Not quite spring...

 March 29, 2023

The calendar proclaims that we have been in the season known as spring for the last 9 days. I, however, am still waiting for the requisite spring-like weather. Then I remind myself that we here in this family hold that winter does exists from October 1 to March 31, inclusive.

Two more days to go, then.

I can still report that there are happy weather-related tidings, even if it isn’t really spring, yet. Despite the general lack of warmth, the sun has shone down sufficiently in the last two weeks that there no longer exists any ice or snow on the surface of our street. And, of course, the sidewalks are completely clear as well.

This is happy news for me because it means I can wear my shoes outside instead of my boots. The shoes are much better for walking in. I suppose that I will have to break down soon and buy myself a new pair of boots as the ones I used these last few months are several years old. I hate shopping for boots. They usually fit fairly well when tried on in store. It’s only later, as one is faced with the reality of using them to navigate the snow and the ice that one understands the truth of the matter.  No winter boots that I have worn in the last few years make me feel very secure as I walk.

Of course, I can confess to you that, since I know myself very well, within the next couple of weeks I will forget all about the sensible notion of buying new boots before the next winter arrives. Unless, of course, we have another snowstorm sometime in April. And living here, I can tell you, that is not an impossibility.

David reports that most of the seeds he’s already started are sprouting. And that turns our thoughts toward the hopefully soon-to-be real springtime when we can begin to work on clearing out our table gardens and filling them with fresh soil—and new plants.  That is our daughter’s plan, and I’m leaving it up to her to implement it.

The challenge for her will be her father. When she made the suggestion in the fall, he actually sputtered that he had paid damn good money for that dirt, and he was not going to just throw it away!

I don’t fault David for being thrifty. Some would say that he takes his thriftiness a tad too far—but you will never hear that from me.  He is how he is, and so daughter will make a convincing argument for taking the dirt that is currently in those table gardens and spreading it about to various places in the yard that truly need “filling in”—especially those “damn ruts left by those damn snowplow drivers”. There actually are a few places other than those ruts that need dirt, and truly, after a few years of growing the same basic crops, that soil has given us its all. Literally.

Meanwhile, indoors, I’m really itching to throw open all the doors and windows and get that stale winter air out of here. That has always been my first step in my spring cleaning ritual, and I can see no reason not to do so again this year.  Except we need it to be just a few degrees warmer outside, first.

Looking to the weather network for guidance, I can see that the first ten days of April look promising. I have my fingers crossed that my stars may all come into alignment. For that to be the case, there must be a just warm enough day to open all portals—and that day must happen when I have just the right state of mind and body to actually get some cleaning done.

I live in a constant state of hope.

In the meantime, March break, in our neck of the woods, is in the past for another year. It was a peaceful week last week without the twice daily school bus appearances and the chatter of young ones going to and fro. Yes, there is a bus stop right across the street from our house, but none of those children live on this street, apparently. With no buses or children there was a little less barking by the canine members of the family. I’m at the point where I gratefully accept any reduction in the ambient noise. The uninitiated would suggest that there is, normally, too much noise for me to be able to make such a distinction. To them I scoff, and mentally assign one word—amateur.

Where the dogs are concerned, I haven’t changed my opinion. The pros to having them all here far outweigh the cons. They make very nice renewable-energy heaters in the evening as they vie for space on our laps, and they very efficiently take care of any crumbs or other edible debris that may land on the floor. Having the critters in our lives and in our home is a very good thing, indeed—even if it’s something I remind myself of on a regular basis.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury

Sometimes the fight is the point...

 March 22, 2023

I do keep my eye on the weather forecast, because if it’s planning to be icky out, I won’t be. Out, that is. Late last night when I checked my go-to website, weathernetwork.com, it was to find an interesting comment: “In typical spring fashion, Ontario will experience pretty much everything the season has to offer in the next week.”

That quote gives a whole new depth of meaning to that oft quoted phrase, “if you don’t like the weather just wait a few moments and it will surely change.”

We’re just hoping for enough sunshine over the next couple of days to melt the build up of ice on the road in front of our house. This year, for whatever reason, the snow-plow drivers decided to plow the middle of our street, staying a good couple of feet away from the curb on this side of the road.

Even after our daughter took the time and considerable effort to move my car to the cross street (we’re on a corner), thus leaving the road in front of this house and the one next to it clear of vehicles—something, by the way, she did each and every time the snow came down—they ran that plow down the middle of the street and called it done.

The one good thing about that? The other two people who live in this house are now convinced that before the next winter strikes, we will purchase a brand-new snow blower. And not a cheap one this time, either, thank you very much Mr. Parsimonious. This one has to be what’s termed a “self propelled” one, because nobody living in this house has the strength to push one of those behemoths on their own anymore.

Meanwhile, under the heading of looking toward spring, seeds have been planted. David has a series of little starter containers that have potting soil and seeds. They are set out upstairs in front of the south-facing window. This happened, I believe, while I was on my retreat…and apparently sprouting has occurred.

All things considered the winter just passed, at least in our little corner of the globe, was not that bad. It just featured several concentrated strings of days together when that were challenging. Not like those long-ago winters when the snow came mid October and stayed until April. No, this year, it came, and then a handful of days later, it went, over and over again. And of course, then it gave us such a good dumping right at the beginning of March….actually it feels as if that last dumping we got has lasted the longest of all the snow falls that came before it this winter.

But it is now officially spring by the calendar and seeds have been planted, and they are sprouting, so it is really just a matter of time. Sometimes, one does need to keep one’s eye off the calendar in much the same way as one doesn’t sit and watch a kettle come to the boil.

In television land, The Voice has returned. The last season with Blake Shelton, and David and I are trying to decide whether or not we will watch it next time. I really think we will try and see how we feel as it goes along. We didn’t begin our viewership of the program because of one of the coaches. We began because of the concept of the Blind audition. We quite liked that idea when we first watched, and that hasn’t changed.

And speaking of seeds having been planted…. I still haven’t managed to lock those writing boundaries of mine into place. One of the things that I learned on our retreat—or I should say that I relearned—was that it’s up to me to focus on the matter at hand, to settle myself BICFOK (butt in chair, fingers on keyboard) and just write the damn book.

I’ve somehow slid into the habit of allowing myself to be distracted, of throwing in the towel a bit too easily. I’ve managed to acquire a habit I don’t like, and that is one of not holding on tightly enough to the things that really matter.

In other words, I have managed to allow myself to forget that sometimes, one has to fight for what they want to do—and that fighting for it can also be, sometimes, the whole point.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury

True fresh air...

March 15, 2023

The writing retreat that kept me from posting my essay last week is in the rear-view mirror now, but my, what a good time we had!

I waved goodbye to husband and daughter on Monday morning and drove a short forty minutes to the city that’s northwest of us. My destination was the home of a dear friend, the woman who initiated our online writing sprint group. She grabbed my two bags—a duffel bag that held my clothes and a tote that held food, including two home made soups—before I could even get out of my car. She put them in the back seat of her vehicle and then we were off, destination the home of another member of our writing group—the second of the three that live in that same city. There, we changed vehicles—and drivers—and then went to get the fourth member of our writing group and traveling party.

Shortly after one-thirty we left familiar territory, bearing northwest, and within about two and a half hours arrived at the venue for our mini writing retreat, an inn on the shores of Lake Huron, Ontario, at just after four in the afternoon.

These three women are my “sprinting” partners. We sprint together via video link two days a week. Then, later Monday evening, and for the duration of our adventure, we were joined by one other author, a woman who three of us had known for a long time, and one with tremendous writing bona-fides: Kelley Armstrong.

We gathered together to write, for that is what we are at the base of our beings. We are all of us writers down to the bone. And we gathered together for personal reasons that will remain personal and private, and in our way to cosset and hold dear, in honor and support of one of us.

We are writers, and being writers have formed a bond that is unique.

We write in different genres and our novels are presented via different methods, but in so very many ways, we are one. We are women who have chosen to spend our days in pursuit of crafting stories. We reach into the ether and draw out the raw material that at first only we can see; and that which we form with that raw material becomes our sustenance. We write to connect, or to comfort, or to entertain. The why of it is different for each of us. But together, we share a similar spirit. We understand and connect with each other in ways that our nearest and dearest simply cannot do.

We are writers. And while writing by its very nature is a solitary pursuit, from time to time we need to surround ourselves with other writers. In a deep and intrinsic way, other writers are our people.

So we wrote each morning for several hours—the solitary pursuit—then gathered for lunch and talk, to feed our bodies and our need for each other. Then we’d return to our solitude for another several hours. Then we’d gather, go out to supper, and then return and again, talk all things writing, and life. It was a glorious time.

There’s a story that’s been making the rounds for several years now, although I cannot attest that this encounter really happened. But it’s a great way to explain the way writers are perceived by others. The story goes that a famous Canadian author once encountered a brain surgeon at a cocktail party. “You’re a writer?” the brain surgeon asked. “Yes,” came the reply. The brain surgeon nodded. “Isn’t that interesting? I’ve always wanted to be a writer. When I retire, and if I can find the time, then I’m going be a writer, too.” “What a coincidence!” the author said. “Because I plan, when I retire from writing, to be a brain surgeon.”

Writing is often not treated by those who are not practitioners of the craft, as a “real” career. I would argue that to be a writer, one needs to pursue as much learning and put in as much work as would be required for any other skilled endeavor.  Of course, there are a few basic personal qualities that would also be helpful to possess—though not having them is not a deal breaker. Insightfulness and the ability to discern people and motives, and an understanding of nuances—these all would be assets to anyone aspiring to be an author.

I’ve been known to say that the qualities that allow me to tell stories of deep emotion are the same qualities that can be a challenge to maintaining my own emotional equilibrium. To be honest, these last few years have played absolute hell with my ability to focus, to create…. to sink deeply into my work.

I’ve never grown that thick skin everyone always told me I should have. So I’ve had a real struggle closing out all the turmoil and angst that has been filling the empty spaces around us all. The noise has been just too loud and too pervasive at times to be overcome.

But being with “my people”; being for just those few short days in a different place, physically and therefore a different place emotionally really helped. Being with those who have also struggled, those who have also felt the miasma that others are percolating in, that seems to permeate the very air around us all? Well, everything that comprised this four-day adventure was the tonic I deeply needed. I liken the experience to the sensation of throwing the doors and windows open wide at the first sweet scent of spring.

I didn’t learn anything new, particularly. But I was able to remind myself that ultimately, everything in life really is a decision. And that, at the end of the day, I don’t really need any fancy trimmings to get the job done.

I just need to fully embrace the reality that getting the job done or not is a decision that I need to make anew each and every day.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury

Coping...and looking ahead.

 March 1, 2023

One of the things I have learned over the course of this life to date, is that we all have similar experiences. Truly, nothing we go through happens only to us. We really are not ever all alone.

What differences there may be between your life and mine I believe can be found in how we deal with those experiences that life tosses our way. Nobody’s path is all roses, or all crap. We each have varying degrees of good and bad, happy and sad, joyful and tragic experiences in our personal portfolios. The meaning of life, if there is one—and I believe there is—may very well be the lessons we learn along the way, and our ability to not only survive those valley experiences but thrive as we travel through them on our individual paths.

A medical professional of my acquaintance had a reaction that surprised me. On this particular occasion, my eyes misted as I spoke of that first, long ago but very shocking loss in my young life—the death of my father when I was just 8 and a half years old. He said, “You should be well over that by now!” I let the comment pass, because, well, maybe he was over the loss of his own father, a man he had buried when he himself had been a well established adult. And, if so, then good for him.

But some of us never “get over” losing loved ones—and really, I would argue that it’s an error to think that we should. Hopefully, we do learn to go on. Hopefully, we wake up each day and get stuff done. But I don’t think a prize is being offered for the speed with which one finally and forever dispenses with the occasional symptom of grieving. As in most everything, neither extreme in this instance is healthy. Shriveling up in a perpetual if metaphorical fetal position doesn’t have much value; but neither does taking an axe and chopping off all emotion.

It’s okay if that man who seemed so shocked that a fifty-plus year old woman would have a tear for her long dead daddy could himself put aside his sense of loss, of grief, and move on and never again let that loss get him down. And it’s okay if I will forever have that occasional day, here and there, when the pain returns, and the tears fall.  Everyone grieves, but everyone grieves differently.

And of course, it’s not just that first loss. My life has been a trail of losses, which is why this is a subject I think about, and often. I lost my dad at 8 and my mother at 21. Then I lost my second granddaughter, and then her daddy, my middle son; my sister died, and three years ago, I lost my brother. And those are just the losses that are connected to me through blood.

I do not spend everyday weeping, but those losses are never completely out of mind for very long. Of course, with my brother’s death I became the last of my birth family left alive, and that is a surprisingly discomforting feeling. But I get up each day, and some days are spectacular. I live and love and laugh—and maybe I can do all those things because I have given myself permission not only to grieve, but to let that pain show.

Yes, we share experiences, but our responses to those experiences are different. We’re all walking the same path, basically, from birth to death.

But more and more I am convinced that it really is the journey, and not the destination, that matters the most.

And, speaking of destinations, next Monday I will be pursuing one! I and a few close writing pals will be gathering for a short writing retreat. We’re not going far—just a couple of hours away to a lake shore. So come next Wednesday, there will be no essay posted. I haven’t missed many since that first one in 2006, so I hope you won’t mind.

With everything that we have all dealt with over the last few years, I am really looking forward to being face to face some with fellow authors.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury