying things like, "Are we done yet? WHERE IS MY TOWEL? WHAT DID YOU DO WITH THE TOWEL?"

Artist Friend, still muttering football statistics, was no help at all. In fact, his sarcastic comments kept making me laugh, which is not such a good thing when you are trying to take a serious artistic shot. And Philadelphia Guy, unnerved by the whole photo shoot, had retreated to a bar up the street. I have no idea what any of those people peering out their windows at the balcony thought, but I think the photo came out quite well.

City sidewalks

My conference began yesterday, but I came to the city early to spend two nights with Urban Sophisticate Sister, who lives on the Upper East Side of the Middle Island. That first night, we met Schoolteacher Niece and Red-haired Niece (who are both grad students in the City Like No Other) for dinner. Urban Sophisticate had found a cafe where everything on menu was vegan. Even the entire dessert menu. This kind of thing is what makes City Like No Other one of my favorite cities.

Wednesday, I planned to spend the day pretending I lived in the city. I was determined not to act like a tourist. Of course, I suppose if I actually lived here,I would have gone to work like my sister, instead of spending the day wandering around in the rain and going to art museums.

Despite the absolute drenching rain, the streets were filled with people, most of whom carried umbrellas as they hurried along the crowded sidewalks. I watched the choreography of the jostling umbrellas to see if I could learn proper umbrella etiquette. These people were moving fast, and sometime in opposite directions, with all kinds of maneuvers happening at every street corner, and yet, somehow, the umbrellas did not crash or snag. How were they doing it? One person might raise an umbrellas slightly, another might tip her umbrella to the side, and smoothly, the flow of black umbrellas never stopped. And they did this all without words. I could not see anyone talking or even looking at each other.

I tried to fit in with the crowd, clutching the umbrella I'd borrowed from my sister, but it was like joining a dance troupe without knowing the steps. I kept knocking into people with my umbrella, or snagging a tip of their umbrella. I'd stop and apologize profusely, but then I never even made it through an apology because the whole thing would strike me funny, and I'd start laughing. So that is where I kept finding myself, standing in the rain on a city sidewalk, talking and laughing with a stranger, while around us flowed a crowd of people smoothly negotiating by with their umbrellas. My attempt to pass for a sophisticated city person did not work at all.

City streets are filled with windows, and on a dark rainy day, you can look right into the cozy lit worlds of bakeries and restaurants and tiny shops. I watched people in dark coats huddled at round tables, drinking coffee. I saw a woman and her toddler choosing pastries from a mouth-watering display. I brushed so close to the window of a coffee shop that I could hear the white mugs clinking as a young couple shared breakfast. The flower shops were just bursting with color, reds and yellows and oranges on this grey November day, big bunches of cut flowers in vases, all pressed against the glass. I can never resist stepping into a patisserie, just to smell the baking bread, or a flower shop to breathe in that fragrant moisture.

One of the great things about wandering around a city aimlessly is the sense of discovery you get when you happen upon things. I'd come around a corner and say to myself, "Wow, look at the shape of that huge building. How strange that it's round. How cool to have a museum that -- oh, wait! It's Famous Round Museum! Designed by Frank Lloyd Left!"

Big City Like No Other is southeast of Snowstorm region, and a warmer zone. Many of the trees still held yellow leaves, which glowed in the rain, almost shimmering against red brick or dark grey buildings. Even more striking were the leaves scattered against the sidewalks, forming really spectacular patterns, the delicate curves of the leaves contrasting with the geometric shapes on the ground.

Literature, Science, and Skyscrapers

For most of this semester, I've taken advantage of sunny weather whenever I could by exploring beautiful natural areas. I've climbed mountains, gazed at waterfalls, hiked around lakes, canoed in a peaceful bay, and wandered around a sheep farm.

This week is different. I'm off to a conference in a big city.

I'll be eating in restaurants, going to museums, riding the train, walking through parks, and wandering through city neighborhoods. I'll be staying with my sister, Urban Sophisticate, for two nights before joining up with a bunch of conference friends and staying in a hotel suite for the rest of the week. I am looking forward to late night conversations, leisurely meals, cool sessions that explore new ideas, a Saturday night dance, and the fun of exploring a city.

Listening

Last night was cold and windy, the kind of November night that made me think it's time for me to get out my mittens and winter hat. As Poet Woman and I hurried across a dark parking lot, we almost crashed right into Evening Poet and her husband. Evening Poet was wearing a purple winter hat, and Poet Woman said to her, "Oh, in the dark, I thought for a moment you had dyed your hair purple!" Evening Poet, who gets very tense before a poetry reading, could not help laughing. We stopped to exchange hugs in the chilly air before walking together into a coffeehouse with colorful walls and soft lights and the rich smell of coffee.

The night's event was a fundraiser for the women's shelter, the place that provides a safe haven for women and children who are escaping abuse, a place that provides counseling and support. The evening was a gathering of poets, musicians, and artists, a gathering of survivors and friends of survivors.

We looked at the artwork for sale, we bought raffle tickets, we drank herbal tea and hot coffee. We sat at little tables and talked, warming our hands on the steaming cups. And then as the event began, as the first woman stepped up to take the microphone, I set down my tea and got ready to listen.

Evening Poet cried as she read poems about her childhood, and people in the audience cried with her. Between poems, we heard bits of each person's story. One woman who was sexually abused as a child said she repressed those memories for so long that she was in her thirties before she finally acknowledged that she had been abused. Another woman said that in the culture she grew up in, it was acceptable, even desirable for a husband to be jealous; his jealousy and his possessiveness were considered signs of love. A young man from a family of abuse played the guitar and sang songs he had written. Poet Woman read a poem with such horrific details that she felt obligated to say afterwards, "Yes, everything in that poem is true."

I listened. After Poet Woman was done, I would take the microphone to read poems about healing, poems about meditation and reiki and friendship. I would read a poem about hope, a vision of a world in which women and children and men would all feel safe.

But mostly, my role was to listen, to witness the incredible courage of people who have survived abuse – and are doing the hard work of breaking that pattern, who are through their own actions helping to create a world in which everyone can feel safe. It's part of the healing process: saying the words aloud, telling the story, acknowledging the abuse.

When the reading was done, everyone lingered. I could hear intense conversations going on between people who had just met. I exchanged hugs with women I'd never seen before and talked with the young man who had played the guitar. Washing through the room, as strong as the smell of coffee or mulled cider, was this undercurrent of relief, a release of tension, the feeling that little bits of pain had been unlocked and released into a loving community.

Casual encounter

I've shopped at the same grocery store my entire adult life. I can remember, in fact, when it was built, sometime during the 70s. How exciting it was to walk through for the first time with my friend Outdoor Girl and her mother. The store seemed huge compared to the tiny grocery stores we had always known. It had more than the traditional eight aisles and it sold stuff other than food. "Look at this! Socks! A grocery store that sells socks!" The idea stunned us.

By today's standards, Grocery Store Named After White Guy is small. When I walk in, I recognize the people who work there – and some of the customers as well. I like that. Grocery shopping can be a boring task, and chatting with people in my community makes the experience much more tolerable. Besides, talking to real people keeps me from talking to the grocery cart, a habit I got into during years of shopping with small children.

Last week, I bumped carts with a woman my age that I've met at a few times although I don't know her very well. She was choosing apples carefully, picking each one up for inspection. I was debating whether or not to buy butternut squash to make soup. No one else in my family really likes squash soup so I know if I make it, I will be eating it for a week.

So we had a relaxed conversation about how much candy to buy for trick-or-treaters (I buy none since we live on a deadend country road) and what kinds of food we like to make in the fall and where we were spending our Thanksgivings. We reminisced about how much more fun Halloween was when our kids were little. I told her that my oldest two kids were in college, and I was looking forward to having them home for a home month at Christmas.

As the conversation came to a close, and we began pushing our carts off in opposite directions, she paused and said in the most casual way. "Hey, say a prayer."

I stopped my cart. She fiddled with her purse and set it down in the empty childseat of her grocery cart.

"My son is in Iraq. He won't be home until March."

We looked at each other across a display of candied apples, and I nodded. Then she disappeared down the frozen food aisle.

Cornfields and waterfalls

This landscape is spectacular during October, when whole trees turn red or yellow against a brilliant blue sky. But November brings a different kind of beauty. Early this morning, as I drove to Gorgeous Town to meet a blogging friend, I passed fields of dried cornstalks, golden and rustling in the wind, and whole hillsides of muted late fall colors. I passed red barns and white farmhouses, and silos filled to the bursting. It's a hilly drive, and every turn brought a different view, with bare branches silhouetted against the sky.

We've had a few weeks of dark, rainy weather so it was wonderful to spend a day hiking in the sunshine with a friend. We hiked along a stream and up to the rim of a steep gorge, passing by numerous small waterfalls and a really spectacular big waterfall.

Most of the leaves were on the ground, under our feet, but the young beech trees hang onto their leaves, and they shone bright gold against bare branches or green conifers. With so much of the summer foliage gone, the mosses are suddenly noticeable. Since we were hiking along rocks just running with moisture, we saw mosses everywhere, mosses soaking in the spray from waterfalls or clinging to the cliff wall. When I looked close, I could see all different types – mosses shaped like delicate ferns, or moss that looked thick and spongy. I can't rattle off the lovely sounding Latin names like my students can, but that doesn't stop me from admiring how beautiful they are, brilliant green in a landscape of grey rock and gold-brown leaves.

We hiked for a few hours, with the rush and tumble of water a background to our conversation. We talked about work and politics and parenting – and especially the frustrations of parenting teenagers. His two kids are the same ages as my youngest two, so it was fun to compare notes. We both kept periodically announcing what our kids would be doing if they were with us ("If my son were here now, he would be walking on the very edge of this cliff, just to make me nervous") – or else we would interrupt our conversation to admire another waterfall. If it had been warmer, it would have been impossible to resist jumping into the quiet pools that formed at the base of each waterfall, but in this chilly November air, neither of us were willing even to take off a winter coat. I did put my hands in the water several times, just to feel the energy of the rushing stream, and it was icy cold.

At the end of the hike, we had time to warm our hands over sandwiches, coffee, and juice in a local bakery before it was time for me to drive back home, back through hills of farmland and woods, savoring the afternoon sunlight that rippled across the pastures and cornfields.

Night

During long summer days at my parents' camp, night time comes slowly. After supper, we have all kinds of time to sit at the picnic table and linger over coffee or tea, devouring bags of cookies. My father and I might go off for an evening sail, or I might ask my mother to go canoeing. Someone will get up a game of bocce or frisbee golf. Sometimes I'll go for a long walk with my husband, giving us some quiet time together away from the kids. More restless members of the family might take a ride into town, usually with the aim of replenishing the cookie supply and filling up our water containers at the spring. Always someone claims a spot in the hammock, a peaceful place to rest a sunburned body.

Even as we gather around the firepit, everyone jockeying to get a good spot, sunlight still drops peacefully down through the oak branches. My sisters bring books or magazines with them as they pull their chairs closer to the circle, and the guitar players will be looking at sheet music, talking about songs. Some of the kids will take one last swim off the dock.

Eventually, of course, the sun does descend to the horizon, turning the sky and the bay into a brilliant red. Our camp faces west over the river, and the sunsets are gorgeous. But even after the brilliant colors fade, nothing is dark quite yet. The sky will be a deepening blue color, with visible clouds and light reflecting off still water. Often I'll walk away from the raucous crowd at the fire to go stand on the dock and admire the way the familiar scene gradually turns into dark silhouettes.

By the time darkness finally does envelope the landscape, with the flames of the firepit lighting the faces of family members as they joke or sing or play games, I am comfortably tired. Worn out from swimming and sailing and hiking, filled with a whole day of summer sun, I am ready for the darkness, ready to disappear into my small tent with my husband.

It's hard not to think of this in early November, when the days have gotten so suddenly short. I come home, check my email, think about supper, build a fire in the fireplace, read with With-a-Why for a little while – and suddenly, I look up to notice that it has happened again; all the windows are dark, our house plunged without warning into night.