Eat Dessert First

The Walking Cure

Last year I had the brilliant idea to write my way through the last of the depression. It was a crap idea. I hadn't been reading or writing for several years, I couldn't organize my thoughts, or concentrate, and sitting in front of a pad of paper or computer and being stuck was misery. Conventional wisdom seems to be that you sit there and just write even if it's garbage because the process and persistence will get things rolling. Couldn't do it. Felt like punishment. So I started walking. Couple a miles a day, then 4 or 5. It was meditative and gave me ample opportunity to process every unexamined thought that'd been rattling around for years inside my skull and oh were there a lot of them. The are dozens are articles devoted to how walking can help with depression and while I truly don't know that I would've mustered the energy to walk while in the throes of depression, starting to walk at the tail end was the best thing I could've done for myself. More on that another time. 

In July, I started hiking. Well, first, I downloaded a hiking app and spent a month agonizing over which trail because I'm middle aged and haven't hiked in years and I was still worried about my balance being shit from using the cane for three years and was I really fit enough and blah blah blah. Out of the blue, my daughter invited me hiking near her place and the mountain she suggested was reasonably small (I live on the edge of the Berkshires. All the mountains are varying degrees of small) and, because the app had rated it "moderate", it was on my possibilities list anyway. So the mountain she suggested is across from one that wasn't on my list because even though it's a shorter hike, it's rated difficult because it's steep with some rock scrambles and I had zero confidence in my ability. Of course, mountains aren't labelled, my daughter's sense of direction is questionable at best, and we ended up hiking the one I'd intended to avoid (after this this adventure, I stuck to maps and the app.)  And you know, there's nothing like the boost that comes from accidentally succeeding at something that you just KNOW you can't do. 

I was hooked. A week later, I attempted a 5.4 mile in and out hike that was definitely a stretch. Had to turn around a less than a quarter mile from the summit because I was exhausted and wasn't equipped for or interested in sleeping on the mountain just because I was too damn tired to climb down. 

And that was last year. I regained clarity, perspective, and improved my physical and mental health. 4-5 mile walk 4-5 times a week and a hike up a mountain every week or two, mostly in and around the Berkshires with a few trips to NH for Monadnock and Mt Cardigan.  I spent a lot, tho not nearly enough, of my childhood summers at my grandparent's cabin (which had running water but the toilet was a 2x3 wooden box over a pit)on 90 acres at the Springfield/Grantham NH line and I love that area so much. This year, I've already been on my first easy hike and am currently rebuilding endurance plus mastering the fine art of reading a map and using a compass. Walking 5-6 miles daily. Hiking a few times a month. Planning at least one hike a month in or near the White Mountains and thinking Mt Washington sometime between mid-July and mid-August. 

 

 

Decluttering Life

A week or so ago, Facebook finally got on my last nerve when I awoke, yet again, to another annoyingly contrived "Erica, we at Facebook care about you, here are some memories" and was bombarded with yet another photo montage of my dead father and my dead dog who, in a cosmic coincidence that I hope to someday understand or at least accept, died on the same date one year apart. June 19th, which in my father's case, fell on Father's Day last year. The man never was one to do anything halfway.

The great thing about social media -besides the interconnectedness of it all- is the ease with which one can unplug from it. First Facebook and it's damn memories which also unplugged Messenger. Then Twitter, which these days is far too responsive to the moods of a fecklessly tweeting President. Pinterest, the source of relentless crafting and decorating desire and competition went next. Then I went a little further into the time sucks of my life. Netflix. The Wall Street Journal. Three bags of rarely worn clothing. Jewelry. Boxes of random tchotchkes, holiday decorations, cookware, art. Paperwork. Junk apps on the phone. Then I cleared out the office and some ongoing issues at work. It was quite the week. And for the first time in far too long, life is calm and centered. 

And what to do with this gift of free time? Read three books. Applied for a volunteer position with an organization that's dear to me. Downloaded a hiking app for exploring local trails. Dusted off the DSLR and started experiencing the world again. And that's only week one. 

On Sunday, I took the the kitchen set (not pictured) that was leftover from my time with D, and hauled it to the curb. I should've done it a year ago. Of all the leftover furniture from that relationship, only two pieces bore any significant emotional weight, the kitchen table and my desk. The desk was a gorgeous and perfect gift, cherry with a leather top, and I'd spent untold hours at it reading, writing, and drinking coffee. I sold it within a month of us splitting up, unwilling to keep a object so closely associated with my favorite pastimes. The necessary but otherwise nondescript kitchen table became a sore spot, a constant reminder of shared meals, drowsy conversations over early morning coffee, late night chats over snacks, the mundane interactions that add to a relationship. I hate furniture shopping and intended to refinish the table when I had a little free time. Let me tell you, being depressed eats up ALL of the free time, every last bit of it for months on end. And all the while there's this damn table sitting in the kitchen. Anyway, last Sunday dawned, a warm and beautiful day and I decided it was finally time to haul the table outside and get to work. Picked up a gorgeous cobalt blue for the legs, a stain for the top, and sandpaper for the belt sander that I'd kept (power tools have no emotional association at all for me and they're practical). Stopped at a tag sale ont he way home from the hardware store (Note: east of Worcester, they're called yard sales. Yaaahhd sales if you've got the accent. West of Worcester, and into CT, they're call tag sales. No idea why.) and there was this cute kitchen set, cheap and the seller offered to drop it off at my place. Free. Clearly it was a sign. And by Monday afternoon, some happy stranger had driven off with the curbed table and chairs. Finally the kitchen feels right again. 

Endings, beginnings, and living

There are times when gray creeps in nearly imperceptibly from the edges, gradually fogging thought, emotion, and, eventually, one's sense of self. Depression. Interminable and relentless.

Maybe it should have occurred to me when writing, an activity that's sustained me for as long as I can remember, became impossible, that something had gone awry. Or when curiosity waned and I stopped reading. Or maybe when the camera began gathering dust, as even the most basic way of expressing myself failed. 

I'll tell you that I'm feeling much better now. I don't know however, that normalcy has returned quite yet. I also suspect that normal isn't quite what it was 5 years ago and recognizing it in it's new form might take a little doing.

I started blogging over a decade ago as a way of sorting things out post divorce. My last post was nearly 2 years ago. In an effort to think my way out of what I viewed as an extended slump, I'd decided to start blogging again. A few days later I had the The Fat Pit Bull put down and words failed me completely. Dad's lung cancer returned and bit by painful bit he declined until he died on June 19th, 2016. Father's Day. Coincidentally, the Fat Pit Bull was put down on June 19th 2015. (This year on June 19th, I'm starting a weeklong Fundamentals of Bookbinding course. Gotta have something to look forward to). In the middle of all this mayhem, three years of painfully clomping around on a cane proved too much and I finally had my knee replaced. And my (then) significant other nearly died from an abdominal aneurysm. While he was banging a 26 year old. Yeah, when it rains, it pours. There's more but it'll be for another day. Or days. 

And it brings me back to this blog. I nearly deleted it a few times. But I think right now, I need it and maybe the history, the random stories of my life it contains. I need to think through who I was and sort out a bit who I'm becoming. That's not a job for twitter or facebook where long thoughts aren't exactly encouraged and frankly it's just too damn loud to think sometimes. Piecing one's life together isn't a linear process. 

Farewell, Fat Pit Bull

About three weeks ago, Fatty tore an ACL. We've been struggling with her weight since we rescued her from her previous life which included eating a tray of lasagna daily (hence the Fatty moniker) because it put her at higher risk for injuries like a torn ACL and just shortening her lifespan in general. We knocked off a lot of the weight but not all. In her perpetual quest to match the food consumption of her past life, Fatty was an unstoppable garbage and pantry raider, floor cleaner, and out and out food mooch. Anyway, a torn ACL isn't a death sentence but it's not great news for a 90 pound dog who ought to weigh 80 and has arthritis. Because of her age and arthritis, the vet wasn't confident about surgery being her best option. The recovery time was 3+ months, she'd be confined to a tiny area to ensure she wasn't walking and further damaging her leg etc and there was a pretty high risk of her blowing the other ACL or exacerbating her arthritic hips. It sucked. We opted for conservative care with the hopes that we could keep her comfortable -with meds and limiting her to the downstairs- and she could have a reasonable quality of life for her remaining time. It was not to be. She sleeps with me every night and because we live in a townhouse and she wasn't supposed to climb stairs -which'd take her up to my bedroom- I've been sleeping with her downstairs in the living room. She apparently missed the comfort of my -our- room and Wednesday night I was out, squeezed past the gate and hauled herself up the stairs, tearing her other ACL in the process though she did make it to our room. And I came home to a 90 pound dog who was happy that I was joining her up in our room and who couldn't use her hind legs. We had her put down Friday morning. It was the right thing to do and my heart is broken. She'd always lie on my feet while I was sitting and it's weird writing this without feeling her warmth on my toes. A good friend commented that she's moved on to a place where she can finally eat as much as she wants and I hope that's the case. I miss you, Fatty.

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Blog Ressurection

I needed a few years to sort things out. Now I'm ready to begin again.

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Wool addiction

Seriously. Closeout, $2 for a 465 yard skein. Bought a half dozen. Might overdye it, might not. Most likely making a cabled throw with it.

The last time I had time to do this, I think a Republican was still president.

Though, truthfully, the last time I actually realistically planned holiday knitting and quilting was never. Usually I make a ginormously ambitious list and fail. True story.
We moved a year ago and I finally feel settled. The rhythm of the seasons here has become familiar. Moving 130 miles shouldn't make that much of a difference but it does. 
Eldest child is off to college in two days. Since she stayed behind in NH to finish out her senior year of high school, college means she'll live 45 minutes away and we might get to see each other more than every six weeks email especially since she'll be surrounded by a bunch of independent bookstores that we need to explore. How about that?

Will this be right side up?

Or another view askew? Let's find out.

Another Crane Pond Sunset.

I'm messing with email blogging again cos typepad is adamant that it doesn't know my email address and I know I've forgotten the password and that leaves us at an impasse for the time being. At least till I can undo my stupidity. 

Half the time I email blog, the picture ends

up upside or some sort of willy nilly so I apologize but me and technology have a love hate relationship that leans more towards hate most of the time.
Anyway, this is Crane Pond after one of the dozens of thunderstorms we've had this summer. The pond's more of a large puddle in the middle of the aptly named Little River. When it storms on hot humid days, the cold water rushing in from the mountains fills the pond and creates this lovely fog drifting across it.

It's been a year and it finally feels like I'm settling in. Driving past farms and fields seems normal, though tobacco plants are funny looking enough I still stare at them. ( Really, if you're not used to tobacco fields, they're vaguely alien looking. Or maybe I'm a little strange. You never know.) Living amongst people who make eye contact, open doors for strangers, and offer a "good morning" to anyone they walk by is a good thing.

I've coveted Wisteria- all of

I've coveted Wisteria- all of it, everywhere- for as long as I can remember. The scent, the color, the languid drape of the flowers...

So, today, I nearly drove the car off the road after noticing a thirty foot long stretch of it sprawling over the fence behind a laundromat.

Heaven is found in the strangest places.

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Front yard cows...

They're not mine but I drive by them regularly and, well, cows in someone's front yard...the novelty hasn't quite worn off.

We've been living in the edge of the Berkshires for about nine months now and I think we're finally settling in. Winter was dull and dreadful, mostly because I hadn't the time to establish any fun routines and a little touch of depression may have settled in. Funny how it's easier to notice these things after the fact. But spring is here and that always makes life better. I'm taking a few days off in late May to mind a friend's bookstore and surround myself with books (hopefully sell a bunch). My friend Linda called tonight and now I have plans for a day of wandering bookstores in New York City. Later this summer, we're heading to Montreal for a weekend. And living on the edge of nowhere oddly enough means there are more options for pottery classes than on the eastern side of the state. Who knew?

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Insomniac with Camera

I promise not to flog this snow storm to death. Well, mostly. The pictures were so much fun, though.
At 11, when I went to bed, there was about 4 inches of snow. At 3, the cars had disappeared. It was pretty neat.

Of course, the digging out sucked but at least it was powder.

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To put 28 inches of snow in perspective,

I give you an 80 pound pit bull who desperately needs to pee and hates getting her nether bits snowy. Can't say that I blame her.

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