At the moment I have many friends who are struggling with illness. Let me be blunt, several (but not all) have cancer and have been told that their condition is terminal; hospice is part of the conversation. Others are facing surgery with the hope a life-sustaining cure.

       This morning I thought of all of these friends as the following from the Society of St. John the Evangelist in Cambridge came up on my screen. I believe this speaks to everyone, those who practice a religious faith and those who are more comfortable considering themselves spiritual. Regardless, all our hearts are open at these times.

     "When life is hard, what I need most is not always what I want. What I want is for life to be easy. What I want is for someone or something to come along and make it all go away. But what I need is tenderness. What I need is to be loved. What I need is a companion for the journey." James Koester

I spent the morning finishing the eighth draft of “Very Grateful”, the memoir I’m writing about my mom. Tomorrow I’ll begin the introduction and epilogue.

What about getting it published? I don’t want to spend the time and energy looking for a traditional publisher, only to be told that no one is interested. Heinnemann published my books for teachers but it only publishes educational material.

    So, self-publishing is the way to go: e-book and hard copy on demand. I’m a neophyte on all of this so if any of you blog readers have suggestions, please email me. I’d welcome any thoughts of the follow, and anything else you have to offer:

• Companies you recommend
• Pros and cons of self-publishing
• Articles on the topic
• Expenses worth pursuing; expenses worth avoiding
• A live person who has self-published and who would be willing to talk with me. I would deeply appreciate that!
• Other random, and not so random ideas.

<bobbifisher.mac@mac.com>

Yesterday when I woke up I said to myself, “I think I’ll go to Boston today.” I was reminded of “Mr. Bear Goes to Boston,” a book about a bear living the Maine woods who wakes up one morning and tells himself just that; and off he goes.

        I wasn’t conscious that I needed to get off alone, but wandering about by myself felt deeply satisfying. I got off the T at Park Street and then headed in the general direction of Quincy Market. My only plan was eventually to end up for lunch at my favorite Japanese restaurant near Copley Square, and then to hop on the T and head home.

     Wanderings found me crossing the Rose Kennedy Greenway and paying a visit to Paul Revere’s house, zigzagging Beacon Hill, waving to the duckling at the Public Garden, and riding the swan boats.

      There was good energy in Boston. Tourists and locals, those in groups and those alone were enjoying themselves. Boston is a great city; Boston is strong.

Another summer walk. Always the same, always different. I went out early while the trees still provided shade on large sections of the walkway. Most days I rotate among four different loops, each more or less four miles from home to home.

    A couple of weeks ago, as I walked up and down stairs and ascended or descended little slopes on my walks, I became conscious of one of my knees. “None, of that, Bobs.” My current life style counts on walking—at home, at the cottage, and in my travels.

      My diagnosis, weak quads; my prescription, exercise! My private little PT sessions didn’t take much in the way of exercise or time. On today’s walk I completely forgot about my knees. Simple-- but I’m aware that that isn’t always so for others, and perhaps some day it won’t be for me. My rule at the moment is to start with a simple solution, and to start early.

All our intense family activity has subsided and I’m now living in a period of relative silence, solitude, and simplicity. How grateful am I? Very. For the next month and a half my plan is to write, read, walk, and hang out with Jim and with friends. A rather normal retirement life, I must admit. In September I’m heading back to Italy and then hopefully in November, I’ll be starting my sixth year going back and forth from the cottage to home. But for now it’s home life at its best.

     Of course, not everyone wants the amount or kinds of silence and solitude that do. What resonates with each of us is very particular, and that’s is how it should be. The challenge is to create what we want and need in our lives. My current rhythm of home, solitary travel, home, week days at the cottage, and home didn’t just happen full bloom one day. It been an on-going process, continually morphing from who I was, am, and am becoming. As a child I was happy being by myself and playing with friends. I spent my junior year of college in Italy, learning to travel alone and live away from home (few young people, no internet). When our kids were growing up I carved time for myself in the early morning before anyone was up.  

     Recently I heard of a women who longs for just a few moments by herself--her husband has dementia and follows her around all the time. Clearly she doesn’t have the freedom that I have, but who would question that she doesn’t deserve a chunk of time each day that she can call her own. And there lies the rub. Although no one would question it, can she speak up for it? And how? It is easier on everyone if our desires appear subtly over time, rather than scream out in the midst of stressing situations. Hopefully this woman doesn’t need to scream, but for her well-being she must speak up. Perhaps she can look at her family patterns and find a way that will get her some time alone. From this side of the blog, I’m sending her encouragement.

I’ve picked up If You Want to Write: A Book about Art, Independence and Spirit, a gem of a book by Brenda Ueland (1891-1985) that I put down for two months before I went to Scotland and became involved in family and Camp Fisher activities. Now my life is my own again and I’m settling into my home version of solitude, and into my writing..

     I love Ueland’s message, blunt and unconventional. Just listen to this!

     “But the great artists like Michelangelo and Blake and Tolstoi—like Christ whom Blake called an artist because he had one of the most creative imaginations that every was on earth—do not want security, egoistic or materialistic. Why, it never occurs to them….So they dare to be idle, i.e., not to be pressed and duty driven all the time. They dare to love people even when they are very bad, and they dare not to try and dominate others to show them what they must do for their own good. For great and creative men know what is best for every man is his own freedom so that his imagination can grow in it’s own way, even if that way, to you or to me, or to policemen or churchgoers, seems very bad indeed.”

      That’s enough to ponder for the rest of the summer, or year, or a lifetime. Of course we’re not all great artists, but that’s not the point. We all have a creativity, imagination, spirit, whatever you want to call it, to nurture and express, even if only to ourselves.

     What resonates with me is the permission Ueland’s gives me, all of us, to be idle, to be free from the duties that we feel the rest of the world is pressing on us. In that idleness, experienced in solitude, we are free, free to create, but also free to let go of the judgments we have about other people. When I dare take the counter-cultural stance and go to the cottage or travel alone, I satisfy my own good. It may appear selfish, but I think of it as being honest, which is essential for inner peace, and that I dare to assert is the ultimate goal of all of us..

      Where do the memories of my artist dad fit into all of this? As my sister said at the gallery opening of his work, Dad was disciplined. It’s a given that to be good at anything we have to practice. But Dad also took time to be idle.  Again I’m reminded of all those times when I would see him sitting in a chair in the woods. Sometimes he had a sketchbook with him, but my recollection is that he just sat. I wish I could ask him what he was thinking, what his process was. But maybe the memory of him ‘perched’ there as I, absorbed in my play, ran by, is enough. Dad and I, both in our imaginations, working things out. Dad, the grownup, thinking.  Me, the active ten-year old, active, my thoughts and actions working simultaneously. Now, sixty years later, I’m more in my head although I get many of my best thoughts while walking. Regardless, whether sitting or walking,  I am idle and alone.

Finally things are quieting down in my life. I’m looking forward to a couple of weeks of silence, solitude and simplicity. Ha! We’ll see. I’m still reeling with delight over the opening reception for my dad’s art work at the New Canaan Connecticut Library: Perspectives: The Art of Ed Eberman. My sister Alice arranged it all (all the pieces were hers) and my sister Margot wrote the bio.

    Of course, I remember Dad as Dad. I took for granted his talent and the way he sketched, painted, and designed. As Alice mentioned in the little gallery talk, Dad was very disciplined. He retired at age 60 and then, when he wasn’t traveling, or gardening, or attending a church or civic meeting, or socializing with the family, he would retreat to his studio and paint until lunch; then back he would go for another three hour session. His passion and commitment paid off, but then that’s the way it is when we follow our bliss. To be good at anything, you have to want to practice, practice, practice, and then you have to do it.

    Dad could be very gregarious but he also sought solitude. Artists need time alone. It’s part of the process. What we see is the final product, not all that private, solitary time, and yes, even secret time. I think of Dad sitting in a chair out in the back woods, in what he referred to as his perch. Um, he had his own version of a cottage by the sea. I’m more like him that I ever imagined.

Here are some of Dad's works that are not in the exhibit.

We walked four miles at Brimfield yesterday. “Brimfield?,” you ask, “Where’s that?” Brimfield, Massachusetts, just down the road from Sturbridge, holds one of the largest outdoor antique shows in the country, and certainly the biggest in New England. Three times a year you can look for everything you could ever need, want or imagine. 

     We parked at the First Congregational  Church, happy to contribute to one of their main sources of revenue. Of all people, there on the lawn was Pastor Ian, a divinity school friend of mine from ten years ago. For me, definitely one of the highlights of the outing.

     The six of us walked along, scanning for treasures on our mental list. While the others were happy with their purchases, I felt the simplicity of not wanting OR purchasing a thing. As for silence and solitude, there wasn’t any, but that was the way it should be.

Silence, solitude and simplicity along with conversation, family fun, and houseboat travel. A perfect combination.