Train Writing

 

We have just set off on the train to Qingdao. It began with an early morning wake up and Don making French toast and bacon for the crew while we scrambled to get everything ready. Actually, there was no scrambling: Emily and her friend Clara were meticulously organized and I got everything sorted the night before in spite of having shared three pitchers of margaritas with some of my dearest friends on the first Monday of our summer vacation. Such decadence and delight!

 

Charlotte, our oldest daughter, woke Don up in the middle of the night, complaining of a sore throat and fever. She isn’t accompanying us on this trip because she has one more week of school to work on her extended essay for her Diploma Program. I guess that plan is out the window: at least for today. So…there is some guilt about leaving here behind in Beijing, though I think, in spite of not feeling well, she’s happy to have the house to herself. One more year and  she’ll be on her own so it’s a good thing to leave her for a night or two every once in a while. She’s got Kim and Kyle downstairs and Zhang to check in on her.

 

The seats are so narrow that my right arm is draped over the middle armrest and my elbow is practically jabbing Don’s belly as I write. He’s already sleeping as the train whooshes out of the city and into the Chinese countryside. This position is not exactly conducive to writing that flows. My shoulders are hunched and the drop-down table is too far away from the seat to be of any use when typing.

 

Clara and Emily are sitting in front of us and they have no window! What is the point of train travel without a window? I felt guilty telling them they needed to sit in the stark seats since we were the ones who paid for the ticket and they were the ones much more likely to be using technology. Even so, I’d like for teenage girls to be looking contemplatively out of a window rather than fixating on a screen. Maybe we will trade halfway through the ride, though then I’d feel resentful if they eschew gazing for gaming.

This is my third day of writing for two hours and I look forward to it and feel present and alive as I do it. I know that much of the journaling part may not be shared with anyone, but I suspect there will be some gems. That’s a part of  the writing process that I love – going back and finding the part of the ore that is streaked with something valuable and then mining it and turning it into something akin to a gem. 

 

Yesterday my friend Kyle asked me, as we were walking home from our Monday margarita session, if it made a difference to my creativity if I wrote on the computer or in the old-fashioned way with pen to paper. I have dozens of writer’s notebooks that are waiting to be mined, but I am glad I switched to the computer some years ago. I used to think it made a profound difference and I wanted to write all of my first drafts on paper, but I’ve discovered that it doesn’t. Practicality and speed and efficiency aside, my heart and brain coalesce into my fingers and what needs or wants saying is equivalently accomplished on the computer keys.

 

From this vantage point on the train, I can see the bathroom sliding open and closed and possibly will smell it soon, too. The dining car is just in front of us and cup noodles and tea and some kind of gristly meat and rice are on offer. 

 

I remember how I used to so look forward to going to the dining car for each meal when we traveled across Canada a few times in the summers of my youth. I can recall the pungent smell – the mélange of meatiness and odiferous vegetables and prepackaged sauces all prepared in close quarters. It was compelling and abhorrent at the same time. Even at breakfast, when just cereal and toast were on order, the aroma lingered, like damp socks on a wet balcony. 

 

We’d have to sign up for our family dining times and order all our meals the days before, ticking our preferences off on a tiny paper with a stubby pencil that reminded me of playing Yahtzee. Though the food was closer to hospital-grade, the joy of watching the sunset across wheatfields or whisking through small, siloed towns, through tunneled mountain passes, or over shaky metal bridges spanning raging rivers as we ate was invigorating. During the slow times of the day, we would often go to the dining car to play cards, Rook or Uno as I recall.

 

And the reading I would do! Book after book! I wonder if I ever ran out of material or how my parents kept up with my voracious reading. I suspect I read my father’s Louis L’amour and my mother’s Maeve Binchy when I was done with my own clutch of books. I vividly remember reading Valley of the Dolls, a book about fashion models addicted to barbiturates. Though my father never censored my reading as a youngster, I believe he suggested this one was a bit beyond my years. I begged to differ, already carried away by the sensuous sex scenes I had yet to read about other than the milder longings of teenage girls in Are You There God, It’s Me Margaret, a classic coming-of-age novel hidden under many a pillow of girls from my generation. 

 

Back in those days, our vacation bags must have been stuffed with books. Now it’s Kindle all the way for me, mostly reading off my phone app. I have at least thirty books to choose from at any given time, and all the room in the world for extra sundresses and shoes. In the same way I can now easily type my deepest thoughts on a device, I can also read to my heart’s delight with absolutely no qualms about not hearing the crinkle of the pages or smelling the mildew that permeated my secondhand treasures.

 

It’s difficult for me to pack lightly, even for this two day foray to the coast of China. In addition to a several changes of clothing, I have two scarves to change up my look, an assortment of jewelry to mix up my look, a sunhat and a baseball cap and a jean jacket. My vanity makes compact packing a challenge so I’m grateful my books nestle in my phone – a treasure trove that fits in my pocket

 

Writing and reading and intermittently gazing out the window as verdant landscapes punctuated by industrial cities hurtle by: I can’t imagine a better way to spend my time on the train.

 

Every Day is My Day

It’s Sunday morning and I am sitting on the balcony off our bedroom. The sun is streaming in, but it isn’t too hot yet. It’s perfect. I believe this may become my writing parlor. I’ve coffeed and meditated already, both from my Ikea chair. In just a little bit I will wake up my daughters and we will take the dog and their daddy out for a father’s day breakfast. I’ve already given the father-of-the-house his morning coffee and he is happily perambulating through the news on his phone. 

Happy Daddy with his gals quite some years ago!

This summer, I think I will start my mornings out here rather than in bed, as I usually do. I am still nearby my sweetie, but it’s my own little sanctuary, and it will break the habit of scrolling through my phone and set the stage for my writing life. 

It’s so good to have a space of my own. I feel so in control and feel freedom when I have my own little enclave, which is really very small. But the light. The little wool carpet. The beautiful ceramic lamp. The coffee maker and the hot water dispenser for tea. My baby fridge and a little poof made for the kitty to relax on. Oh, and the windows that surround me and let in both light and the ambient sound of Beijing at work and play – today it feels like a little bit of perfection. 

I realize I don’t want much. I sometimes think that if I were on my own I wouldn’t need a space much bigger than the ensuite here. I tend to spend much of my home life in this spot and don’t crave the living room or the kitchen. Ha – that’s probably a testament to my non-domesticity. I don’t crave much beyond this. I mean, if this little spot were to be transported to a beach or to a deserted lake all my own, that might be better yet. But these are things my brain teases out of me when I am looking for comfort or ease. They also set the basis for my dreams so for now maybe it is better to imagine them, and when I get there, to live or vacation, I will be full of delight and wonder. 

For now, I am perfectly content being right here. I am rather in awe of myself for my present level of contentment. I could be straining and wishing I were back in Canada or the US on our long summer vacation rather than being stranded in China due to the year(s) of covid. But I’m not feeling sad. Maybe a bit nostalgic. At least now, at the onset of the summer, I am peacefully delighted that there is nowhere to rush to and nothing that needs doing other than walking Moon Dog and maintaining some semblance of order in the house. And communing with my family. And visiting with friends. All good. 

There will also be some in-China vacations where I will continue to play with words and churn out something publishable. Walk a lot. Eat beautiful food. Drink cocktails and coffee. Linger over delicious books that require some commitment. I like this very much indeed. 

I am going to go wake up my girls now and have them get ready for our daddy celebration. He’s already celebrating with his morning coffee and his sweet doggie curled up beside him. Life is good on this Father’s Day. It feels like my day too. This summer I plan for every day to feel like my day.

Setting Out on the Writing Life

My summer writing life has officially begun. I will be writing new material, collecting, curating and revising old material culled from book-upon-book of scribbles, publishing to my blog, and continuing a novel I started many years ago, and perhaps even reviving my YA novel I began pre-pandemic. I don’t have a definitive plan, and, as always, this seems a bit scattered. There is so much I want to write about, so much I want to complete, and so many genres I am dabbling in. 

I guess more than anything I want to experience a writer’s daily life. This is the summer where I have time and even some semblance of routine since we will be staying in China rather than globe-trotting, as we usually do. I will mostly be sleeping in my own bed, and when not, I look forward to writing in enclaves of China that will welcome a writing woman in a coffee/tea shop; a hotel room with a view will also do nicely as will a pool-side lounger. I’m not adverse to wearing a caftan and large sunglasses or even sipping on a cocktail as I scribe. 

Presently I am in my own bed, propped up by pillows, having just finished my coffee. I have yet to walk the dog or meditate. These will usually be things I accomplish first: routine things that will set the stage. Today I was excited, though, it being my first day. I wanted to get right to it. I don’t expect I will be writing two hours straight, as a rule, but when I do, I imagine the writer’s way of life will proudly thrum through these weak writing veins. 

I want to find out what a writing life could feel like/look like/sound like/smell like: fully experience what being a writer might be like absent of other obligations. The introspection and solitary nature of this lifestyle is hugely appealing to me. Since fourth grade, I imagined myself being a writer. I started as a poet and short story kind of gal, graduating to morose novels by seventh grade, and devolving into long and rather depressive but powerful pieces as my 20s slogged and I found myself adrift and unhappy with the circumstances I had allowed myself to fall into through religious sanctions I imposed on myself and the idea that I had to follow a set of rules that were ridiculously unflattering on me. In my thirties I was too happy to be writing much: adventure and new love was calling. This continued into my 40s with two daughters arriving and further disrupting plans for introspection and Leah time. 

Now at 56, I have written and published a fair amount: a novel, blogs, articles, 45 podcasts of Two Chit Chat Chicks to date along with numerous speeches, but I have yet to have had an extended, creative time of just writing and doing little else in the way of creative “work.” There has always been schooling or careering and parenting. So here I am with the summer in front of me and fewer obligations than I’ve had in some years and I truly do desire to fill much of my time with writing. For the love of it. For the fun of it. For the experiment of it. For the routine of it. For the “can I really do this?” of it. 

That said, I already have a twinge in my shoulder and my left wrist is revisiting its days of carpal tunnel throb. How can this be after a scant 20 minutes of writing? There are so many forces conspiring against me – social media, laziness, my own body! But I will persist. I’ll find a different place to write; perhaps my bed is not the best idea anyway. I will take stretching breaks. I will reposition and build up my frail wrists. I will turn off access to my internet. (Really, Leah?)

I don’t want my diurnal writing to take on a diary form necessarily, though I am okay if it does some of the time. I will cull out the best, most shareable bits, and insert them in blogs or my novel or perhaps even turn them into poetry. That’s the thing: I don’t quite know what to do with all this writing I will do and have already collected in copious notebooks of scrawny scribbles. While my writer’s life has not been consistent or prolific, it has added up over these 56 years. There are a lot of words I've jumbled together, and as I mine through the detritus, I am finding a few gems that merit polishing.

If you know me, you'll know I’m a sharer. I don’t want to write just for writing sake. I write to share. It gives me joy. It lightens my soul. It gives me affirmation. It’s part of my writer’s process, if not everybody’s. We teach kids in writer’s workshop that publication is the final product. In our day of blogging and self-publication, this is an easy ask. For someone who wears her heart on her sleeve, this shouldn’t be a problem. 

So wish me luck and I'll keep you posted!

I’m 18 Times Three! (Plus Two)

*I'm actually 18 times 3 + 2 since this is a two-year-old blog!




I have a math teacher friend who was enthralled with me turning 54 this weekend. “So many factors,” he marveled. I appreciated his love of numbers, but what I really loved was his end-of-the-evening surmisal: “You realize you have been 18 three times now, right?” Now THAT I can appreciate!

The longitude of three 18s makes me wonder if I shouldn’t be a bit further along the wisdom and acceptance cycle than I am, but that said, I’m largely content with my tiny place on the planet and what I’m doing to make it a bit better. For better or worse, I’m not nearly as vain as I used to be; I’m delighted with my teaching career, and my ego has settled into being a support teacher and not the homeroom guru anymore. As my sweetheart says, “You gotta get used to being a Robin, not a Batman.”

My little family in our little apartment in Beijing most of the time makes me feel vastly content and so thankful that we are at peace with one another and don’t half-mind spending time in one another’s companies. Charlotte and I DID have a little come-to-Jesus moment last night when she decided it was fine to not only be up, but to come to our bathroom for a shower at midnight. I definitively told her it was not, and how could I possibly be the non-interfering mother I work so hard on being if she isn’t taking care of herself.

“But that’s why I'm having a shower!” she argued.

“But why would you do it at midnight?” I countered.

“Because I’ve been busy until now,” she replied.

“On your phone? On your computer? In your bed? For the last twelve hours?” I demanded, hoping to stimulate guilt.

“Well, yeah,” she replied, completely without guile.

Point well-taken.

As part of my weekend-long birthday festivities, Don-the-birthday-planner-extraordinaire, took me on a three and a half hour walking tour centered on the 1900 Boxer Rebellion, which had us cantering around the Legation Quarters and the Forbidden City area of Beijing. It made me thankful that this 54 year old body could cope with the many kilometers my Sketchers took me on. The tour group seemed to be ambling as I hotfooted it in fast forward, double-speeding on my stocky little legs just to keep up.




To prove just how well adjusted this 18-times-three-er is, however, Don and I indulged in a foot massage that evening, and I partook of a full body massage today. And, yes, living in China makes such luxuries affordable. BUT affording oneself these luxuries might be what an 18-times-three person brings to the game of life. We know how to take care of ourselves. And we do it.

As I write this, my 15 year old is wandering listlessly around the house, still in her pajamas at three in the afternoon, complaining about how tired she is (though she’s fairly recently gotten out of bed) and telling us there is nothing to eat, though the house is fairly bursting with food. I’ve eaten thrice already (most of it healthy), and have had a few vanilla lattes as well as had my indulgent massage. Oh, and I fit in a shower, did the New York Times Sunday crossword puzzle, and about two hours of editing report cards. That feels just about right for 18-times-3er on a Sunday.

Charlotte’s just now come in to my “mommy patio,” chomping on a carrot with a cookie in the other hand, and invited me to try on makeup with her. I think it’ll be fun. Why not? She might be able to give this aging momma some tips.

Aches and pains and wrinkles aside, though, I’d pick my age over hers any day. Life is good. Thank you again for your birthday wishes and encouragement. I feel all loved-up!

A Birthday Blog For My Momma

Yesterday was my first birthday minus my momma.* I’ve been blessed with her presence for 54 years, and no matter where I was in the world, she always made me feel special on the day of my birth. She often told me how after I was born, she kept asking my father, “Is she really a girl? I have a baby girl?” Though my mother baked nearly every day of her life, we always got to custom order our cakes on our special days. Over the years, I became a little jaded by all the delicious German baking and started asking for pies. Guiltily, ice cream is now my preferred mode of birthday sweetness. If its not my Momma’s Napoleon torte or buttermilk brownies, I’d rather stick with the cold stuff.

Upon waking up on May 31st, what I’ve always thought of as the perfect day for a birthday - nearly summer holidays, usually warm and sunny in the Western Hemisphere by that time, the day all contests and sweepstakes and things become due - my first thought was of my momma, which it often is these days. I told her that I was open to feeling her presence in any way she chose.

In the months before my mother passed, I told her that she would be even more present to me after she died than before. I told her she’d be like a bird sitting on my shoulder, never leaving me alone. She loved that image, and I know it comforted her to think that she might be closer to me in her passing. Since leaving home at 18, there have been precious-few years that I’ve not been living in far-reaches. In the long-ago times, she would send me long letters, then we graduated to emails and eventually to Skype. There was always, however, without fail, a beautiful birthday card sent many weeks in advance full of adoration and praise from both my mother and father. They always signed off in the same way:

Love Each Other,
EER and JR

As is my for-better-or-worse habit, I opened up my phone a few minutes after getting up and a message appeared from my father, someone who is in his eighties and a wonderful curmudgeon who is a new and recalcitrant user of technology. But there it was: a beautiful message of love, sent on behalf of both him and his dearly beloved wife. It must have been painstaking to tap it out on the cell phone that is seldom turned on.

On weekday mornings, I take our doggie out for a walk before the day clicks into overdrive. I try to use the time for a bit of meditation as well as exercise. Walking beside a joyful dog in the empty alleys in Beijing is actually a recipe for being grateful and attentive most days. As Moon Girl stopped to pee, I looked up to see a bright red bird, flagrant in the audacity of its color. It was high above me, but kept swooping and staying within sight. I’ve never seen a red bird in Beijing before and registered surprise before thinking, “Ah, Mommy.” The bird stayed above us for a nice long while, tailing and swooping.

Later in the day, at a meeting, an unlikely friend quoted a bible verse as we were talking about writing moderation, of all things. “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.” It was in reference to something someone had said was impossible and Jonathan said his mother would always beg to differ when he said something was not possible, quoting this bible verse. Guess what? So would my Momma. Hello again, Sweet Erika.

My beautiful sister, Nicole, and her husband Carl sent me a voice message later in the day, singing happy birthday, complete with harmonies. My mommy and daddy phoned me on every birthday and did just the same. Please carry on the tradition, Sister. You sound just like our Mommy!

An ironic birthday surprise had been brewing all week, and none of the planners probably thought through how my mother might have had her hands in this one, either. My darling Don and lovely friend Kate arranged a cooking class for all of us and our families at a place called The Hutong, where they make you prepare all the food before you eat it. It made me laugh out loud because this is exactly what my mother would have thought the perfect and necessary gift for a daughter such as myself. She’s always encouraged my love of things other than domesticity, but also always hoped I could be a bit more capable in the kitchen, given all her lessons she’d given me over the years, and the culinary joy and passion she brought to each meal. I could just imagine her watching down on me as I clumsily handled the knife, Sophia the cooking Nazi teacher taking me under her wing, only to eventually give up on me as I displayed my ineptitude and greater interest in socializing over chopping. That said, at one point she took me aside and whispered, “These will be good skills for your daughters to have, yes?” Touché. Hello again, dear Mother.

The one preparation job I was given that I actually relished was breaking the beans for one of my favorite Chinese dishes - si ji dou - four seasons beans - a fragrant and spicy Sichuan dish that is so salty and spicy and crispy and peppercorny, that the satisfaction of this dish well-made, makes my toes tingle. It’s like vegetable crack. There were many a summer evening, my momma and I sat down on the back porch steps to schnabble beans in much the same way I did last evening. We were preparing them for the Mason jars and the pressure cooker, putting away vast amounts of canned beans for the year ahead. But the visceral feeling in my fingers as I prepared those beans last night - it was the same. Thank you, Mutti.

However you honor or remember your mothers is wonderful. I delight in finding my mother in the small things throughout the day and I thank her for being such an important and beautiful part of my first birthday without her physically here. I will keep looking for her in unexpected places. Not a day goes by where I don‘t smile and say, “Hi, Mommy.”

*Republished: written in 2019