Word of the Day: Hiraeth

Word Porn. “@DalrympleWill: Love this word... and so know this feeling... pic.twitter.com/i3Jw3JqsrS”
— Inua Ellams (@InuaEllams) March 11, 2015

Notes from March 19, 2015 jotted down on my itouch

Sleeping on the train today, I was dreaming of my grandmother's house. I walked the farmhouse floors, I peered out windows, I talked to the trees. And I missed her. 

Further to these notes, and my sense memories re-triggered by the magnolias:

I have to change trains during my commute, and usually try and cat-nap during the 20-25 minutes of the second leg. For some reason, on this trip, I suddenly found myself dreaming of Grandma Ollie's North Carolina farmhouse. From washing my hands in the pink porcelain bathroom sinks, to brushing my hands along the grain of the pinewood hallway walls, to resting my elbows on an open window sill in the blue back bedroom looking out to the crepe myrtle glowing in the bright blue summer skies, and listening to clothes flapping on the laundry line, it felt like I was there and had just decided to wander around on a nostalgia tour. It was like I had just been transported to this place -- and a moment long lost in time. I could feel the breezes moving through the house, bringing with them the smell of crops ripening in the fields. I knew I was alone in the house, but it was as comfortable as it had ever been while I was there, with family visiting just down the road, or out in the fields. It was just so familiar and felt so real.

Given that this was a local train, with stops about every 5-7 minutes, with conductor announcements, flashing lights, and piercing door alarms, I couldn't have been in a dream state for very long. But ... what a dream it was.

I know it was probably just my subconscious processing the word: hireath - a word I didn't know existed until I stumbled across it on Twitter, but I'd like to think it was Grandma checking in. Or maybe it was Grandpa Jack? Maybe both of them? Maybe -- just maybe, one day I'll dream like that again.

 In the meantime, I begin to understand why I received this vision? reverie? visitation? what have you? It was preparation for news to come. And a reminder. This: Our connections to places last long after family ties are severed -- and all will be well. Home places are in our hearts, if not in our portfolios.

Driveway to The Farm house, NC c. 2010

Turn of the Page/ Turn of the Phrase

It's ... June?

June?!

With the turn of the calendar page, I'm going to try and be better about adding a note or two to this blog page. 

Maybe if I ease back in, the words and creativity will start to flow down the dry paths?

Sometimes it will be a photo, or sometimes it will be a turn of the phrase.

Speaking of a turn of phrase:

These, from a recent New York Times Travel article, particularly struck me, especially after a recent quick trip back up to Connecticut's familiar back roads:

At that moment, I understood that you could not inhabit anyplace permanently, except in memory, and that this was as it should be. ...

I felt the shimmer of time’s continuum flickering against the backdrop of place. ...

... I realized there did not have to be just one home: In the mind, geography converges; beloved landscapes, villages, cities, countries, all become one, in the borderless scrapbook of memory.

 

from A Return to Rural France, and to Childhood Memories, by Liesl Schillinger on May 28, 2014, New York Times

Writer's envy? Travel envy? A bit of both. You betcha. But ... so grateful for what I do have.

Scenes from CT quick trip:

 

Xo, Auntie Nettie

Quote of the Day: No Place like Home

"Books are the plane, and the train, and the road. They are the destination, and the journey. They are home."

 Anna Quindlen How Reading Changed My Life

via the Interwebs

Photo of the Day: A Long and Winding Road

c.Caramoor.org, Probably Gabe Palacio, c. 12/2013

And a new chapter begins ...

Time for Transitions: Open Letters for my former colleagues

Breaking Important Big Darn News.

Tomorrow is my last day at the Big J aka The Juilliard School.

My.

Last.

Day.

This is long in the offing. Again, I'm not done processing it yet, and as I've been saying all week, this is NOT goodbye--because I will see many of these colleagues and friends later. Also, the many, many reasons that have brought to me to this point have to be processed and may be shared, sometime, long after there's a nice separation built up.

It wasn't an easy decision, and then it was--and then it wasn't--and then it was. As most life-changing things often are.

The following is a slightly edited version of a letter I sent to my colleagues last week.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dear All:

You may have seen the e-mail sent out last week by my VP, announcing some staff changes in Development, including my departure as of Friday, January 31st. I wanted to follow-up with my own personal note.

February 2014 would mark the end of my seventh year at Juilliard. While seven has always been my lucky number, I decided to try my luck at another venture this coming year.

I have been so fortunate to have been at the School through some  interesting transitions. From rocking through the renovation and expansion (sometimes literally, while sitting at my desk), or wearing hard hats while in heels, to digging in and doubling up on duties through the economic downturn, it has been my honor to serve in three positions and work with three VPs, as well as a host of hardworking colleagues, eager interns, and talented work-studies. It has also been thrilling to attend a host of spectacular performances across all the boards of dance, drama, vocal arts, and classical music. It has truly been a remarkably rich and rewarding experience. I will treasure the collegiality and friendships that I've found at the "Big J."

I continue to wish all of my colleagues in Development & Public Affairs the very best as they endeavor to raise funds to continue the important mission of the School. I also wish them and I.T. a continued successful roll-out of the new ticketing system and ongoing efforts to integrate the various database systems.

There is no place like New York, New York, (it's a helluva town), but boy... will I be glad not to be commuting in here every day – especially after being stuck at Grand Central Terminal for three long, crowded hours last night. (That was NOT FUN!)*

I'll be traveling for a bit in February, but also starting a renewed reverse commute to some familiar gardens and grounds -- at Caramoor,** "upstate," in Westchester County, where I will be rejoining their development team in a director capacity.

I hope to see many of you in the "country" this summer for some wonderfully diverse musical and artistic offerings. Please feel free stay in touch via my personal email.

Thank you all, for everything. I cannot say THANK YOU enough.

Sincerely,

P.S. I know it is the tradition to have a farewell party when someone departs, but I have expressed my personal preference not to have one. I will make my rounds for more personal good-byes all of next week.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There were a variety of reactions to this announcement and email (which saw many drafts and much thought). I wish I had compiled them. (I may yet, as they are somewhere in the work email archive.)

I almost got out the door this week without a hoo-rah, as I call them. But no. Even with a cancelled train this morning, and then a late train on top of it, there was a lovely little departmental (plus guests) cupcakes/bagels gathering. Thank goodness I realized I would have to give a speech. I got up around up at 2 a.m. to write down some thoughts. (Introverts need time to prepare and rehearse and "gird their loins.") In true introvert fashion, I also had to be dragged back to my own party. (But I was really dealing with email archiving with I.T., and it gave me an excuse to step out and regroup. I AM NOT CRYING ABOUT THIS. THIS IS A GOOD THING!)

As rocky as the last bit has been, and as varied as some of the interpersonal relationships have been, I do think this seven year period was mostly beneficial for me, just from the exposure, experiences, and connections forged.

THANK YOU, even in emails and blog posts, can't really say it enough.

Even though, as you'll see, I tried

Dear ALL:

Thanks again, everyone, for the lovely send-off carbily-fantastic breakfast gathering. The Baked by Melissa cupcakes are a nice homage to the many Melissas formerly on staff, as well as the many delectable treats that were made, shared, and ingested in my time here. The bagels were a perfect NYC treat that I will miss in the “country.” (There are nothing quite like the bagels in the City!) On Monday, my stomach will start growling at the appointed hour for Tori’s Treats. Who’s going to send me a care package?

I can’t wait to read all your messages of support and set up my Juilliard swag at my new rustic desk. Every day it will remind me of the best of the Big J moments. I can’t wait to have time on the train to crochet up the yarn that I will get at Knitty City. I just have to remember to put my Big J lunch bag in my Big J yarn bag and not leave it on the train.

Like I said, it was the connections forged here that really made hard for me to decide to take this step --  connections that I know won’t be broken even if I am up in the "country" and you're all down here. I’m not kidding about those Summer  Fridays off. I do I expect to see at least some of you opera music lovers at Caramoor's summer festival and I WILL be sending you brochures.

This isn’t goodbye, but THANK YOU. I will see, talk, text, and email you all soon.

Thanks gang....

And that means you too, readers and family. You've been part of this long long long processing process.

* That's a whole other blog post. 
** Yup. Does all the foreshadowing make sense now?

Quote of the Day: Forest for the Trees

~ from Looking for Me by Beth Hoffman ~

My grandmother taught us to honor the woods, to enter its wonders with respect. She told us to never intrude or cause any harm, saying we were Mother Nature’s guests and to mind our manners. One afternoon the three of us were hiking and came to an ancient black walnut tree. My grandmother stopped and patted its rough bark. “A powerful healing force lives deep within these woods. Whenever you children are hurting or can’t make sense of things, just come out here and spend some time with the trees. Give their trunks a good strong pat. When you go home, you’ll feel better.”

I pressed my small hand against the tree, looked up at the sunlight filtering through the leaves, and absolutely believed her.

I believe her still.

And tonight, as I gazed into the dense woods, I took in a slow breath and gratefully accepted whatever offering might come my way. I thought about that old saying, how we can never go home again. But I think it’s more like a piece of us stays behind when we leave – a piece we can never reclaim, one that awaits our next visit and demands that we remember.

all photos, mine
Caramoor, Katonah, NY

End of an Era

I got the e-mail from Dad exactly a week ago. 

The one I've been anticipating for almost three years now, the one that made it final, irrevocable.

The end of an era.

Subject: Willimantic Home Sold! 
"We got call from Attorney at 12:30 PM our time that all paper work and deals had been signed. 
He will Express mail us the final documents and what was left of the money tomorrow morning. New owner has keys and will be taking care of whatever needs to be done to move in ASAP. 

Done and Done! Let it snow or rain, I don't have to worry about leaks, breaks, or bugs out there any more."

 It really wasn't a surprise. This has been a long process of adjustment.

First there was the family announcement. Then the For Sale sign went up. The neighbors and friends began to realize. There were open houses, walk-throughs, followed by near misses due to economic issues and lack of bank financing. The moving trucks came and left for Utah. I visited, more than once, and there was the ongoing removal of "just one more thing." The calendar cycled through months and then years. Dad flew out in October to deal with a host of major issues, including, securing a new agent. Things began to finally move, and this past December, my last set of "emergency keys" were removed from my key ring ... for good.

Throughout this there were prayers and the relearning of the concepts of patience and "in the Lord's time."

But now? It's really real.

And, as I've said to a few people,

I feel weirdly ... Weird about it.

But glad.

It was time.

I have more to say ... stuff that will include pulling out and reworking the draft of the post I wrote in the immediate aftermath/processing of when my parents first told me in July 2010 ... but for now, I will leave you with this story.

The photos above are from the main entrance of the house, the formal entrance - the one we as family we would use the least, but still considered the front. To enter this way, you would ring the doorbell and get the classic two-tone chime. The "screen" door would be opened, and then you would be invited in through the classic and very solid wooden door - bedecked with it's classic oval glass, dental and fancy molding, and very vintage mail slot.

Those people who say that buildings don't have souls are wrong. When a house has been loved as a home, it will love - and show - you in return.

On many of my solo visits since my family moved out for good, I have wandered the rooms, stairs, and floors photographing and reliving my experiences under this roof. I have stroked woodwork, caressed banisters, swept out cobwebs, and infused what happy karma I could into empty corners. I have breathed in the house's distinctive scents and expelled out my blessings, whispering throughout: "Thank you. Thank you for keeping us safe. Thank you for being patient with our rough-housing. You were a good house; you were good for us. Be good for the next family. Thank you isn't enough, but thank you for everything."

As I was trying to prop the front door --  open just a crack -- to take the photo on the right, the door would continually, slowly, steadily, open wider ...  as if to invite me to walk back over the threshold.

Some would blame gravity or some other physical force, but for years I sat in that room practicing my piano with my back to that door. For years I lived under that roof; I would go in and out that door to collect the mail or papers; for years, that door would welcome friends, family, guests, and then, just me ... back home ... and the door would not swing open like that.

I had to wistfully and tearfully whisper, "Thank you. I will come in for a minute, but then I have to leave. This time for good. But thank you."

The next time, the door stayed where I put it.

And then when I came in, closed the door, and threw the deadbolt, there was certain click of finality to it. The action may have been automatic, but the realization came a second later, and I had to pause and take a deep breath.

I had probably just literally and figuratively closed a door on a chapter of my life.

Until the house was sold, there was always the possibility of going back, but I think I knew then.

I had been having dreams recently too, subconscious message from beyond, that the end was coming. 

Dad's e-mail made it really real. That era is over. My parents can finally exhale, and we can whisper "thank you" out to the universe again and again.

Dwellings may come and go, but there really is no place  ... like a home.

Photo of the Day: My Little Corner of the World

Ye Old Homestead, Connecticut House

Once upon a time, when this was my bedroom, this view was the one from my bed. This corner was out of sight of the rest of the room, inches from a light source, a window  - one of four that looked out over my corner of the world. It was during "nap-time" or "lights out," that this particular corner was best used. Books were stashed within arms reach under the mattress or bed frame, so I could stretch my body, arms, and the ability of my eyes to reach by light filtered in by using the drapes, which I used also to prop open the shade. It's amazing I can see as well as I can "write" now, without aid of lenses or prescriptions, because the hours I spent straining to read by streetlight or moonlight, or even in the dark are going to catch up with me eventually.

I don't know who I thought I was kidding, but for years I thought stashing stuff in this corner, be it contraband novels, a diary, my notBarbies, kept them secret and secure. I perfected the "book drop, shove under the bed, fix the blinds, roll over, and even out breathing so you sound like you are sound asleep" technique in perfect time to which ever parent was tromping up our stairs. (The various creaks and snap, crackle, pop, of the wood treads and my parents' knees and ankles provided auditory warning and coverage for our actions and identified which parent it was.)

I still stash things in odd corners - you have to in a New York studio - but nothing has ever come close to replicating the sense of peaceful security and vista to imagination that this corner of mine did.

Photo of the Day: Portrait of a Porch

Ye Olde Homestead, Connecticut House

Why is that we don't take the time to sit on our front porches anymore -- to read, to get to know our neighbors, to yell at the pesky children cutting across our yard? So they sag a little around the edges ... so do we when we get to be their age.

Photo of the day: Bat(ten) Down The Hatches

Ye Old Homestead, Connecticut House

In case anyone manages to break into the basement via the bulkhead door -- if they don't knock them selves out on the low beams, manage to pop open the door warped tightly closed, or not trip down the stairs hidden by leaves and recycling bins -- my brother's handy old slugger is at the stand-by to keep the place safe.

Photo of the Day: Layers of History

Ye Old Homestead, Connecticut House

What you can't see due to the insulation, the telephone jack and wires, the electric wiring, and other layers that build up due of modern life, is the builders' inscription:

Built in 1923

Photo of the Day: (Watch Your) Head for the Light

Ye Olde Homestead, Connecticut House

Photo of the Day: Scene of Songs, Now Silent

Ye Olde Homestead, Connecticut House

If these walls could talk, they may actually hum - hum with the music that was made in it's space. The timbers might echo with the tunes that were picked out painstakingly by family members, or the plaster might complain of the plight of listening to the hours of scales, Hanon or Pischna piano exercises. The floor boards might share the flourishes that came of listening to the endless choir or theater music, particularly a good Broadway tune. I like to think the whole house was infused with the inspiration of the many hours and hours of all the classical repertoire that I played upon the little upright Baldwin that was tucked in here, against the staircase in the front room. When the front door was open, the whole neighborhood either suffered along with me, or was surprisingly roused by the fury of my flying fingers.

The Hallelujah Chorus always seemed to get everyone's attention.

Photo of the Day: Going out on a Line

Ye Olde Homestead, Connecticut House

There's nothing quite like the smell of line-dried clothing/sheets, plus, in a close neighborhood, hanging your dirty laundry out to air takes on an entirely different meaning. You want to start a conversation about religion? Hang out some religious "funny underwear" and see how diverse your community really is. I was so lucky to grow up in a neighborhood where we had Jehovah's Witnesses, Latvian Christians, Buddhists, Catholics, and Protestants as next-door/across the street neighbors. It was a wonderful way to grow up, and learn about customs, cultures, and community. We are more alike than we are different. How do I know? I saw their underwear - as much as they saw ours. We're all basically the same when it comes down to it.

Photo of the Day: Peering from the Past back at the Past

Ye Olde Homestead, Connecticut House

Draw back the curtain, and peer out the window of your past -- into the windows from a more distant house of your past.

The view from our last Connecticut home looking back at our first - just over the hedge.

Photo of the Day: Hoop Dreams

Ye Old Homestead, Connecticut House

Endless games of HORSE, 1 on 1, Free Throws, thwarted dunks and rim-shots, and hours and hours of patient and impatient tutorials ... Occasionally me, but mostly the boys  ... Legends only in their own minds, but awarded for perseverance nonetheless.

Photo of the Day: Who left the basement light on?

Ye Olde Homestead, Connecticut House

I think every member of my family uttered this, or can remember hearing it yelled at them, at least once a day for all the years that we lived in the house. For many years the bulb was red. It was tied into the line for the lights for the basement stairs and the majority of the basement. Sometimes it was on for a reason, say you were actually IN the basement, or conducting business via a private conversation on the house land-line in your "office" on the stairs, and someone would remember the constant yelling and turn the light out on you. Good times. 

Photo of the Day: Home Fires Burn Brightest

Ye Old Homestead, Connecticut House

Photo of the Day: Keys to my Past

Ye Old Homestead, Connecticut House

Photo of the Day: Hold to the Rod

Ye Olde Homestead, Connecticut House Decades of clasping to our family's own iron rod kept us safely passing up and down the stories of our home - sometimes with the tune echoing through our heads. (This stoop was also "my office" all through middle and high school, where I was allowed to make my 10-20 minute phone calls.) Boldly 1. To Nephi, seer of olden time, A vision came from God, Wherein the holy word sublime Was shown an iron rod. [Chorus] Hold to the rod, the iron rod; ’Tis strong, and bright, and true. The iron rod is the word of God; ’Twill safely guide us through. 2. While on our journey here below, Beneath temptation’s pow’r, Through mists of darkness we must go, In peril ev’ry hour. 3. And when temptation’s pow’r is nigh, Our pathway clouded o’er, Upon the rod we can rely, And heaven’s aid implore. 4. And, hand o’er hand, the rod along, Through each succeeding day, With earnest prayer and hopeful song, We’ll still pursue our way. 5. Afar we see the golden rest To which the rod will guide, Where, with the angels bright and blest, Forever we’ll abide. Text: Joseph L. Townsend, 1849–1942 Music: William Clayson, 1840–1887 1 Nephi 8:21–24
	21. And I saw numberless concourses of people, many of whom were pressing forward, that they might obtain the path which led unto the tree* by which I stood. 22. And it came to pass that they did come forth, and commence in the path which led to the tree.				23. And it came to pass that there arose a mist of darkness; yea, even an exceedingly great mist of darkness, insomuch that they who had commenced in the path did lose their way, that they wandered off and were lost. 24. And it came to pass that I beheld others pressing forward, and they came forth and caught hold of the end of the rod of iron; and they did press forward through the mist of darkness, clinging to the rod of iron, even until they did come forth and partake of the fruit of the tree. *The Tree of Life