Journey, Part 3

After the climb down, I rested in the car with the AC on for awhile. Drank a lot of water. Ate some sugar. Studied the trail map for the next hike. Since I had expected to hike a different trail, I'd prepared for something else. I had come expecting one pathway and chosen another. 

I laugh when I think about this hike. It should have been so simple, but it was one of the most challenging hikes I've done. It was probably the hour of the day, what it took to get there, being alone when I'd expected to have a hiking buddy, and the August heat and sun. By the time I started this one, the temperature had reached 106 degrees. I'm not sure I'd ever been in that kind of heat before. Without the humidity I am used to on the East Coast, the heat was manageable. What I noticed was how quickly I became dehydrated.

I froze gallon bottles of water to take with me that day. I brought more than I thought I would need. The ice melted as the day wore on, and the water was still cool. I'd made a few sandwiches and took food with sugar - granola bars, nuts and dried fruit, candy. While stopped to get gas, someone advised me to buy a high sugar "shot" energy drink. I saved that for an emergency and am grateful I did not have to drink it. I did drink all the water I brought and ate all the food, incrementally between periods of exertion. I carried water and sugary items in my daypack. I was surprised that I did not have to go to the bathroom more than I did. I think the water escaped through my pores. 

The Pictograph Trail in Chaco Canyon is a short hike from trailhead to canyon wall and runs along the wall for about a quarter mile. I purchased the $2 trail guide from the Visitors Center. It includes a map and information about the petroglyphs carved into the canyon wall and a large boulder at the end of the trail. For the life of me, I could not see any of the petroglyphs. I stared at the wall, looking right where the guide indicates they are. I blinked and looked again. Blinked, and looked again. Nothing. 

I checked the trail guide again and noticed the markers on the ground. Looked up at the wall and saw nothing but stone. I walked down the trail to each marker but could not see the petroglyphs. I did not understand how this was possible. My mind started to feel a little fuzzy. I looked back out over the desert to where my car was parked and saw it in the distance. I finished my water and ate the granola bar I put in my pack. 

I hiked out to the canyon wall and back three times. Each time I went back to my car, I got more water and something sugary to eat, rechecked the trail map, and sat in the AC for about ten minutes. I decided as I started my third attempt that that would be it, whatever the outcome. If I am completely honest, I will admit that twice I gave up and hiked back to my car intending to leave. 

But I couldn't go. 

I've had a few experiences with desert hikes that did not go as expected and I was learning that the goal I set for myself may not be the outcome I get. And that this is not necessarily a bad thing. That we get what we need even if we do not get what we think we want.  

The third time at the canyon wall started out pretty much the same way the other two did. I stood in front of the wall, from varying distances, and looked for the petroglyphs. I saw nothing but the stone. I shook my head, sighed, and made the decision to head back. I closed my eyes and listened to the silence for a few minutes before going.

From above, I heard the call of a raven. I looked up. Nothing. The call came again. I looked up. Nothing. And again. I started to wonder if I'd slipped into a pathway between this world and another. In the lore, Raven is a trickster. With the day I was having, I easily could have been in the hands of the Trickster. I stepped back and fixed my head so it appeared that I was looking straight ahead, but the next time the raven called I looked up just with my eyes. And there she was. The raven was on a ledge and after she called, pulled back out of sight. Once she saw that I saw her she stayed visible on the ledge, calling. I looked at the canyon wall again, and saw the petroglyphs. They were right there in front of me. To the left and to the right. Stunning. A wonder. I walked along the trail next to the canyon wall and marveled at what I was seeing. The raven flew from ledge to ledge as I walked, calling as we went. 

There's a point near the end where the trail moves away from the wall and around to a boulder. I could not see the petroglyphs on the boulder either. I laughed out loud and wondered if the raven would land suddenly on the rock. Instead, I heard the song of a wren. My first thought was that this is impossible. But I heard it again. And a third time. I tried to find her, but caught only the movement of the scrub plants. Looked at the boulder and saw the petroglyphs. I never did see clearly the wren who sang to me and wondered for the rest of the day if I'd imagined her. 

That evening I saw a post that talked about wrens in one of my desert groups. I later discovered that seven species inhabit New Mexico. 

As I think back on the experience, I think about the biblical stories that speak of unusual experiences and encounters in the desert, about meeting God there, being helped, encouraged, and fed by angels. Seeing and experiencing wonders. Wonder fills the myth, legends, and stories of desert peoples - and of people who visit the desert.

Creating Space: Three Months of Showing Up for What's Showing Up is a daily writing practice. Turns out that a lot of this writing explores the landscape of grief. My mother died shortly before I began this writing, and this is what I'm thinking about most of the time these days.

Katherine Cartwright has been blogging since 2012, and each year brings new wonders. She asks big questions of the small things in life.

Journey, Part 2

I crossed the threshold into Chaco Canyon, having driven on the most primitive road I could imagine and onto one of the smoothest roads I've driven. The contrast shook me into the awareness that I had arrived. Whatever happened next, here I was. I'd made it, and the ancient land opened before me. 

As I drove along, I noticed campers to my right and thought about how stunning it would be here at night. Far away from the lights of civilization and under starry skies similar to those our ancestors viewed. I smiled as I thought about whether this might be something to add to my list of someday. 

The long road there turned into a ring road around the inside of the canyon, with a Visitors Center and trailhead parking areas that reminded me of spokes on a wheel. I stopped in at the Visitors Center to get the lay of the land, register for my hike, and talk to the rangers. 

The first thing I learned was that it might be foolish for me to go on the hike I'd planned alone, especially so close to midday and into the afternoon. It was already 104 degrees and the temperatures were expected to continue to climb. As disappointed as I felt, I also left my options open. I registered. I spoke to the ranger about what to expect. We also talked about other petroglyph and pictograph hike possibilities that might be more suitable for a lone hiker.  

Still, I'd come for this. 

I left with trail maps and the power of information. I drove around the ring road a few times, slowly, to get my bearings, to see the larger view, and to check out the Supernova Pictograph Trail trailhead. I told myself that if there were other hikers on the trail, I'd attempt it. If not, I'd do two other hikes, one a climbing hike and the other a hike across the desert to the canyon wall to walk along the Petroglyph Trail. Both were shorter. Both gave me pictographs and petroglyphs. Whatever I chose would be challenging. Whatever I chose would be amazing.  

There were few hikers on any of the trails that day. There were no hikers on the trail I'd come to hike, and with an estimated in and out time of four hours, I decided to hike my alternates. There was about a minute of regret, and then a sense of excitement and anticipation as I headed off to the first trailhead, a climbing trail that ended with what we might call a mural of pictographs that seemed to depict a magical or sacred figure whose hands swirled with energy and called the animals. They came.

The climb was challenging and invigorating, and there were a few points that I marveled over how easily it would be to fall and how no one would know I had fallen. In wilderness we are vulnerable. We also discover our power, as we use all our intelligences to navigate the terrain. We discover who we are and what we are made of, what support we have as we journey. When we can forge ahead and when to move more cautiously. The exhilaration of reaching a pinnacle and being in that moment with so much presence that we will never forget.

Pictographs and petroglyphs often are in sheltered spaces, but the light here was still so intense that even with good sunglasses and a hat it was hard to photograph the wall. Most of my photos caught the edge of things. Still, when I close my eyes, I can see the whole wall and the energy of movement in the story. 

The climb down brought its own wonders as I took it slowly and stopped to look at the landscape from different height perspectives, and the other hike waited for me. I heard whispers of invitation on the air. 

Creating Space: Three Months of Showing Up for What's Showing Up is a daily writing practice. Turns out that a lot of this writing explores the landscape of grief. My mother died shortly before I began this writing, and this is what I'm thinking about most of the time these days.

Katherine Cartwright has been blogging since 2012, and each year brings new wonders. She asks big questions of the small things in life.

Journey, Part 1

Five years ago, at this very moment, I was driving into Chaco Canyon. I'd been planning the trip for awhile. I stayed with a friend in Taos, and we had planned to leave for Chaco well before sunrise, start our hike at 7 a.m., and then head out at around Noon for Ojo Caliente to soak in the mineral pools and stay overnight. 

The afternoon before we were set to go, my friend began to feel unwell and suggested I rent a car and go on my own. The thought was daunting. We had planned about a 13-mile backcountry hike on the Supernova Pictograph Trail. You need a backcountry permit to go, registering for it at the park office. I was interested in seeing the pictograph thought to represent the 1054 Supernova that created the Crab Nebula. The trail takes you past numerous petroglyphs as well. These stories in stone are a passion of mine and I've been visiting ancient sites for years to experience them. 

I decided to go on my own. My friend would head straight to Ojo Caliente and hope the mineral pools would give her some ease. I'd meet her there later.

My alarm went off at 4 a.m. I woke with a migraine and thought about rolling over and going back to sleep. The thing was, I'd come to New Mexico for this experience. I'd set myself up to be ready to go in the morning, had packed the car with what I could the night before. Really just needed to get dressed and pull together food and water and go. And that's what I did. 

One of the challenges for me on the trip was not knowing the area, and the darkness. It was hard to make out landmarks and to see where I was going. Roads in rural New Mexico can be confusing and more than once I strayed onto the wrong road. As I look back, I sometimes think I wandered into a faerie tale.

There were some amazing highlights. Abiquiu. The rising sun on the rocks. The light. I can see why Georgia O'Keefe loved to paint it. Rounding narrow roads and seeing the lake stretching out before me, so unexpected in this landscape. 

I made some notes in my journal:

This is a land of contradictions. I am looking over wide and vast Mesa lands, high desert, and in the middle of it a lake, clear and pale blue.

and

Each curve I come around offers a vista more beautiful and majestic than the last. The poet in me wants to stop and write. The adventurer in me wants to push on.

I crossed the Continental Divide. It was magical. I felt the energy shift much the same way I did in Joshua Tree when I crossed from the Colorado Desert into the Mojave. 

Moving through Apache lands was a deep honor. The rock there also was different from what I had encountered in other places along the way. The trip to Chaco should not have been as long as it was, but with the migraine and missteps I was delayed by hours and drove into Chaco closer to midday than to the early morning. The path there was breathtaking as different road surfaces brought me closer. Highway, roughly-paved road surface, small gravel, medium gravel, large gravel, rain-pocked dirt roads with deep divots and an arroyo that, had it been at all wet, would have ended my trip just before I arrived at my destination. Indian paintbrush lined the road once I left the highway. I nearly missed the road. A small sign and unassuming entrance marked the turnoff. The canyon itself and its notable landmarks, the butte and the mesa, were invisible until they suddenly appeared. 

Have I said it was magical too many times? 

I had the thought more than once that the compact car I rented might not survive the roads once I left the highway. There was no cell service between the highway and the canyon. It was true wilderness. And so beautiful. 

Creating Space: Three Months of Showing Up for What's Showing Up is a daily writing practice. Turns out that a lot of this writing explores the landscape of grief. My mother died shortly before I began this writing, and this is what I'm thinking about most of the time these days.

Katherine Cartwright has been blogging since 2012, and each year brings new wonders. She asks big questions of the small things in life. 

Surfacing

I can finally see the surface of my kitchen table. There'd been quite a hillock of paper and books and other things there for awhile. I won't say how long, but it was long enough that it was really stressing me out. I have a method when things get so overwhelming I can't face the task. I won't say what it is because it's embarrassing, but it works. Ultimately, it consists of breaking up the task into really tiny pieces.

I've been bringing some things home from Mom's and need to rethink how I'm using my space. It's a tiny apartment so there's not a lot of room for too many things. There's no basement, garage, or attic, so when I bring in new things I have to think about whether I need to get rid of other things.

There are two impulses I'm feeling these days. One is to create a new beginning for myself. The other is to hold on to everything and not let anything go. I hope the new beginning wins out. We need new beginnings to refresh things every now and then, and things have felt stale with the constricting energy of Covid. 

I've been thinking about cleaning out and reorganizing the two closets in my kitchen. It feels like a big job and I'd need to do it in a day. Otherwise, I'll be back to the feeling of overwhelm in my space. The lure of it is tempting, but I also know myself well enough to know that it's hard for me to get rid of anything. I think it's genetic. 

For now, I'm happy to have a usable kitchen table again. It looks so nice with the small buffet I brought back from Mom's the other day. It feels good to have a little bit of home at home. It does not ease the feelings of loss and grief I feel over my mother's death, but it does feel good to know that when Mom's house is sold there will be a little piece of it here and at my brothers' homes. The dining room was always one of my favorite spaces in our family homes. There were so many beautiful gatherings in those spaces. So much love, good food, enjoyment, celebrations. It's strange to think about the holiday season coming up. 

Maybe I'll just let that go for another time.

 

Creating Space: Three Months of Showing Up for What's Showing Up is a daily writing practice. Turns out that a lot of this writing explores the landscape of grief. My mother died shortly before I began this writing, and this is what I'm thinking about most of the time these days.

Katherine Cartwright has been blogging since 2012, and each year brings new wonders. She asks big questions of the small things in life.

 

 

Float

The last time I floated was pre-Covid. I drove an hour to get to the studio. The great thing about the location is its proximity to the beach. 

Covid changed so much, but I've been trying to start doing some of the things I once did. There are a lot of things I haven't done yet, like going to the gym and the yoga studio. There's a lot more, but I don't like to think about it. It feels like a lot of loss, and there's grief there. 

I have some time off for the next ten days. I'll spend some of that time down at Mom's and I'll spend some of it here at home, trying to create some order out of the chaos that's developed over the last months. But, really, I'd like to do something vacation-y. I'm planning a trip away in October, but I need something sooner. For the last year I'd been planning a trip to Iceland in September, but there have been a lot of family challenges that led me to postpone the trip. I'll go next year. God willing and the creek don't rise, as my grandmother used to say.

So I was thinking, the other day, about what might be possible. 

I thought about day trips, an overnight trip to a nearby location, and spa treatments. I settled on a float. 

A few years ago a new float studio opened in town. This was not something I was interested in during the worst of Covid, but now that things have eased a little, I thought I'd look into it. The studio looked great and floating is phenomenal for healing, relaxation, and release, so I decided to book a session. I'm so glad I did. I went today, and after the float I spent some time in the salt lounge. The energy is wonderful. It's something I've wanted to try for a few years, and I'm delighted the float studio has this resource.

Tonight I looked around online for some fun spa treatments. I found a place that has a hot and cold stone face massage and reflexology. That feels like a great follow-up. Fingers crossed they have something open tomorrow.

I love traveling. It fills me up when I feel emptied. There are also things I can do at home to fill me up. Taking some time while stay-cationing reminds me not to wait for time off to fill the cup.   

Creating Space: Three Months of Showing Up for What's Showing Up is a daily writing practice. Turns out that a lot of this writing explores the landscape of grief. My mother died shortly before I began this writing, and this is what I'm thinking about most of the time these days.

Katherine Cartwright has been blogging since 2012, and each year brings new wonders. She asks big questions of the small things in life. 

Three Months

I'm a few days late. Six of them.

On the 20th, I was dealing with a dying laptop and too much work stress. I also was counting the days until I could take a few days off from work. I am now taking some days off from work. I haven't relaxed into it yet. I'm in the between space. 

People still are sending me emails. Other people are writing articles about "quiet quitting."  There are conversations on comment threads about what used to be called "working to rule." I'd never heard of that either. I'm feeling a bit irked about the idea of shaming people for daring to have a life outside of work, for attending to their children, for cooking and eating a nice meal, for relaxing into a quiet evening with a good book. For drawing a line between work and life, and creating a balance between the two. 

I'm reminded of the conversations I'm seeing around the student loan forgiveness that is in the news these days. I'm stunned that people are freaking out about this, while something like tax cuts to the already wealthy and to corporations that are bringing in record profits go unremarked and seem to create no outrage or talk of fairness. We used to value things like education and family time. Now it seems like both are becoming more and more impossible.

Sometimes I look at the world and wonder how things went sideways. I wonder at greed that leads people to hoard and to deny others food, shelter, dignity.

It's a strange, strange world.

I miss the old days. 

I won't call them good, because they might not have been good for everyone. But I wonder if more people had it better then. People certainly seemed kinder and more community-minded.

How strange it is that I've found myself pondering these things in the space between work and some time for myself. As I continue to dwell in a space of grief. The big grief brings little griefs to light. 

I have a refrigerator full of food but I didn't feel like cooking today. Didn't feel like cutting up fruit and cheese, or like opening up a container of cold meat or a can of tuna. So I ordered pizza for dinner. Tomorrow I'm going to soak in a sensory deprivation chamber and hope all that ails me will stay in the water and drift away, transfigured by 4000 pounds of Epsom salts. Maybe I will feel a little bit renewed, or will have taken a step on the path.

Creating Space: Three Months of Showing Up for What's Showing Up is a daily writing practice. Turns out that a lot of this writing explores the landscape of grief. My mother died shortly before I began this writing, and this is what I'm thinking about most of the time these days.

Katherine Cartwright has been blogging since 2012, and each year brings new wonders. She asks big questions of the small things in life.

   

A is for Another

Another long day, and a quick turnaround trip to Mom’s to pick up a piece of furniture. Mom gave it to me awhile ago and we were going to move it the last week of May. I was really looking forward to having it here.

My son had taken time off work and was going to spend three days, visit with his grandmother, and have fun in the city. The day we’d planned to drive back was the day we had Mom’s funeral. That was not the plan.

I think there might be a different vibe to that piece of furniture than what it originally had. Does death change the vibe?

I’m still thinking about that.

Way Past the Midnight Oil

Just under the wire

The days, lately, have been that way

I breathe

Accept

Show up

Where I am needed 

And then

Show up for myself

Art on My Plate

Had dinner with friends the other evening. They made a peach caprese-style salad to accompany grilled salmon. It was such a refreshing and creative, unique twist on a favorite summer dish. Beautiful and delicious. I enjoyed the meal, and the company, and could not wait to tell a few people about it. 

Apparently, I'm the last person to have heard about subbing out peaches for tomatoes in a caprese salad. At least of those I told - my son, my brother, a few friends. 

"Oh, yeah, that's really big now," a friend told me last night at dinner.

Ah, well, that's okay. It was a delight to experience, there under a late summer evening sky with good friends and good wine. 

I made it today for lunch. Like my friend, I used burrata. There was fresh basil from the garden and a drizzle of a good, balsamic vinegar. It's not so much a recipe as it is art.

Creating Space: Three Months of Showing Up for What's Showing Up is a daily writing practice. Turns out that a lot of this writing explores the landscape of grief. My mother died shortly before I began this writing, and this is what I'm thinking about most of the time these days.

Katherine Cartwright has been blogging since 2012, and each year brings new wonders. She asks big questions of the small things in life.    

Ebb and Flow

Dinner with a friend

We’d not seen each other

For a very long time 

I’m discovering 

My need 

To simplify

To rest

To create balance

There is a line

My toe can be on and

Not over

I am present 

Here

Now

In the breath

In the body

Sinking

Grounded

Still

Inward

Three days of a digital fast give me time to go inward and be with the quiet spaces within.

The new laptop is set up and ready for pickup. I’ve got an appointment for tomorrow afternoon. 

Trying not to think about the thousands of emails that wait. 

Unplugged

I’ve been unplugged for more than 24 hours. 

Except for some brief checking of FB and filing the barest of blog posts using my iPhone, my brain is at rest from digital overload. 

It seems like these digital fasts are possible only when our devices are physically removed. I don’t know that I have the discipline to do it otherwise. Truth be told, I do not check email on Fridays, so I am able to do an email fast for a day. Usually I try to not power up the laptop at all on Friday, except for a usually brief window when I’m blogging.

As I reflect on the experience, I weigh the brain rest that comes with a digital fast against the anxiety of wondering what I’m missing. 

There’s a spiritual challenge in here somewhere. 

Onward

My computer started to die this morning. It’s a different kind of grief. 

That laptop and I had a rich life together, explored so many things. We saw my first book published together, created poetry, short stories, essays, and blog posts together. We companioned each other through the pandemic. 

Together we braved the Creatives Workshop, Akimbo’s Podcasting workshop, the Story Skills workshop, and two rounds of Writing in Community. We learned how to do church differently during a pandemic.  And just completed a poetry collection for the anthology project.

That laptop was with me all those lonely nights after my mother died. 

And so much more.  

Tonight I’m composing on my iPhone. The new laptop is with the GeekSquad getting set up. My dear, old laptop is there too for the data transfer. I’m praying all goes well. This between space is just a little unnerving. I feel a little naked without my laptop, a little untethered. Monday afternoon can’t come soon enough. 

Until then I’m on hiatus from email and from any work I usually do with it. I’ll have to edit the blog to add labels, a photo, and maybe some formatting changes, but my fingers are crossed that I can figure out how to hit publish. 

I’m pretty much just blundering through here without a map.

One of the Good Ones

A beautiful day and

A day away 

Al fresco at noon

A ride down by the river

Time with my son and

The woman he spends time with

A quiet evening

Time with my brother

On the phone

Telling stories

Remembering childhood

Re visiting childhood

Through story

Memory

His and his and  hers and mine

Creating Space: Three Months of Showing Up for What's Showing Up is a daily writing practice. Turns out that a lot of this writing explores the landscape of grief. My mother died shortly before I began this writing, and this is what I'm thinking about most of the time these days.

Katherine Cartwright has been blogging since 2012, and each year brings new wonders. She asks big questions of the small things in life.

Glimpses of Truth

I've been writing poetry and recipes here, all the while tracking in my writing community what it's like to write in the midst of grief. When I write about what I notice about grieving. And when I don't.

Grief is with me always, but I usually want to write about anything but that.

I'm too raw.

The Band-Aid of time has been ripped away and the scab came off with it, leaving some very sensitive skin exposed. The sensitivity, of course, is part of the healing. 

Last week I was at Mom's looking through photos and letters. I mentioned that in my writing. What I did not mention was having to take a break for weeping and wailing. I am grateful to have the empty house to do that in. I can't do it here in my apartment. I can't do it anywhere I would be overheard. 

It comes on suddenly. Is expressed. And then lifts. Sometimes I think of my mother and just start crying. Sometimes I want to talk with her so badly I think about ways to tear the veil in two and reveal all the hidden worlds. 

My heart hurts. 

I'm giving myself time to feel it, to feel it ease, and to catch my breath. To close my eyes and sink into the darkness behind my lids and let my breathing slow down. To feel the seat beneath me. To feel my feet flat on the ground. To feel into the memories of my mother and the parts of me that contain her essence. The DNA we share, the ancestral memory we share, the stardust that makes us what we are. The energetic signature that was hers, that will never cease to exist because she lived. 

When it's a sunny morning, I think of Mom. When I wake up with a headache, I think of Mom. When I get in my car, I think about calling her. When I think of something she would liked to have heard about, I want to reach out and tell her. 

Like today. A friend dropped her daughter off at IU for her first year in college. They posted pictures from all over campus. She's living in the dorm I lived in. She's studying the same discipline, albeit updated. I remember the day Mom and Dad moved me into the dorm. I was so excited. It was a new adventure. I was fledging, and there was safety because I felt supported by my parents. A net to catch me if I fell. 

And then I remember what it felt like when they drove away. I started to cry, unexpectedly. There was something primal about it. It was a passage. I found out years later that the minute my parents pulled away, my mother began to cry. The same kind of tears. Just for a moment, I wanted them to come back and get me. Just for a moment, Mom wanted Dad to turn around and come back and get me. I cried myself to sleep that night. Mom cried all the way back to my grandmother's house, ninety minutes up the highway. 

The connection is strong.

This morning I was transfixed by the beauty of the morning glories and wanted to tell her about it. So I did. I trust that somehow, some way, she heard me. 

Creating Space: Three Months of Showing Up for What's Showing Up is a daily writing practice. Turns out that a lot of this writing explores the landscape of grief. My mother died shortly before I began this writing, and this is what I'm thinking about most of the time these days.

Katherine Cartwright has been blogging since 2012, and each year brings new wonders. She asks big questions of the small things in life.

Yummy

Roasted corn

Sugar snap peas

Feta cheese

Grated garlic

Salt and pepper

Champagne vinegar

Extra virgin olive oil

Freshly squeezed orange juice

Put the first three ingredients in a bowl and drizzle with a vinaigrette made from the last five ingredients. 

The corn is hot. The snap peas are cold and crisp. The feta gets a little bit melt-y. It's lovely.

I saw the recipe made by Cameron Diaz on a video. Who knew she would be so fun to watch?  

Creating Space: Three Months of Showing Up for What's Showing Up is a daily writing practice. Turns out that a lot of this writing explores the landscape of grief. My mother died shortly before I began this writing, and this is what I'm thinking about most of the time these days.

Katherine Cartwright has been blogging since 2012, and each year brings new wonders. She asks big questions of the small things in life.

White Flower

Even late in the summer

Flowering surprises abound 

A flash of white caught my eye and

I turned around 

To see this beauty and 

Another

But by the time I looked again

One had closed and 

The other 

Remained

Creating Space: Three Months of Showing Up for What's Showing Up is a daily writing practice. Turns out that a lot of this writing explores the landscape of grief. My mother died shortly before I began this writing, and this is what I'm thinking about most of the time these days.

Katherine Cartwright has been blogging since 2012, and each year brings new wonders. She asks big questions of the small things in life.

It's Liminal

The day is over

The next has yet to begin

Between spaces

There's not much to notice

So I think back 

To cool morning air and

Soft light and 

Colorful glories dancing.

Creating Space: Three Months of Showing Up for What's Showing Up is a daily writing practice. Turns out that a lot of this writing explores the landscape of grief. My mother died shortly before I began this writing, and this is what I'm thinking about most of the time these days.

Katherine Cartwright has been blogging since 2012, and each year brings new wonders. She asks big questions of the small things in life.

Fresh Everything

I went crazy for fruit at the store today, 

It happens this time of year. 

Blueberries, figs, grapes. 

There may be more. 

Corn, sweet potatoes, sugar snap peas. 

The funny thing is there were three bags of groceries and

I can think of only six items.

And that tomato sandwich? 

It was amazing.

A different kind of veg art.

Creating Space: Three Months of Showing Up for What's Showing Up is a daily writing practice. Turns out that a lot of this writing explores the landscape of grief. My mother died shortly before I began this writing, and this is what I'm thinking about most of the time these days.

Katherine Cartwright has been blogging since 2012, and each year brings new wonders. She asks big questions of the small things in life.

 

Gift

I hold in my hand

A beautiful tomato

Tomorrow it will be a

Sandwich

But tonight it's

Veg art

Creating Space: Three Months of Showing Up for What's Showing Up is a daily writing practice. Turns out that a lot of this writing explores the landscape of grief. My mother died shortly before I began this writing, and this is what I'm thinking about most of the time these days.

Katherine Cartwright has been blogging since 2012, and each year brings new wonders. She asks big questions of the small things in life.

My Head Is Spinning

I've been all over the place today. 

Going through photographs and letters, and lots of miscellaneous containers of random things. My mom loved to keep everything . . . from Happy Meal toys she got with three rounds of grandchildren, to souvenir matchbooks and matchboxes and coasters, to every postcard that she or we or her parents received. It's such a rich treasure trove of family history. I hate to get rid of any of it. 

I've been all over Europe today and traveled through about one hundred years of time. I visited my childhood and my mother's childhood, even my grandparents' childhoods. I pulled out my hair over trying to figure out what to do with lifetimes of precious things that fit so beautifully here for so long. 

And now need to find homes with my brothers and me or be released. 

It feels strange that there won't be a place where all of this lives any more. We've already started dismantling things and it looks like we've barely made a dent. I'm not that upset over it, though, because I love spending time here while I can. And for it to feel inhabited still.  

Creating Space: Three Months of Showing Up for What's Showing Up is a daily writing practice. Turns out that a lot of this writing explores the landscape of grief. My mother died shortly before I began this writing, and this is what I'm thinking about most of the time these days.

Katherine Cartwright has been blogging since 2012, and each year brings new wonders. She asks big questions of the small things in life.

X Marks the Spot

I did manage to find three late hydrangea blossoms deep inside the foliage today. I cut them and put them in a vase on the mantle. Two freshly-cut roses, beautifully fragrant, are in a vase near my parents' photo. 

It's been a little bit of a treasure hunt this trip.

Going through some bins with fabric, I finally found my baptismal gown. It's been missing for nearly 30 years. My daughter wore it for her baptism, but when it was time for my son's four years later, Mom said she could not find it. It stymied her because over the summer, before he was born in September, she'd washed and ironed it to get it ready for his baptism. 

She said, "I'm so sorry. I've looked everywhere and I can't find it."

So I ran out to the mall and found a soft, white sleeper with light blue piping, and that's what he wore. I remember feeling disappointed because my grandmother brought the gown back from Europe for my baptism; both my brothers wore it for theirs, and we continued the tradition in the next generation with my daughter's baptism. Turns out, she was the only one of my mother's six grandchildren to wear it. 

About a year after he was baptized, we were visiting my parents and I went down to the basement for something. I stopped to use the bathroom, looked up, and saw the gown hanging from a pipe. It was in a clear plastic covering but was clearly discernable. I walked upstairs with it and Mom said, "Oh my gosh, where did you find it?" We both had a good laugh, but it still stung.

Last year, when Mom started talking about putting the house up for sale and moving I began to ask about the baptismal gown. It was no longer hanging from the pipe in the basement. Again, Mom had no idea where it was.

"It's around here somewhere. I'm sure we'll find it," she said.

Well, if you've ever been in a house that's held several generations in a family that likes to hold onto nearly everything, you might not be surprised at my concern over never finding it. I've been looking for it for a few months. I won't say I'd given up, but I was starting to reconcile myself to the possibility that she'd loaned it or given it away or accidentally thrown it away. That it might not be found and saved for my own hoped-for-grandchildren's baptisms.

This evening I was in the basement, going through some bins with fabrics that included some embroidered curtains I want to keep, and there it was. No longer neatly ironed. It needs a bit of a wash and probably some Oxy-Clean to brighten it up a bit, but beautiful still. It was like unearthing treasure.

Creating Space: Three Months of Showing Up for What's Showing Up is a daily writing practice. Turns out that a lot of this writing explores the landscape of grief. My mother died shortly before I began this writing, and this is what I'm thinking about most of the time these days.

Katherine Cartwright has been blogging since 2012, and each year brings new wonders. She asks big questions of the small things in life.

Dog Days

It's so hot the A.C. barely touches it.

Everything outside is dry.

The river reveals its islands. 

Blossoms on the stem crackle.

There's nothing to cut in my mother's garden

Except a single red zinnia

That I leave to brighten the garden.

Creating Space: Three Months of Showing Up for What's Showing Up is a daily writing practice. Turns out that a lot of this writing explores the landscape of grief. My mother died shortly before I began this writing, and this is what I'm thinking about most of the time these days.

Katherine Cartwright has been blogging since 2012, and each year brings new wonders. She asks big questions of the small things in life.

Hidden Figures

These poor, wrinkly peaches started out so beautifully at the farmers market.

Certainly not ripe. Hard. They sit in a bowl on my counter.

Maybe I should have used a paper bag.

They rarely pick the ripe ones. They do not travel well.

So you buy them just beneath ripeness and cross your fingers.

Hope they'll ripen. Discover their juiciness. 

In this one, I discovered a heart.

Creating Space: Three Months of Showing Up for What's Showing Up is a daily writing practice. Turns out that a lot of this writing explores the landscape of grief. My mother died shortly before I began this writing, and this is what I'm thinking about most of the time these days.

Katherine Cartwright has been blogging since 2012, and each year brings new wonders. She asks big questions of the small things in life.

Juicy Details

This one is easy. Baby butter lettuce, a simple lemony vinaigrette, ripe cantaloupe, prosciutto.

Perfect summer meal.

Here's the recipe:

Baby butter lettuce, or greens of choice, on the plate

Wedges of ripe cantaloupe, rind removed

Prosciutto, carelessly scattered over the lettuce

Drizzle with vinaigrette

To make the vinaigrette, whisk together a tablespoon of a good extra virgin olive oil, a teaspoon of lemon juice, 1/4 - 1/2 teaspoon of Dijon mustard, Celtic grey sea salt, cracked pepper, fresh herbs - I used tarragon. While I usually include fresh garlic in a vinaigrette, I omitted it here.

Paired with an unoaked Chardonnay.

Creating Space: Three Months of Showing Up for What's Showing Up is a daily writing practice. Turns out that a lot of this writing explores the landscape of grief. My mother died shortly before I began this writing, and this is what I'm thinking about most of the time these days.

Katherine Cartwright has been blogging since 2012, and each year brings new wonders. She asks big questions of the small things in life.

The Good Earth

I continue to work my way through the cornucopia of goodness I collected at the farmers market the other day. Today it was some roast chicken, local and pastured, with fresh herbs from my garden and garlic, shallot, fennel, and apple from the local farms. A bit of salt, pepper, and extra virgin olive oil. A cast iron skillet and a hot oven. It's just that easy to conjure a little kitchen magic. 

Really, all I did was to reach for what I had and put it all together. There's a kind of genius that comes forward when we are deeply present and inhabiting our lives. 

Here's the recipe, as I made it:

One leg quarter and two wings placed in a 7-inch cast iron skillet

A nice drizzle of EVOO, salt, pepper, and some fresh herbs, like thyme, rosemary, Italian parsley goes over the top, along with

One fat clove of garlic, grated

Thinly slice a shallot, the heart of a fennel bulb, and a third of a green apple

Add another small drizzle of EVOO

Place the skillet in a preheated 375 degree oven and roast for 45 minutes. Allow it to sit for ten minutes before serving, and, of course, give thanks and enjoy.

 

Creating Space: Three Months of Showing Up for What's Showing Up is a daily writing practice. Turns out that a lot of this writing explores the landscape of grief. My mother died shortly before I began this writing, and this is what I'm thinking about most of the time these days.

Katherine Cartwright has been blogging since 2012, and each year brings new wonders. She asks big questions of the small things in life.

Bounty

The tomato was sliced and pressed between two pieces of rye bread,

The fennel and arugula swept up and pressed into the chill recesses of the fridge.

A bowl of peaches sits on the counter.

There is more I cannot see,

But I know it is there, waiting,

For whatever wonders will become of them. 

Of course, they already are a wonder and

Wonder begets wonder.

Creating Space: Three Months of Showing Up for What's Showing Up is a daily writing practice. Turns out that a lot of this writing explores the landscape of grief. My mother dies shortly before I began this writing, and this is what I'm thinking about most of the time these days.

Katherine Cartwright has been blogging since 2012, and each year brings new wonders. She asks big questions of the small things in life. 

Casting About for Joy

It began with a trip to the farmers market today. The first this season. They've moved it again, but that's okay. The new location is a bit closer to home; the parking is free; and it's much easier to get to. 

I don't mind that it's a movable feast.

Today's plans with my son also were a movable feast. I had to think a minute this morning before I remembered which version we settled on. I'd let him know my day was flexible, but for one thing. 

A quick trip to the farmers market in the morning.

Most years, I've gone every week. I always loved it when it was in the middle of Princeton, in a public square-type space. It was fun to spend the morning, move slowly through the market, and then amble up and down Witherspoon Street, stopping at shops or stopping in for a cup of tea at Small World. 

That was before Covid. I can't remember if the the market was offered in 2020. Last year, though, it was offered in a parking lot, away from the town center. This year it's farther out still. It seems to mirror the way community continues to move farther away from itself with the changes Covid continues to bring. 

Still, it was lovely to visit, to see familiar vendors, to discover new wonders. Like the Turkish stand with home crafted cheese, meat, and vegetable hand pies. They've also got apple hand pies that remind me of strudel. And the Turkish delight! Home made. I've never had anything like it.

At a favorite organic farm's stand, there were beautiful sunflowers, small and golden. I prayed they would make it home without wilting, and they did. They brighten my kitchen counter  where all my veg purchases wait for me to put them away. There's a sink full of dishes, also waiting. Greasy paper bags are torn open and slices of a cheese hand pie and apple hand pie made an easy and tasty dinner. The phone keeps ringing, and I keep hitting the "Can I call you later?" prompt. Last night I picked up a call while writing and didn't get back to it for 90 minutes, my original thoughts forgotten.

There's no way I'm doing that tonight. I've been casting about for joy, and the thread can be elusive. Right now, it's the golden head of a small bouquet of sunflowers peeking over the mess in my kitchen that delights.

Creating Space: Three Months of Showing Up for What's Showing Up is a daily writing practice. Turns out  that a lot of this writing explores the landscape of grief. My mother died shortly before I  began this writing, and this is what I'm thinking about most of the time these days.

Katherine Cartwright has been blogging since 2012, and each year brings new wonders. She asks big questions of the small things in life.

Kid in a Candy Store

On the way back from the chiropractor today, I stopped in at my favorite natural food store and started throwing things in the cart, like superfood chocolate and grain free cookies, almond flour stone ground crackers, organic gluten and grain free granola, small packets of organic almond and cashew butter, fresh and locally-made stuffed grape leaves and tabbouleh for dinner.

I woke up this morning with a wicked headache and had to work the day with it before I could get to the chiropractor for an adjustment. The minute he got the right misalignment back in place, there was immediate relief. It's got me thinking about alignment and adjustment in a wider sense. 

I don't know that I have much to say about it today, but it feels like a seed has been planted in the soil of my thinking. The pain in my back and neck have flared again. I had just enough time to get to the chiropractor and back and grab a quick dinner before another almost four hours of work in the evening, which included a Zoom meeting, phone calls, and work at my laptop.

Alignment. Adjustment. Needing to show up even when it would be better for my body to rest. 

I'm not the only person to contend with this, but I am the only person who can contend with my own life, health, and body. 

Alignment. Adjustment.

This writing has gone in a different direction than I thought it would. It was interrupted by a 90-minute phone call. Serious conversation penetrated my lighthearted writing about a few moments of fun and self-indulgence in the middle of a difficult and demanding day that was wrapped in a migraine.

There are lessons in such a day.

Still, I think back to the 20 minutes of a kind of Supermarket Sweep in a natural food store that had me feeling like a kid in a candy store. Makes me smile as I think about winding down and making my way to bed. 

Creating Space: Three Months of Showing Up for What's Showing Up is a daily writing practice. Turns out  that a lot of this writing explores the landscape of grief. My mother died shortly before I  began this writing, and this is what I'm thinking about most of the time these days.

Katherine Cartwright has been blogging since 2012, and each year brings new wonders. She asks big questions of the small things in life.

A Little Night Music

At 10:!5 this evening, there were fireworks outside my kitchen window. 

My first thought was, "Yeesh, fireworks? So late?"

And then I thought some more and 

Started to smile.

They were actually quite lovely and

So close I could almost touch them. 

Creating Space: Three Months of Showing Up for What's Showing Up is a daily writing practice. Turns out  that a lot of this writing explores the landscape of grief. My mother died shortly before I  began this writing, and this is what I'm thinking about most of the time these days.

Katherine Cartwright has been blogging since 2012, and each year brings new wonders. She asks big questions of the small things in life.