One of my favorite songs is “Harbor Lights,” by Boz Scaggs. If any of you have ever had this experience, you’ll understand. This song resonates so deeply with me that sometimes I tear up just listening to it, it’s that powerful. The song takes me back to the years after college when I lived in Westport, Connecticut. My friends and I used to go down to Compo Beach for clambakes and to enjoy the breeze off Long Island Sound. There would always be lights in the distance and we would sit in the sand with our arms around our knees enjoying the view. More than anything, this song keeps this memory alive for me. I imagined that Boz Scaggs must have been inspired in a similar way in order to write such evocative lyrics.

When I moved to Texas I had the chance to see Boz Scaggs up close in a concert and hear him play Harbor Lights. You can imagine how surprised I was to learn that he wasn’t anywhere near a harbor or even a light when he wrote his song. In fact, he was on a tour bus rambling the dusty back roads of Texas when a song about lights in a harbor tuned into the radio. The words triggered his imagination and he started writing. There wasn’t an ounce of water in sight. He just let his imagination take him there.

I must have mentioned my dismay to my husband several times, how incredulous I was.
“Why are you so surprised?” he said. “That’s what artists do.”
“What do you mean that’s what artists do?”
“They create things out of nothing. It’s not much different when you’re writing a story.”

I thought about Boz Scagg’s experience and my husband’s comment many times since that concert. It’s amazing to me how one small idea can trigger the imagination to something so much greater. That is the artistic experience. There is an artist within every one of us if we’re open to it. Inspiration is the fabric of our everyday lives. There is no need to look further. Artists take us to new places. They lead the way with their vision, imagination, inspiration and talent. Sometimes they expose new ways of living. Because they see what others can’t, they often create new paths and ideas. Whether you visit a museum, a park, the beach, a lake, your own backyard … all you have to do is release your imagination. Your inner artist is sure to come out and play.

     How often have you found yourself duking it out with things in your life that are out of your control? You know, spinning in various “what if” scenarios, creating nightmares for yourself over something that may or may not ever happen. The other night I found myself in such a situation driving with my friend, Penny, in a snow storm. We were making the hour-long trip to Connecticut after spending the afternoon in New York City. Part of our plan was to have a nice quiet dinner in Manhattan, but when it started snowing and the streets turned into a slippery mess, we decided to head home.    

     Getting out of the city was the first challenge we faced. Two of the main streets that would have taken us from the east to the west side were in explicably closed, and the main entrance to the highway had been changed since the last time I accessed it. Suffice it to say, what should have taken twenty minutes took an hour. Inching our way along on the West Side Highway, we decided to shoot for I-95 heading into New England, believing that it would be well-lit and fingers crossed, plowed. No sooner had we taken that exit however, when we found ourselves at a dead stop in three lanes of traffic. And there we sat. With every “thwomp” of the frozen windshield wipers my morale sank lower and lower. It wasn’t long before I started throwing out ridiculous questions that neither one of us knew the answers to: How long could this last? What if it’s hours, all night even? Why wasn’t someone doing something? I had visions of abandoning the car and trekking through snow back into the city in search of a hotel, though I knew that would be impossible since there hadn’t been a cab in sight.   

     “It’s probably an accident,” said Penny.

     I flicked on the radio scanning for a traffic update.  At last, a chipper voice came on and announced that there was indeed, a huge line of cars stuck along the West Side Highway.  “That’s the most worthless piece of information I’ve ever heard,”  I said, frustrated.  “We’re sitting here, we already know that!”

     “What are you looking to hear?” Penny glanced at me. 

     “Information! You know, something about what happened, like, is there an accident? Are they clearing it? How long will it take? Some hope … I want some HOPE!”  

     “They’re probably clearing the road as we’re sitting here. Just imagine the tow trucks are there loading the cars …” Pen began pulling protein bars out of her purse. “Here,” she said, “have a little faith, have a Kashi bar!”

     “How can I imagine anything in this situation? There’s nothing, not even a glimmer!” I grabbed the bar, grateful for the snack since my stomach was growling big-time. There would be no restaurants open when we got to Connecticut, if we got there at all. “How can you be so calm?” I was incredulous that Penny could sit there with the window cracked, a vast selection of protein bars in her lap, so relaxed that I was surprised she didn’t have her feet up on the dashboard too. 

     “You can’t do anything about it,” she said, leaning back. “We’re hanging out together, so who cares. Let’s enjoy the moment and let the future take care of itself. At least we weren’t the ones in the accident.” No sooner had she spoken the words when the car ahead of me nudged forward and we began to move. 

     I breathed a sign of relief, wondering if my friend possessed some kind of magical power. Slowly, slowly we made out way onto the interstate with no signs of an accident anywhere, chocking it up to another one of the mysteries of New York traffic. We drove thirty miles an hour all the way to Connecticut and arrived home tired, but safe. It had been a four hour ordeal. 

     “See,” Pen smiled and waved goodnight. “We made it. Life is full of storms … enjoy the rain, watch for the rainbows.” 

      Sometimes it takes a friend to help us live in the moment.

     I went away this weekend.  I packed up a bag, boarded a plane and in just shy of three hours was enjoying lunch with my sister at the Desert Botanical Gardens in Phoenix, Arizona.  With the sun warm on our backs, surrounded by the beauty of the Sonoran desert, we lingered over herb-infused tea and caught up on each other’s lives.  It was a wonderful way to spend some time.  

     Saturday night we found ourselves sitting around a table of ten (all relatives) Snowbirds who spirit away from gray northern days to soak up all the sun that Phoenix has to offer.  The home cooked meal, lovingly prepared by a dear cousin included baked rice with custard and cinnamon, one of my  mother’s signature dishes, and it brought back memories of her.  It’s an old family recipe that got us all talking and between the ooh’s and aah’s, someone even commented that it was the personal favorite of a beloved uncle who is no longer with us.  The storytelling escalated from there and after everyone had cleaned their plates, it was clear that none of us wanted to leave.  Four hours later we were still swapping tales and remembering the past, unwilling to leave the big oval circle, for as much as the anecdotes kept us entertained, they also reinforced our connections and nourished our souls.  On some unspoken level we knew we were being enriched by something intangible and as unique as the people we were remembering.       

     It was scenes like this that made me fall in love with storytelling.  I was often transfixed by the adults who could spend hours sharing tales of their trials and tribulations without ever repeating themselves.  It was like free group therapy as well as an endless supply of entertainment that kept me fascinated and craving more.  It’s a funny thing about writing.  When you take writing classes they tell you to write what you know and at the time I didn’t understand the true meaning of that statement.  I mean, what did I know?  It wasn’t until I sat down to write my own stories that fragments of family lore sparked my imagination, and I got it.  In fact, two bachelor uncles who worked as farmhands became the impetus for my first novel, The Bachelor Farmers.  Another story about a young uncle who was the victim of a farm accident was the spark for the book I am writing now.  Though I wasn’t present for any of these experiences they are what I know, and I feel them in a deep personal way.  Stories like these reside in the fabric of all of life’s connections.  They summon emotions.  A fragment from a tale about the kids stealing eggs from the chicken coop or the child that ended up on a runaway horse gives way to something bigger.   

     So the next time you’re gathered around a table to share a traditional meal and reminisce, be aware that if you eat slowly, you’re bound to get something a lot more sustaining than just the meal.  And listen for those nuggets, you never know where they might end up.

     I’m sitting at my desk while a carpenter hammers up rows of shelves and builds drawers between perfectly spaced bars that have been measured out in my closet.  Every time the hammer comes down my writing concentration is broken and after awhile I give up and move off to another room.  Falling onto the couch next to a pile of unread books, I lift my small dog up next to me and indulge myself in all of the random thoughts that come floating through my head.  In spite of the interruption, the thought of my new closet is adding a warm feeling to a rather cold, January day.  I think about how January is really a lot like spring.  It too, is a time for making a fresh start.  In a few short hours, I’ll be able to sort through the disarray of clothes and shoes stacked up on the bed and organize my life.  Everything will have its place:  blouses hanging above jackets next to pants, socks in drawers, sweaters on shelves, even a corner for dresses.  As exciting as all of this is, what makes me feel the best is the idea of dropping off the piles of gently worn clothes at a local charitable shop where people can go and pick out what they need for free.  It warms my heart to know that someone will make use of that sweater I haven’t worn in three seasons or those low-waist jeans (what was I thinking?) that still have the tags on them.  As much as there is a good feeling about clearing out the clutter of my life, there is also pleasure in knowing that another person’s world might become a little brighter because I took the time to recycle what I no longer have a need for.

     I’m certainly not an entire industry trying to protect the environment, but lowering my personal imprint on the planet makes a big difference in how I feel about myself.  It helps me to live consciously, to be aware of what my presence on earth means not just for me but for others too.  Caring for the world is also a reflection of how I feel about my life in general and is a small way to say thank-you to the universe for the time that I am here.  It’s not a big outside job, but it sure is a big inside job.  I believe that small things make a difference and this is one way I can contribute my share.  Every time I recycle clothes, the newspaper, rinse a bottle or can, or carry my own reusable bags into the grocery store, I’m more tuned in to life on the planet.  Awareness of how the choices I make can affect the lives of others raises my gratitude quotient too.  I find I take fewer things for granted, understanding that I already have everything in my life to make me happy, I just need to appreciate it.

     Paring down, clearing out the clutter allows all of us to see what’s important, necessary and what it is we love most.  Recycling makes us aware of the larger world, a world that would be a whole lot better off if every person, in whatever world they live in did their part every day.  Maybe we’d all want a little less, care a little more.  It’s a choice that every person can make.

     Yesterday I’d completed a major part of my Christmas shopping, wrapped the gifts and packed them into boxes to ship to family and friends in far off places.  For the first time since I’d turned the calendar page, a small wave of relaxation washed over me.  I felt even better when my husband, Barry, volunteered to help me mail the packages.  We loaded them into my car, enjoying the camaraderie of such a mundane task.  Heading to the UPS store, we passed revelers in the street along the way – young people in Santa hats ready to party, a seasonal reminder of the evening ahead when Christmas lights would sparkle and the bars and restaurants along McKinney Avenue here in Dallas would be packed with warm bodies.  How wonderful to live out a bit of the old Christmas adage:  "Eat, Drink and be Merry!"  After all, the night was free for us too.  A major part of the pressure I’d been feeling to get things done was gone.  We could have gone out.  In fact, we’d talked earlier about seeing a movie.  A nice, quiet romantic dinner with just the two of us had even crossed my mind.  I’d slip into a black dress and pick someplace special.

     It didn’t quite work out that way.  Taking advantage of having a Saturday afternoon together, we found ourselves allowing small dog, Charlotte, to take us for a walk around the neighborhood.  By the time we’d visited the outdoor cats around the B&B, and chased the squirrel in the Live Oak tree on the corner, we circled around and made our way home.  Walking back to my work space, I lit a pine-scented candle and got busy with my writing while Barry took Charlotte down the hall to the bedroom to read and nap.  When the afternoon light had all but faded, I pushed back from my desk and plugged in the Christmas tree lights.  Soon, the fire was burning and I cracked the terrace door for a stream of thin air.  Taking a moment to sink into the couch, surrounded by the lights of the Christmas tree and the glow of the fire, I felt balanced again.  Not long after that we were throwing balls for Charlotte to chase and hanging around the kitchen.  The urge to go out had passed.  Instead, Barry went out and got me my favorite veggie-burger and we watched CNN Hero of the Year which never fails to elicit a tear or two from me.

     As I snuggle in my husband’s arms, it hits me how precious these simple moments are.  These are the things in our lives that don’t cost any money, yet mean so much.  I realized that simplicity and balance are objectives that I must strive for, especially during this crazy, busy holiday season.  A night like this is restorative, and, I have to remember, it’s what makes me happiest.

     One of my favorite writers, Edith Wharton, once said:  "There are two ways of spreading light; to be the candle or the mirror that reflects it."  Tonight I choose to be the mirror.

     I don’t know when November snuck around the corner but it’s here, and small dog, Charlotte, has picked up a new habit.  Every now and then she walks across our sleeping bodies when the light is barely up through the shuttered windows and begs to go outside.  My husband and I take turns, the safe one rolling over on the pillow, relieved that at least today their coveted hours of sleep will not be interrupted.  This morning it is me who crawls out of a cozy, warm bed, reaching for socks and a pair of worn-out clogs in the darkened closet.

     A quote by Edith Wharton comes to mind as we make our way down the hallway toward the front door.  "My little dog – a heartbeat at my feet."

     My "little heartbeat" is all vim and vigor, watching as I pull a long down coat over my pajamas and drag myself out the door.  Wrapping my arms in tight, I plunk down on one of the patio chairs while she busies herself amongst the trees and shrubs.  I let my eyes slide shut for a brief moment, and believe I could have fallen back to sleep right there but for the cold air that has me shirvering in spite of being cocooned in clothing.  When I yawn and look around, I am struck by how much the landscape of the yard has changed from only a week or two ago.  The autumnal beauty of October with its bright orange, yellow and gold has all but faded, the leaves are now deep-red and brown, the sky dull and gray.  What I want to do more than anything is get back inside to the heated rooms, back to the comfort of my bed.  When I call her name, Charlote comes running and in we go.

     Stepping into the entryway, I toss my coat over the back of the couch and head down the hallway back to where we started.  My "little heartbeat" is right beside me, stretching the length of her six pound body up on the side of the bed.  Now that she’s had her way and tasted the chilly air, she wants to nest in the blankets again.  Everything about November beckons us to go inward, I think, as I pull the covers high up over my head.  The colder weather insists we step inside and that is what we do.  The fires we light invite us to sink into big chairs, sip hot drinks and ponder deeper things.  This is a time for reflection, for taking stock of all we have.  A sense of gratitude washes over me as I close my eyes for another hour of sleep.

      It’s the middle of October and I’m behind.  Writing, marketing my book, organizing my closet, catching up on my reading are either lagging or not getting done at all and time feels as fleeting as a wild bird.  There is never enough.  It annoys me when I have to stop my writing and pick up the dry cleaning, go to the grocery store, or figure something out for dinner. Most days lunch is a quick snack at my desk, and even small dog, Charlotte, looks at me and sighs, as if she’s worried she might not get her walk.

     About a week ago though, I remembered being in Santa Fe last February with my husband on a business trip.  I’d brought several books with me picturing myself close to a vivid fire, the scent of pinon wood drifting by, a hot drink in my hand.  Instead, my allotted collection sat on the table in the hotel room, untouched.  I was too busy running around town and couldn’t find the time to read a word.  Then one afternoon I spied one of the other wives in the hotel lobby, off in a cozy nook, book in hand, exactly as I had envisioned myself.  I’d talked books with her before and knew she was an avid reader, but I was curious to know how she could be so indulgent when everyone else was out and about.

     "I’ll hit the square in the morning,"  she said,  "but this is my afternoon."

     "I wish I had your discipline,"  I said.  "I guess that’s how you read so many books!"

     "It took me years to allow myself time,"  she laughed,  "and I always start with the ending.  I read faster when I know what’s going to happen."

     My jaw dropped.  The time thing, yes, but reading the ending first was the last thing I expected to hear.  I tend to read slowly start-to-finish and never look ahead.  But as I contemplated the piles of unread books stacked around my desk (not to mention what’s lined up on my Kindle)  I thought about her.  Who said there were any rules about this stuff anyway?

     Since then I’ve broken away from the fray enough to pick up three books, reading all of the endings first.  I did read faster knowing where I was headed and I did pick up what I needed, the style, tone, pace, etc.  At first it felt strange, but it was fun too.  It probably won’t be the norm, but I’ll use this technique again when I need to move things along.  I came away with a more thoughtful concept of time and that trying something out of my comfort zone is a good thing.

     Our way isn’t the only way.  Sometimes it’s good to open up and let others show us how they do it.  You might be surpirsed if you let yourself step out.  You might learn something.  A spectacular new idea might emerge … you might have some fun! 

         Summer is fading.  For the first time, a week ago, I woke up and the temperature in the house was sixty-seven degrees.  It’s definitely time to kick up the thermostat a notch or two.  I love this time of year, especially in Connecticut where the seasonal changes are so distinct.  I’ve been up here all summer and it’s been long and warm, but I’m more than ready for a change.  Change it what’s in the air as I think about heading back home to Dallas. 

     Small dog, Charlotte, senses it too and when I open the door this morning she shoots out into the yard invogorated by the near-frosty air.  I can’t help but smile as I watch her chase along the edges of the flower beds on the hunt for morning squirrels and chipmunks.  She pauses for a long time at one of my Hydrangea plants and I take note of the deer tracks in the mulch below it.  My eyes pan up and I see that one side of the plant has been well chomped during the night.  I remind myself to get out the deer spray later, natural, of course.

     Grabbing a shawl I keep on my desk chair, I wrap it around my shoulders and cradle a hot mug of tea in both hands.  I love this place so much.  I’ts been my anchor for many years, but I’m satiated with the time I’m able to spend here and I’m ready to go.  I’m looking forward to getting back to Dallas, to my friends and family there.  The weather will still be warm when I return, but comfortable, and I think about how nice it will be to take my reading to the deck and work outside.

     I used to have a lot of emotions about coming and going and sometimes it wasn’t easy.  Once connections are formed with people and places, it’s always difficult to say goodbye.  There’s a small sign that’s been hanging near the kitchen window for years that says:  "Home is Where the Heart is."  I picked it up in a small shop near Detroit Lakes, Mn. on my way to Fargo to visit my parents.  I never tire of it.  For me, it’s a reminder of what gives people, places and things their meaning.  I can be anywhere and as long as there is a heart connection, it’s good!

     But change is still hard, even good change and that’s the funny thing.  It’s not easy, but it’s really what makes us grow.  Staying open to it makes it easier to accept some of the more difficult challenges that life doles out, the unexpected and the inevitable.  I know that I can embrace much more than I ever imagined when I let it in … take a deep breath and move forward.

    Charlotte is running across the grass full-gallop now.  She’s done and ready to come inside and as I hold open the door, I’m hit with a rush of the cold outside air.  I think I’ll head back to the kitchen for another cup of tea.  Tonight I’ll pull down her carrying case, begin gathering up my folders, sorting through books and clothes I’ll want back in Texas … getting ready to go, getting ready for another change. 

     About a month ago my husband and I spent an afternoon at the Hammond Museum and Japanese Garden in North Salem, N.Y.  It’s a small garden, but we lingered for a couple of hours and the effects stayed with me long after we’d eaten our lunch and left.  Whenever I think about the garden now, a sense of calm washes over me, and I want to seek out similar places, or better yet, visit Japan!

     I thought about how much reading a good book is like taking a stroll through a Japanese Garden – something new and interesting is revealed around every bend.  The writer, like the gardener, picks, cultivates and engages the senses.  The visual beauty of the plantings feels alive like the characters in a good book.  The water, the sound of the crunching pebbles under your feet, the serenity of a still pond, the textures, all envelope you to the exclusion of the rest of the world.  A book can do this too.  A few pages in and you’re captured.  Just as the arrangement of the garden encourages reflection, a special moment in a story too, will make you stop and think.  You don’t want the experience to end – you could stay there all day lingering in that garden or caught up in that book.  When you’re done you know you have experienced something special.  There is that sense of having been engaged and rewarded.

     When I find a book that does this I add it to my favorites.  Last week I read Ethan Frome, by Edith Wharton for at least the fifth time and loved it just as much as I did when I first picked it up.  It’s a slim volume that mesmerizes from page one.  Like a Japanese garden, it is an intriguing and composed excursion into a deeper meaning of life.  It was one of the inspirations for my own book,  The Bachelor Farmers … the wintry scenes, the snow, the cold, the farmhouse … the love story.

     So I highly recommend checking out a Japanese Garden if you’ve never been.  It’s worth the time and effort just like it’s worth searching for and sitting down with a good book.  Both are things of beauty, both are worth your time!

 Brenda

     One of the wonderful things about summers in New England is that almost all of the small towns and libraries have their annual book sales.  Big white tents are set up, and box after box of donated books are organized and stacked on tables – Fiction, Biography, History, Travel, Cooking, and more.  If Barnes & Noble had a tag sale, I imagine this is what it would look like.

     The best part is that the books are so cheap!  Three dollars and under is the norm, but as the days go by it gets even better.  By day three, usually the last day, the brown paper bags appear and it’s $5 bucks a bag – all you can stuff in.  I love to snatch up copies of my favorites and then pass them along to people I think might enjoy them.  The last time I went to one of these sales with my step-daughter, Avery, we needed a rolling dolly to haul out our load of books – or should I say, treasures.

     It’s also a great way to try new writers because suddenly you can buy anything you want and not live to regret it.  For those of us who collect books, it’s a dream come true.  You never know when you might find that rare first edition, or a signed copy, or an out of print book you’ve been hoping for.  Most times though, it’s just a simple treat in the bottom of the bag like the old paperback copy I found of Summer, by Edith Wharton.  

     Though I’m familiar with Wharton’s, The Age of Innocence, and my favorite, Ethan Frome, I’d never read Summer.  I’d tried to read it freshman year in college, but I couldn’t get into it.  This time I let the purple flowers and butterfly on the cover make me believe I was in for a perfect "summer" read, and delved in knowing really nothing about the nature of the book.  I was in for a surprise.  Wharton’s main character, Charity, is young and unformed, a time in her life when first love seems to be everything, and the responsibilities of adulthood are unrealized.  Set against the social norms and restrictions of her day, the urges and forces inside of Charity propel her to maturity and by the end of the novel, she has "grown up." 

     We’ve all been where this character has been.  One of the most wonderful things about Edith Wharton’s writing is her ability to take on the complicated, universal realities of life and love and present them with such honesty.  More than anything, the story made me appreciate the perspective that this adult phase of my own life brings.  I’m sure now that back in college, I wasn’t mature enough to appreciate what Summer, had to offer.

     I guess the moral of the story is that not every summer book needs to be a "beach read."  Sometimes grab and go is best.  You never know what prize you’re going to find in the bottom of a brown paper bag.

     I hope you’re having an incredible summer,

     Brenda