This visit we each took a sketch pad and pencil. Clearly sketching helps me look in a new way. And then, there is the camera, the results of which I’m sharing here.
What could be better than to celebrate my birthday with my granddaughter at the MFA? It has become a tradition to go there whenever she visits. Our routine is simple. We arrive at 10 so we can park in the lot right next to the entrance. We leave our coats in the car so we don’t need to stand in line to check them. Always, and I mean always, we head directly to the Egyptian Wing, her favorite. From there we wander at random until we reach the cafeteria. After lunch we wander some more, always to the Renaissance gallery, my favorite. And then, at the exact same moment, we look at each other and agree that it is time to head home. This visit we each took a sketch pad and pencil. Clearly sketching helps me look in a new way. And then, there is the camera, the results of which I’m sharing here.
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Two days ago on my way home from the cottage I took a detour to Boston on the T to meet a long-time teacher friend for dinner. She was in town to attend the national conference of NCTE (National Council of Teachers of English), one that I was involved in for many years back in my teaching days. It was wonderful to reconnect with so many friends and to hear them taking about students and teachers, not for common core standards and national testing. As I sat at the Elementary Section gathering, it became clear to me how far away I was from my teaching days. The buzz of ideas that would have excited me, now made me only smile and think: “I had my turn; now the enthusiasm goes to the next generation.” “What are you doing these days?” I was asked over and over again. I told about my divinity degree, my hospice work, my family, my cottage, and then, “I’m writing!” My response seemed more than satisfying and I wondered why. Then I got it. These teachers believed that writing began before kindergarten. They just saw me continuing the process. I sleep while the city remains awake. That’s the way it’s always been with me, from my earliest memories. This morning at 6:30 I lay in bed deciding that I would walk up to Piazzale Michelangelo, but when I opened the windows and shutters, all I could hear and see was rain. Ah, but I have an umbrella, so off I went on an early field trip in a combination of rain, drizzle, or no precipitation at all. I took these pictures between 7:15 and 8:30. Then I stepped into my neighborhood church, Santa Trinita, for a bit and when I came out, there was sun and blue in the sky and people on the street. But, my longing for silence and solitude had been nourished. The Arno in the drizzle It is before 10 AM; the mall is open for indoor walkers and coffee connoisseurs. That’s about it. Why didn’t I remember this ‘late’ opening? Probably because I don’t shop much these days. I’ve discovered that one of the best ways to keep life simple, and to save money for what’s important to me—travel is to stay away from malls. Oh, well, I’m here on a mission. Should I upgrade my phone and plan before I head to Italy in September? All part of travel, I tell myself. At the moment I’m perched in front the Apple Store enjoying an au bon pain cappucchino and bagel (with butter, of course). My other mall stop will be to purchase a new suitcase to replace the one that the airline lost and sent to Brussels for a week before returning it to me in Scotland. It was getting old! I hope I have some success but being so early, at least I got a premier parking spot. Boston has experienced more than it’s fair share of trauma lately, and it’s still going on: the Boston Marathon bombing, the Whitey Bulger trial, and earlier this week the horrific murder of 24 year old Amy Lord. The city keeps coming together and we can even see the good in people that arises from such tragedies. We wear our Boston Strong and Red Sox t-shirts with pride. I love taking the T into this full-of-life city and wandering about Copley Square, the Boston Common, Beacon Hill, the Freedom Trail and Quincy Market. Of course I do so during the daytime and although I often go alone, I seek solitude within the crowds. Whenever and wherever I travel, my solitude is not synonymous with being all by myself. All of us, but particularly women, need to be alert and thoughtful about our solitude. How sad it is to realize that good intentions are not enough. Striving for silence, solitude and simplicity may feel spiritual, healthy, sacred, generous, you name it, and it often is, but it doesn’t protect me from danger. When I am at the cottage I lock the doors and keep my cell phone with me; when I travel I keep my wallet close to my body; when I walk I am out in the open in public places. We all have our special ways of staying alert to danger and physical mishap. This week it has been suggested that the women in Boston remove their earphones, turn off their iPods and pay attention to the present moment and their immediate surroundings. Um, I like it. My twelve year old granddaughter is visiting for what she calls her ‘grandcation’, which is a vacation just for her with her grandparents. This year she is into photography and has chosen graveyards for subject matter. Actually, around here the old ones are called burial grounds. Today I have brought a chair, book, computer and snacks. While she is off with her camera and tripod, I am sitting in the silence and solitude. There’s something especially peaceful about cemeteries, peaceful but not desolate, offering a deeply relaxing combination of solitude and community. People drive in and out to visit graves of loved ones; others wander about reading the stones, which is what I often do. Gravestones from the Revolutionary War period tell of infant deaths, of young adults, of beloved husbands and wives, of friends. Along with dates and age, there is often a phrase that captures the essence of the person. Of course the story is never offered in fullness, but the meager but meaningful information is enough to make me feel that I am part of the extended family, perhaps visiting for those who have joined their loved ones in the common burial ground. “Where has all the silence gone, long time passing.” Well, after the rapid’s ride, a quiet has returned. In fact all twelve of us have sought our own little chunks of silence, solitude and simplicity. Half of the family group has dispersed and the other half are scattered about the house and yard. Yesterday I took the T to Boston to have lunch with a friend from Spokane. Fox News was parked in front of MGH hoping, I presume, for a breaking news photo of John Kerry or Teresa Heinz. The ride on the T felt unusually calming. But why? Since my last ride a few months ago, the MBTA has eliminated all the ways to ride without paying. As a start, only the front door is opened so everyone has to develop a little personal relationship with the conductor: pay, or show or scan your ticket. No more getting on in the back and pretending you have a pass. I watched the conductor refuse rides to several people; one had an invalid ticket, another said she only had a twenty, a third mumbled that he was in a hurry for an appointment. The conductor just pointed to the ticket kiosk on the platform and indicated that another train would be coming soon. In response to my ‘compliment’ about it, the conductor told me that there were no exceptions. “I got in trouble for letting a homeless person on free.” I’m wondering what was so calming about the ride? Best I can come up with is that everyone was exuding honest energy--no nervous energy of the cheating variety. Our 50th wedding anniversary celebration happened today with white water rafting down the Kennebec River. Awesome. I should have been scared but I wasn’t. I trusted our guide, Aaron—strong, young, smart, intuitive and piles of fun. If you’ve never done it before, it’s not too early to begin--even you solitudes. Even if you find yourself in a Class 4 Rapid. I’m sitting in the back seat, way back, on the way to Maine. Everyone wants to be certain that I am okay back here all by myself. Are they serious? In the midst of a non solitary vacation, I am delighted with a little private space. Oh, I’m in the conversation but there is something comforting about this little isolation spot among various backpacks, pillows, and snacks. Next stop, L.L. Bean. Have you ever walked L.L. Bean with twelve people? We did quite well, ending up at Ben and Jerry’s. I’m amazed at all the clothes for sale, all luscious colors and spacious sizes. Enough to clothe the world, or at least the local homeless. And what about camping, hiking, fishing, hunting, home decorating and more? Next stop, Colby College. Beautiful, quiet campus where both our kids went. They hadn’t been back since graduation over twenty years ago. They loved every minute of remember what was old and being surprised at what was new. Next stop, North Country Rivers. We’re here! Tomorrow it’s on the Kennebec River. The last service I attended on Iona was about peace and justice, and the focus was on the clothing we wear and how much of it is created in appalling conditions outside of this country. However, it was this little comment that has particularly stuck with me: “Synthetic materials do not biodegrade.” What a quandary for me because the prayer shawls I knit are acrylic, which is washable. My cousin, however, emailed me the following: “These days, specifically due to the biodegradable issue, wool is processed so that it goes in the washer and dryer - all natural. It's called ‘superwash’ wool and comes in all thicknesses. Not expensive either depending on how fine a wool you choose.” She also gave me a web site <http://www.yarn.com/>from which she orders her yarn. Lucky me, it’s in Northampton, MA where my son lives. I’m getting ready for a field trip. |
Contact me: bobbifisher.mac@mac.com
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