What an ironic topic for my first foray into Sunday Scribblings, because it’s a question I’ve been asking myself quite frequently for the past five years, as in “Why in God’s name do I live where I live?” The answers for me, as I suspect for most of us, are varied and complex.

I started out asking this question seven years ago when my son moved to Florida. I was born and raised in the midwest, specifically, southeastern Michigan, so my realm of living experience is confined to a geographic radius of about 25 miles and the extremes of weather we experience here – everything from chillingly damp autumns, to bitterly cold winters which seem to seguae into warm, humid summers. The deep snows of that first winter my son was gone just intensifed the emptiness of my nest, and I clomped through the icy drifts muttering angrily to myself, “Why in the world am I living here?”

I continued to ask myself that question with increasing frequency, particularly after we purchased our own “second home” in southern Florida, just a short drive away from my son and his wife. But I’ve noticed that every time we visit there for a few days, I find myself both dreading and wishing to return home. Dreading it, because my house here is old and grungy, while my house there is new, posh, and clean. My neighborhood here pretty much matches my house, and suffice it to say, my life here just trails right along in those same decrepit lines.

But in spite of all that, my life here still seems to call out “home” to me. This old house and neighborhood have sheltered me from my first days as a young wife and mother, through raising my child and watching him fly far away into his own life. My friends are all here, the things I do that enrich my life are here – in other words, everything that is real resides in this weatherbeaten, slightly run down place. In Florida, life is almost too good to be true. As beautiful as that is for a while, it leaves something to be desired, somthing gritty and unpolished, something that you can work to clean up and rejuvenate. Something that makes life worth a little more in the end.

As much as I talk about my dream of “starting over” in the sunny south, I’m not sure I really want to jettison everything I’ve built in this place I’ve called home for the past 30 years. I live here not because it’s paradise, but because it contains so much that I hold dear and couldn’t bear to live without. Here is the little dent on the wall where I threw one of the ironstone dishes from our wedding china in a fit of anger at my new husband as he walked out the door, and here is the gorgeous red maple tree we planted on our first anniversary and daringly made love underneath on our 25th. There are the little scratch marks on the pantry made by our first cocker spaniel puppy when she was trying to get at her dog food, and the rhododendron bush outside her favorite window where I buried her ashes fifteen years later. Here’s where I find the remnants of those stickers my son plastered on all the closet doors, as well as the cherry tree he used to climb into and read poetry. These are more than memories, these are artifacts of my life. They remind me of all the things I have experienced and survived.

I live where I live because it’s home.

You see, it all began with a typewriter, quite like the one in the banner up above.  Picture, if you will, a chubby four year old with dark, curly hair, perched at a battered brown desk in front of a round attic window, her pudgy fingers jamming down the keys, and looking in astonishment at the letters which appeared on a white sheet of paper.

Words.

Three and four letter words, which eventually became three and four syllable words, which she memorized from the books she was (forever!) trying to get someone to read to her.

Words.

Which she strung together in meaningless, pretty sentences, and finally into endless stories, usually filled with dark images and scary feelings.

Words.

Which she tapped out on the old typewriter, her fingers gaining strength as she got older, taking on more than just made up stories, words which spoke to her feelings about justice and peace and the future of this world she was growing up in.

For a while, the old typewriter keyboard took second place to another keyboard – one of black and white ivory keys, that, when pressed, created not words on white paper, but lifted sound from off a page of black and white music, sending it spiraling into the air.

No words.

Now the words are tapped almost effortlessly onto a screen, gently clicking keys releasing the flow of images and ideas that seem to overflow her mind, her fingers no longer pudgy, but slightly worn from time and the activities of life, all the things which find their way onto her page, find themselves expressed in the way she loves and knows best.

Words.

Posted in response to this project, with thanks for Michele for the idea  

Did I mention that he also has Parkinson’s disease?

And that he’s 85 years old?

As you might imagine, he’s rather frail. We’re planning a trip to Florida later this week to see him, so I inquired about his schedule in the upcoming days.

“Well, Tuesday’s and Thursdays are therapy days,” he said, rattling it off verbatim. “I get this pump thing filled up on Tuesdays, and wear it all day Wednesday, and then go back in on Thursday for some other treatment. I’m working on Friday and Sunday this week, but on Saturday I’m free all day.”

“Are you still working??” I asked, somewhat incredulously. My Dad has worked at the local Walmart for the past several years, even working full time for a while.

“Just two days a week now,” he said, “and only four hours at a time.”

“Do you really think you should do that?” I wondered, not for the first time.

“Yeah, I need to,” he said. “It keeps my mind off all this other awful stuff. Besides, I like all the people I work with, and I have my regular customers that come in and get upset if I’m not there. That’s the best part of work, the people.”

Of course he’s right. Especially for a man like my Dad, who enjoys talking to people, who ran a successful small business for 40 years, who likes to be out and about in the world.

“How about you?” he asked. “Do you miss your job?”

I thought for a minute before I answered. Fact is, I don’t miss the work itself, but I do miss the people I worked with. I enjoyed the interaction with my co-workers and my boss, enjoyed the camaraderie, the sense of shared purpose – all the things I’m enjoying so much in my Classical Bells rehearsals.

When I told him as much, he understood immediately. “It’s all about the relationships,” he said.

I can believe that. There is much satisfaction to be had in the workplace, and not all of it has to do with a job well done.

How about you. Do your working relationships help make a dull job better? 

In her cover article for a recent issue of Newsweek, Sharon Begley has even better news. She writes of 31 Ways to Get Smarter in 2012, ways we can not only improve our memory, but boost our overall IQ as much as 20 points.

The really good news about these findings? Nearly all the methods of getting smarter are easy, enjoyable, and cheap. How often do you see those three words in a sentence to describe anything these days??

Of the 31 ways, I was happy to note that many of them are things I already do (drink coffee, eat dark chocolate, play musical instruments, get a good amount of sleep, eat yogurt, drink lots of water) or things I’d like to do (learn a language, visit art museums, go to literary festivals, join a knitting circle, dance). One of the recommendations I know I’ll never do (play violent videos games- but hey, that’s good news for my son, and maybe why he’s a genius. And I thought it was because of my stellar parenting techniques!)

Begley says one of the biggest detriments to becoming smarter is lack of attention. And one the major reasons we’ve all become a little attention deficit – you guessed it. Technology drains our focus in a hundred ways.  Hence another way to get smarter – toss the Smartphone in the garbage.

The article accompanying Begley’s list is well worth reading, as she delves into some of the neuropsychological reasons the brain either gets smarter (or not) over time. Because just as brain power and intelligence can increase during our lifespan, so can they decrease without the proper care and feeding.

And none of us wants that to happen.

Last week at bell rehearsal I was talking with my stand partner about the article. We’ve been working on some particularly difficult music, requiring us to come up with some very creative bell changing options. As we discussed ways to get through a particularly difficult passage, we sipped coffee and nibbled on some of the ever-present chocolate squares. “

“Look at this,” I told Darcie. “We’re getting smarter every minute!”

That’s the way to play it.

This is the expectant look I get when it's walk time

Just as soon as I’ve finished my morning coffee (two cups, black) and set aside my book, Magic jumps up from his perch beside me in the big green chair and settles expectantly on the floor in front of me. His gracefully plumed tail starts to wag, and, head lowered slightly, he looks out from under slightly overgrown eyebrows with those huge brown eyes of his. A low rumble emerges from his throat, an “nnrrr”-ing sound that is his way of urging me out of my chair and out the door.

It’s walk time.

Some mornings (mostly winter mornings) I think about invesing in some indoor Pet Waste Stations or dog exercise equipment. But since I’ve not done that, I put on my coat, hat, earmuffs, gloves and boots.

And we walk.

When we come in, I’m cold. I need more coffee, so I rinse out the pot from this morning, dump the used filter into the garbage, measure out another four cups of cold water and two scoops of fresh Gevalia coffee. While I’m waiting – and waiting – and waiting – for it to make it’s way through the pot, past the grounds, and into the carafe (final destination my china mug), I flip open my iPad and check in with social media. Any new video’s of Connor this morning? Yes? I watch it once, then twice, then maybe a third time, lapping up ever little coo, squawk, kick, and squiggle.

By this time, the coffee’s done. But wait – before pouring a new cup, I’d better feed the dogs. I open the refrigerator and find the small Pyrex dish containing boiled chicken breast strips. I spoon two out, shred them into tiny bites, pour some broth over them, and pop them into the microwave for 20 seconds. Then I add a scoop of kibble on top.

Dog breakfast.

Now it’s time for coffee.

And time to hit my desk. Writing projects await. Blog posts are due, publicity articles and e-mails for Paul’s Players, the community theater group I’m helping my friend get off the ground. There’s an idea for an essay I keep meaning to explore – (The Blessed Bean-My Love Affair With Coffee).

I pour a fresh cup of said Blessed Bean, and start off toward my writing room. On the way, I notice the pile of laundry I meant to throw in the washer before heading out on the walk. I really need that sweater washed, because I want to wear it tomorrow. It won’t take long to do that, so I gather it up and head downstairs to the laundry room.

On my way back up, I spy the canvas bag of books I meant to go through to determine which ones to donate to the library book sale. Those need to be dropped off later today. I settle onto the little couch at the bottom of the basement stairs and paw through the stack. There’s a copy of Jonathan Franzen’s The Corrections – I didn’t know I had that! I don’t think I ever read that! I open the cover and read a few pages. Nope, not one bit familiar, but pretty good. I’d better keep this one for a while.

The washing machine beeps. Could that laundry be done already? How long have I been sitting here?

You’ve got to get back started on that writing, I tell myself.

Quit putting it off and get busy.

 How about you? Do you find lots of ways to put writing off? How do you get yourself into gear? Check out this week’s Write On Wednesday to see what did the trick for me.

So when the director contacted me and said she’d like to assign me to the E and F (6) position, I breathed a huge sigh of relief. That position was where I first learned to play four-in-hand (the technique of holding two handbells in each hand and playing them simultaneously) and where I played for the majority of my years in bell choirs.

That’s my sweet spot.

You all have those spots, don’t you? Places in your work that you feel so comfortable because you know what you’re doing, know how to work around the kinks, know what the pitfalls are, and have so much experience in this one area that you could write a book about it.

When you’re in the sweet spot, you have confidence in your ability, you can rise to greater levels of achievement because you’ve mastered the basics.

You can have a lot more fun.

So for the past couple of weeks, I’ve been reveling in the sweet spot in more ways than one. Music lifts my spirits like nothing else can. This morning, even though we’d had a long weekend of extra rehearsals, it felt so good to be playing again, to be thinking about music and all the little nuances that elevate a performance from good to great. It took my mind off all the other not-so-sweet things that have been dragging me down lately. And it provided me with a surge of inspiration to tackle a writing project I’ve been procrastinating, an added and much appreciated side benefit.

I also realized that playing music makes me feel more like ME than anything else I do. I think music itself is my own personal sweet spot in life – the area where I’m most comfortable, where I feel the most confidence in my abilities, where I have the most fun. As much as I love to write, I don’t always feel that way when confronted with the blank page.

I suspect we’d all be a lot happier, more productive individuals if we could spend more time in our sweet spots.

I know I would.

How about you? What’s your sweet spot in life? Do you get to spend enough time there?

Well, it has.

But not necessarily in a good way.

Sure, the weather has been delightful instead of frightful. But that’s about all I can say.

Last night at choir rehearsal I learned another friend had been diagnosed with advanced breast cancer, while another had suffered a serious mental collapse, and a third was in the hospital following a possible “brain bleed.” My mental worry list has now stretched even farther across my brain, adding these folks to my heightened concerns about my dad, and my sadness over the impending death of my neighbor.

When we came home from rehearsal, I went outside with the dogs. It finally turned cold and blustery, and I was trying to hurry them inside. As I followed them through the back door, I tripped over my own toes and went sprawling on my face, landing my entire weight <crack> on the bridge of my nose.

And in case you ever wondered – yes, you do see stars.

And yes, there is an obvious, tiny broken spot just south of the bridge.

I’d like to start January over, please. I’m declaring this National Do Over week. Let’s do the Etch-A-Sketch trick, shake up the past two weeks, and erase them so we can start again with more positive experiences this time around.

Anybody with me?

How about you? Has your year so far been delightful or frightful?

The bright spot in an otherwise troubling month? Seeing this little face pop up almost daily in my in-box:

Michigan in January? No way.

Yes, way.

Today, in fact.

Today I wore my new winter jacket when I walked this morning, but started sweating and had to unzip it after 10 minutes.

Today, I hung curtains on the outside clothesline at 3:00 in the afternoon and they were sun dried, wind-ironed, and ready to hang at 4:00.

Today, I sat on my back porch steps wearing only a hooded sweatshirt and drank hot tea while the dogs chased squirrels around the pine trees.

There is something unnatural about this gentle winter. The ground is dry, the grass is still green(ish). Who can believe this is winter, after the last two years of harsh daily snows and pervasive gray skies.

“Payback’s going to be hell,” someone said the other day, expecting that winter will kick in with a vengenance. And this morning, the weather forecaster did warn us of impending winter doom by the end of the week- colder temperatures, a rain/snow mix, and a jet stream that brings long-lasting cold in its wake.

You’d never know it by today’s weather, though. Just like life in general, the world can be rosy and warm one minute, but turn icy cold and brutal in the wink of an eye.

Still, it’s been lovely while it lasted. At least the weather is testament to my New Year’s Eve prediction that 2012 would bring us “more than we expected.” More warmth, more sunshine, more nice days than I can recall in all 55 of my Michigan winters.

This year my efforts are more purposeful than usual.  I’ve got my eye on moving, and I’m trying to make a tiny dent in the collection of stuff that’s been growing here since 1976. In the process, I’m also re-organizing the way I store things, which might seem silly after all these years, but it’s helping me start to think about what works best in terms of cupboard and closet space, something I had no idea about when I moved in this house as a 20-year-old bride.

My biggest problem area is the kitchen. I’m short, and it’s hard for me to reach anything stored higher than the lowest cupboard shelf, a problem that’s been compounded by the fact that I’ve shrunk in height during the past five years. I have very little counter or wall space, and don’t have room for a spice rack, so for the past 35 years, my spice jars have all stood on the middle shelf of the cupboard. Invariably, three or four tip over while trying to find the one I want. They fall out, clattering to the floor and sending the dogs skittering out of the kitchen in fear.  I noticed that my daughter in law has this wonderful little tiered shelf in the cupboard for her spices. So I made a trip to Bed, Bath and Beyond, and got not one, but two of these clever contraptions.

My newly organized kitchen cupboard

I was absurdly excited about arranging my spices on the rack. It fit perfectly onto that shelf, and all the spices looked so neat lined up on it. Problem was, I still couldn’t reach them on that middle shelf without tipping half of them over.

Wait a minute, I thought to myself in a flash of inspiration. Why not change the whole cupboard around and put the spices on the bottom shelf?

You’re probably rolling on the floor laughing by now. I know, it sounds ridiculous to live somewhere for 35 years and never change the way you organize your cupboards. But you get used to having things a certain way, and it simply never occurs to you to change them.

At least, it didn’t to me.

Until Wednesday, when I rearranged all six shelves in that cupboard.

Next hurdle – how long would it take before I “unlearned” where everything was kept? In other words, how many times would I open the wrong cupboard and reflexively reach in for the bread, or the napkins, or the Worcester sauce?

I’m happy to report that I’ve only done it wrong two or three times. I think I’ve already retrained my brain, an accomplishment that makes me feel quite pleased.

All this cupboard cleaning has provided a satisfying diversion from what has been an otherwise sad week. This week I learned that my father has had a recurrence of colon cancer, and that his kidney is failing. He also told me that his younger brother was just diagnosed with bone cancer and is already bedridden. My elderly neighbor, who has lived in the house beside me for 30 years, was taken to the hospital on Thursday and I learned she has a large, inoperable esophageal tumor.

Sadness and bad news all around.

Change is inevitable, and I readily admit I don’t accept or handle it well. So much of the change I see is related to the decline of places and people I care about, a consequence of living in a city with huge social and economic problems, and also of being involved with numerous elderly people. So if it seems I’m unusually proud of my kitchen rehab, you must realize that it was actually nice to make a small change in my kitchen and discover that it worked out so very well.

If only all changes could be so painless.