Grace Mattern

August 19, 2014

Stillness and Adventure

Yesterday morning, as David and I were packing for our 5+ weeks of adventure in Europe, I noticed a praying mantis on a chair in the kitchen. Wondering about the symbolism of such an appearance, I looked it up. Yes, it’s a symbol of good fortune, but good fortune found through stilling the mind, seeking peace and calmness. One website says, “Overwhelmingly in most cultures the mantis is a symbol of stillness. As such, she is an ambassador from the animal kingdom giving testimony to the benefits of meditation, and calming our minds. An appearance from the mantis is a message to be still, go within, meditate, get quiet and reach a place of calm.”

I’ve been meditating regularly, as in every day, since January. But recently, with the busyness of lots of family visits and getting ready for a long trip, I’ve found myself not getting to meditation at least several days in the last few weeks. That’s after 8 months of no-fail daily meditation.

We’re in Normandy today, staying tonight in the lovely village of Saint-Germer-de-Fly, on our way to a week with our friend Anny at her summer house in Lisores. It’s been a packed day, and after a night on an airplane, and landing in a time zone 6 hours ahead of the one I left, my body isn’t entirely sure what day it is. Tuesday, right?

Which means I haven’t meditated yet today. I’ve been busy being stunned by beautiful villages and old abbeys and sun chasing rain showers chasing sun across a rolling green landscape of hay fields and pasture.

So, time to meditate. In the meantime, here’s a taste of the first day of our adventure.

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

August 17, 2014

Cairn Rock

“I have something I need to talk to you about,” my neighbor said, stepping out of his truck’s cab. He’d stopped at the end of my driveway when he saw me heading out for a run this morning. He looked upset and I was immediately worried.

“You know we’re doing a lot of logging out the road,” he said and I said of course, we see a dozen or more large trucks a day going by our house, making the sharp left turn to climb the small hill of Canterbury Road up through the fields and then into the woods. The same road I’ve written about before, the road I walk to a large set of rocks where I’ve been building cairns for Eric since he died. The closed trailer trucks come back out the road packed with mulch; the open bed trailers with tall steel side supports roar by stacked with huge logs of oak.

David and I walk out there often and have been watching the progress of the loggers cleaning up blown down trees from the tornado in 2008, shredding them into mulch, and cutting tall oaks for lumber. It’s the most action our street has seen since I’ve lived here. It’s made the road surface in the woods much smoother for walking and we’ve been assuming the blockage in the road, that keeps us from getting to the cairn rock, will be cleared once all the lumbering in done.

“I told the logger I hired one thing he had to be sure to to be careful of,” my neighbor said, still looking worried through all my talking about how much work he’s getting done on his land and how much better the road in the woods is now for running. “I didn’t want anything to happen to the rock where you make stone piles.”

“Oh,” I said, finally understanding why he looked upset.

“But there was a new young man working out there last week and he pulled trees over the rock and now everything is knocked down. I’m really sorry.”

“That’s okay,” I said. “I build those cairns for Eric, but I don’t mind rebuilding them. I often have to pick up fallen rocks. It’s fine.”

“I know the rocks are for Eric. That’s why I really didn’t want them disturbed. I feel so badly. I’m going to clean out all the brush and bark that got left there and once the old road is open again you’ll be able to get to the rock and it will be all fixed. I’m so sorry.” He was holding his hand to his heart.

“It’s really okay,” I said. “It’s so sweet of you to be that concerned, but please don’t worry about it. You’re completely forgiven. I’m fine about rebuilding the cairns.”

“When I realized you were making those rock piles for Eric, I started doing it for my Dad. He used to take me out there when I was a kid, and now it’s a place I go to remember him.” His father died four years ago.

“It’s a good spot,” I said, nodding.

“I have photographs of it so you can see what it was like before it all got knocked down. And I’m going to make it even better. I’ve gotten a granite cross I’m going to put out there.” Now I knew where the cross made of lashed together branches that appeared on the rock this spring came from.

“Oh, that’s so nice,” I said. “You’re so kind to stop and tell me all this, but really, it’s completely fine. It will be a pleasure to rebuild the cairns.”

Eric would be delighted by the sequence of events that have led to a granite cross marking his remembrance rock. I’ll make a Star of David with lashed together branches and put that next to the cross.

August 11, 2014

Hope and Weariness

Waking up is a gamble. Some days I open my eyes to a surge of excitement, my mind spinning with anticipation for what I’m going to do that day. I get up and get moving. Other days I wake to a coil of anxiety in my gut. Those days I try to stay in bed and breath relaxation into my body. That doesn’t always work and if it doesn’t, I get up and get moving, as if it was a morning when I’m looking forward to what the day will bring. Moving always makes me feel better, but those dreary mornings can get wearing.

My sister Chris, whose blog I introduced you to over a month ago, has recently posted two new essays that speak to those alternating days of hope and weariness. The essays are terrific. I hope you’ll click over to A Cancer Journey With Chris and read them.

August 4, 2014

Can I Do It?

I’m not into bucket lists, but if I was going to have a bucket list I would put running the NYC marathon on that list, and since I just finished my fourth week of training in a 16 week marathon training program, to be ready to run from Staten Island to Central Park, passing through all five boroughs of the city in the process on November 2, against the advice of the orthopedic doctor I saw about my sore knees and some of the signals from those knees (though not all the signals, or I would stop training, or at least I tell myself I would stop), I guess I do have a bucket list and as of now the only item on it is running the NYC marathon.

I ran 10 miles on Saturday. That’s the furthest I’ve run in a couple of years, since doing a half marathon in November of 2012. I didn’t run at all for over two months this past winter because my right knee was too painful. At that point I knew I’d gotten in to the NYC marathon, which I’ve been trying to get in to for years, so I was discouraged and frustrated. Friends who run marathons regularly tell me if you’re going to do one, NYC is the one to do.

In mid-March, when my knee was still bothering me even after over a month of not running and a couple of months of physical therapy, I made an appointment to see an orthopedic doctor.

“I don’t see anything on your x-rays that isn’t explained by age,” the doctor told me. “And I see no reason you can’t keep running 3 or 4 miles at a time, 3 or 4 times a week, for as long as you want. But I think you should really think about not running a marathon. You could do damage that would make you unable to run. I’m a runner myself and I’ve decided I’m never going to do a marathon.”

“But I’ve done a number of half marathons,” I said.

“Yes,” the doctor said. “That’s half the distance of a marathon.”

He has a point. But so do I. I want to do a marathon. I admit waiting until I was 60 to decide doing a marathon, the NYC marathon, is on my bucket list is a bit late. But by the end of March I was running again and I’ve been carefully adding miles to get to the point where I could start a training plan. I’m paying a lot of attention to both knees as I train and I’m ready to stop if they get too painful. The knees are definitely a bit cranky, but nothing like this winter, and nothing yet to make me stop.

So I’m hopeful. In the training plan I’m following this is a step back week. My long run this week will only be 7 miles. Good. Ten felt like a lot.

I’ll let you know how it goes.

July 25, 2014July 25, 2014

Puppy Love

At the end of the first week that David and I began seeing each other in 2008, I called him on Friday night. We talked about the upcoming weekend when Adrienne and Matt, and Matt’s parents, were coming to see Church Landing on Lake Winnipesaukee, where we’d booked their wedding reception. Matt’s parents were bringing their two West Highland terriers.

“They’re nice dogs,” I said. “I like having dogs in the house.”

“Do you want a dog?” he asked.

“Oh, no,” I answered. “I’m done with pets. But you’d be astonished at how many people, close friends even, told me I should get a pet after Eric died. They’d call and say, ‘I know what you need. You need a dog.’ Or they’d tell me to get a cat, or something. When I’d answer, ‘You do realize, don’t you, that even if I get a dog or a cat Eric is still going to be dead?’ that usually shut them up. No, no more pets for me. I travel too much for one thing.”

“Well that’s settled,” David said.

“What’s settled?”

“The question of whether we’ll have pets. I’m done with having pets too.”

I was surprised he was already talking about whether we’d have pets, but I liked it. It was a comfort to think there was a future where I’d be making decisions with someone else about how I lived.

I haven’t changed my mind at all about having a pet. But this week, being a grandparent to a puppy has been a delight. Quinoa is lively, spunky, affectionate and adorable. His unbridled joy at seeing me when I take him out of his crate after being out doing errands, is so gratifying. I’ve had dogs, and understand the attraction of having such a devoted companion. But experiencing the devotion this week has made me feel the attraction again, not just understand it.

But it’s only puppy love. When Quinoa goes back to Tennessee with Sam this weekend, I’ll be fine going back to my petless state.

July 20, 2014

Home Alone

Emilio prepared for saying good-bye to everyone by crying. “I don’t want to go. It’s been too short.” Then he got dressed, ate breakfast, and pitched in to help us all get out of our vacation rental by 10:00, after a late night for all of us.

There were more tears this morning, but not Emilio’s. He’d left with Adrienne and Matt on Friday to go back to Long Island. David and I were lucky — we got to extend our family vacation into the weekend, with Melia and Michael, Mackenzie and Sam all at the house until this morning.

This was our first family vacation with this iteration of family. Our week together at a big, comfortable house on Squam Lake was terrific — fun, sweet, funny, scenic, serious, tasty, refreshing, relaxed and energy packed. There were constant conversations among the family and flow of guests, so many people visiting from so many spokes of the family at one point that a visitor said good-bye to Adrienne as she was going out the door, thinking she was a guest leaving.

There were quiet evenings with only the core nine of us, Emilio asleep and the rest of us reading or talking over a game. There were late nights with a crowd for dinner and numerous stunner sunsets. The World Cup final was streamed on three different computers set on tables facing a semi-circle of chairs. At one point the streaming feed of one computer was 3 seconds behind, creating sequential squealing and groaning across the room, as those watching the on time screens reacted and the rest of the room caught up. Emilio climbed his first mountain (West Rattlesnake) and he and I together picked every accessible ripe blueberry on our corner of the lake, out in the morning to get what had ripened overnight and eat it before the birds.

Now I’m home alone for the first time in 10 days. “Transitions are hard,” I said last night, thinking about how just now would feel, everyone gone, the house only holding David and me today and for many days to come. But as I listened to the kids talk about their own transitions, back to our usual geographically scattered state, I thought maybe I have it easiest. I’m already home.

And actually, I’m not home alone. Long story, but Sam ended up flying back to Tennessee today and will be back up next weekend to get his car. That meant his puppy Quinoa will be here with me for the week, a particularly adorable part of the family left to make the house seem a bit less empty.

July 7, 2014

On Top Of What I Looked At

For 22 years I looked at the Ossipee Mountains on the far horizon across the southwestern coves of Squam Lake. From the Westwinds Cottages, where our family spent a week every summer, I could see the Ossipees behind the closer height of Red Hill, a hazy ridge of mountains I’d never climbed. I knew the Ossipees were a ring of mountains from an ancient volcano, but there were few known trails and no maps, and I was always busy climbing the higher White Mountains to the north.

Yesterday I got to stand on top of the ridge I looked at all those summers and take in a distant view of that southwestern corner of Squam Lake, along with a gloriously expansive view of Lake Winnipesaukee. The trail to the summit of Mt. Roberts passed over numerous ledges with views of the lakes to the south.

From the top of Mt. Roberts we followed the High Ridge Trail, which strings many of the peaks together. It’s an old carriage road, running along the 2,000 foot ridge, and is wide and grassy and some of the best hiking footing I’ve ever experienced.

The trails in the Ossipees have been mapped by the Trail Bandit, a man who started by mapping St. John in the Virgin Islands for hikers, then took on the Ossipees next. I don’t know what the connection is, but I’m thankful for the work he’s done to make the trails more accessible. The Lakes Region Conservation Trust has gone even further in making their conservation area in the Ossipees accessible by creating trail maps and kiosks in the Castle in the Clouds area of the Ossipee Mountains, clearly marking 30 miles of trails with blazes and signs.

With a strong wind cooling off the hot sun and flickering light through the leaves of the trees along the trail, it was an ideal day for hiking. I fell into a smooth rhythm of walking, the flow of a good hike following me long after I got to the end of the trail. At the summit of Mt. Roberts we chatted with a couple having lunch there. We talked about hiking lists we’ve completed (the man has done all the 4,000 footers in New England and the woman was working on 52 With A View) and how for the most part none of us are into lists at this point in our lives — too many other things competing for our recreational attention.

But after yesterday, the peaks in the Ossipees is a list I plan to pay more attention to.

June 30, 2014

Sisters

I feel lucky to have three sisters, and even luckier to have just spent three days at the beach with them. The one day of clouds didn’t seem to matter in balance with the glorious sunshine and clear air of the other days. The cottage Chris was renting looks over the marshes of the South River and it’s a short walk to the beach. We were surrounded by the best of being on the water — the snaking blue of a tidal river contrasted by green marsh grass, and the hiss and tumble of waves breaking white on the sand.

Spending time with my sisters walking along the beach and the river, sitting on the deck or the porch talking, cooking and eating and cleaning up, playing Catch Phrase and talking about books and movies and memories and writing, I experience only the blessings of having sisters I’m close to and can connect with.

But I guess I didn’t always feel this way, or was willing to explore other experiences of my sisters, or was just expressing the usual adolescent angst when I wrote the poem below. It was among the treasures in the album and box of old photos and papers my parents gave me last weekend. If I remember correctly, I wrote this in junior high school. Maybe I’ll write an update today.

To My Lovely Sisters

Down by the telephone
Lovely and fair
Sits Chrisie my sister
Covered with hair

From the tip of her nose
To the crown of her head
It hides all her beauty
And makes her look dead

And up in the bedroom
As fair as the first
Sits my next sister
Jeanne the cursed

She yells and she screams
Til her throat must be sore
And continues to prove
She’s an obstinate bore

And then there’s dear Meggie
As fair as the rest
Who’ll run from her work
At that she is best

She cherishes her candy
Which she eats all alone
And if someone takes some
She lets forth her loud groan

And then there is me, too
Of all I’m the best
I’m kind and I’m loving
And never a pest

So now you have met
All my great sisters three
But kindest and loveliest
Is the great me.

June 24, 2014

Whipped Cream

Coming up on the porch of the cottage my sister Chris is renting on the beach this week, I noticed there were four gift-wrapped packages, sitting on top of boxes, on a bench. My parents were both sitting in porch chairs, and smiled at my sister Meg and me when they saw us.

“Those are for you,” my mother said, and Meg and I saw there was a gift for each of us four sisters. Jeanne is visiting for the week, and we were all together over the weekend to celebrate both of my parents turning 90 this summer. It had already been a great weekend, with all of my sisters and their husbands and most of the next generation there too. Now we had gifts to open?

Meg opened hers first, and I could see it was an album with old photos and papers from her childhood. I opened mine eagerly. There was my birth certificate. There was a photo of my mother holding me as a baby, Jeanne and Chris, both older than me, standing next to her. There were photos of my grandparents on both sides, photos of great grandparents I never met, photos of my sisters and me dressed up as young children and photos of us all goofing for the camera as teenagers.

Best of all were the pieces of writing my parents had chosen to include, from when I was a child. In the boxes under the albums were more papers for us all to sort through and decide what to keep. There are blank pages at the end of each album, so we can fill in with what we want from the boxes — report cards (my grades in high school weren’t as good as I’d remembered), newspaper articles, award documents, SAT scores? I went through the box this morning, and there are treasures there, especially the writing I did in grade school.

But my parents had already picked out the best piece for the album. It’s dated March 2, 1962 (I would have been nine years old), and was obviously written as a school assignment.

“Whipped Cream” is the title. “Last Monday night we had whipped cream on our dessert. My mother told my sister and father not to use much whipped cream. After all that talk my mother took the most.”

June 20, 2014

“More Alone, Less Pathetic”

My first 36 hours in Portland, Oregon I wasn’t impressed. When I arrived Tuesday afternoon the city was wrapped in a gray mist. After checking in to my hotel, I went out for a run and to explore the city. It was damp and dreary and looked more grimy than fun and funky, which was what I’d expected, after all the wonderful things I’ve heard about Portland. I ran along the west side of the Willamette River, crossed a pedestrian and biking bridge to run along the east side, then looped over the Hawthorne Bridge to get back to the hotel. Sure, there were lots of groovy things to see, as I’d expected, and the anything-goes fashion that rules in Portland was interesting to observe, but many of the weirdly-clad people I saw in the park along the river seemed to be living on the street and they looked cold. And gray, like everything else.

Then on Wednesday the sun came out, I had a tasty and inexpensive lunch from one of the many food carts that line the streets and cluster on a few blocks, sat with my colleagues in a sunny park to eat amid a pleasant bustle, underscored by music from buskers, and I changed my mind. Portland is lovely and funky and fun.

After an invigorating day discussing prevention of sexual violence as a member of the Advisory Council of the National Resource Center on Sexual Violence (the meeting that brought me to Portland) a group of us went to a restaurant where I could be sure my chicken was “happy”. The vegetables were all locally sourced, the cocktails creatively concocted, the food plentiful, delicious and artfully presented, and the atmosphere was open and friendly. The restaurant seemed like the perfect Portland spot to me — unpretentious, generous, genuine and decidedly not stuffy.

Yesterday morning I went for another run, this time heading further north on the west side of the river, along the Greenway Trail. It was beautiful, a path right over the water, condos with gardens and balconies spilling flowers along the bank, big ships and city activity on the river and bridges spanning overhead. Turning back toward the hotel, I had to stop at a railroad crossing and wait ten minutes for a train to go by. Watching the cars trudge past was a moving art show, with all the different forms and shapes of the train cars and cargo, and frequent, colorful graffiti.

“More Alone, Less Pathetic” was written on one car in plain white letters. Is someone learning better how to be more centered in her or himself? I hope so because that’s always a good thing. I took it as a good sign.