Anticipation

    A recent NPR story about the benefits of experiences over acquisitions trumpeted an obvious fact that addicted travelers have always understood: being and doing is better than getting and having.  It’s the experiences, immersions, contacts and memories that make us rich, not the tangible accumulations. 

  Interestingly, according to the study, a generous portion of our enjoyment of an activity is credited to the anticipation of it; looking forward to something is apparently half the fun.  I know this, which is why in my Mid-West house there is a hard rule – we can’t talk about Mexico until October. 

   October is many things to us – the excitement of the new school year has become routine, but not yet drudgery; fall crisps our mornings and wilts my begonias; sweaters come out and shorts get stored; and the seasonal charter flights to Puerto Vallarta go on sale. These things collide, making our annual March retreat seem just tantalizingly at the tips of our reach, as though if I listen hard I can hear the surf crash under our balcony. And if I put my hand out just so under the palapa I can taste the salt on my tequila.  

   The wishing is tough, and although the looking ahead is sweet, we can only stand it so long, which is why there exists the Rule of October.  To harbor such desire all year long would do a disservice to my lush June flower planting fever, to the languid August afternoons floating on the hot lake, to cicada drowned evenings on the deck, when the fading September sun slants through the tall canna and crows pepper the sky.  It seems to diminish the luxurious joy I have in my daily life if I immediately start wanting to be somewhere other than my lovely home as soon as I return to it. 

   But the need to wish ourselves there is strong, and helps to resign us to the mornings to come, when I will certainly have to shovel before dawn to make carpool.  This glorious autumn will give way to dark breakfasts and bare tree limbs, and then I will ache for the smell of bougainvillea and the trill of the muffin man on the sidewalk. By January, when the light gets so weak that noon barely makes a shadow on the snow angels frozen crunchy in the yard, we will talk ourselves giddy at the dinner table, planning dinners out on new courtyards and Madonna-bus excursions to foreign neighborhoods.

     October is when we can begin again to relish the certainty that our friends will find us on the beach and the mariachi will wake us from siesta.  The fullness of daily life nudges over a bit to make room for the frizzle of anticipation from knowing that Puerto Vallarta is there waiting, welcoming, warm, and familiar.  I can do November, February, all the mean months between now and March.  Because now is October, and now I can dream.

 

There Oughta Be a Word . . .

     The English language is a beautiful and frightening thing. A few years ago the people who worry about this sort of fact noted that we now have passed the 1 million word mark. Words we understand are a smaller subset of that; if English is your first language, you probably comprehend anywhere from 20,000 to 100,000 words. What we USE, however, is an even smaller subset of those, around 10%.

      My articulate and educated husband, who also happens to have a penchant for letting you know when a word isn't used exactly properly, may have an active vocabulary of around 20,000 words, which is a lot. Children learning to speak their native language double their word bank every few months, a pace we can't possibly match as adults. The more education you have, generally the greater your range, although the most verbally poetic and expressive man I know has no formal education beyond high school - a lifetime of reading has given him word wings. Words - beautiful, specific, descriptive, long, short, pithy, and vague - are everywhere. And yet sometimes they fail me utterly.

     Why is there no word for the tangle of sensations when the first fall leaves skitter across the sidewalk, and the not-as-early sunlight slants into the still vibrant begonias, while the scent of cool nights lingers on my damp newspaper?

   Or the feeling when, while lingering over coffee after dinner out, when the perfect equilibrium between temperature and sweetness has finally been achieved, the solicitous waiter tops me off, and, although happy for the more, I rue that I will now have to start again?

    Maybe someone else knows the word for the heart pounding anxiety, tinged with pride in her and wistfulness for the safety of her cradle, that comes each time I take my teen out to practice her new driving skills.

     The ruthless sneakiness of memory is a minefield of lexical pitfalls. When I am uneasy that there is something I have forgotten, but even the shadow of what it might be lies in the unplumbed corner of my mind, there are no ways to express the almost anxiety. I need a word to sum up the rush of associations and memories that a single scent can summon, and then to describe how it is just as quickly gone, and left me with no ability to describe the whiff.  Why, for that matter, is it so hard to describe a smell? We have to associate it WITH something else; as though there are no intrinsic aromas, simply those like or contrary to others. 

     This disappointment in the language is brought on, I think, by the elegance of this season change. I am almost ready to relinquish air-conditioning, sanguine about pulling out the sweaters and leggings, anticipating my peasant cooking style of cold weather months, but still nostalgic for the wavy heat of Mid-West summer. Like so many things, the passage to fall is both so gradual as to be almost unnoticed, and yet also instant; imprisoning it in expression is like putting lightning in a jar.

     And if anyone can find the word to capture the feeling of time both firebolting past me and holding me wrapped in a perfect interval, where past present and future are all in this day, then teach it to me. Until then, I will bumble through the unutterable beauty of these moments, committing to sly memory the nuances and sharp corners, holding tight to all that is just out of my reach. 

     

The Things We Collect

         In the lobby of the public library in my neighborhood, there is a yard square glass-topped display case with the intriguing sign “Things People Collect.” It draws me every time I am there, to peek into the curious favorites of other people’s keepiness. I have dawdled over marbles in every color and pattern, vintage ceramic flower planters shaped like lambs and ponies, and a dizzying array of Pez dispensers.

       I once installed my own collection there for a smug month; miniatures from dozens of places I have visited around the world, such as a pinkie sized Eiffel Tower and Plymouth Rock as a pebble. I like my miniatures because they are, of course, small, and they remind me warmly of neat places and things we did there. Noble purposes for a collection. 

   Why we keep what we keep is a mystery. I mean collecting, not its more insistent and unwelcome cousin, hoarding, which by now has its own entry in the DSM5, and differs in many respects, including that collecting is usually by choice, not compulsion.  Not all collecting is by choice, of course. Once you admit to liking a particular category of things, mere affinity can swiftly be transformed into collecting by well-meaning friends who are relieved to have a ready gift idea. That is how my mother started her girlhood collection of kitschy salt and pepper sets, although she soon realized she liked the idea of them more than the reality. Reversing that perception took her years of disappointed birthdays. 

     Maybe we keep things that remind of us things we’ve done or places we’ve gone, like my miniatures collection. Sometimes we are drawn to things that complement our inner being. I have a friend who loves boxes; decorative, artsy, the tinier the better, and particularly those that nest. She also likes life to be nested within its lines, safely contained by rules, and to proceed in its pattern toward long-established and desirable goals.

     My husband doesn’t collect so much as he gathers. Perhaps as a hedge against the day we will run out of the skinny plastic sleeves the newspaper comes in, he will stash them in drawers for some undefined future use. He has learned to never start a sentence to me with the words “shouldn’t we keep. . .” lest he risk a withering stare and a march to the recycle bin.

    My collecting coexists uneasily alongside a frequent exhibition of Spartanism, which does not yet have its own entry in the journals, but should, under Traits All Mothers of Small Children Should Have. With Spartanism, you determinedly eject things from your life, such as the day I emptied my house of all the unconnected-to-anything cords, wires, chargers to things that no longer charge, extra long cables to a.v. equipment that doesn’t a. or v., and anything with the word coaxial in it. Although my friend Anne believes I really do still have every stitch of clothes I have ever bought since the early 80’s, I go through phases in which nothing in my or anyone else’s closet in my house is safe. I plead guilty to having pitched the paper while my husband was still reading it, and once got rid of a box of slides from my grandparents’ attic dating from the 50’s without even opening it. Oh please, you know you have one like that in the basement somewhere and just aren’t brave enough to pitch it.

    I have also deliberately sabotaged my collections, in order to keep them from growing. My last kitchen redo included a non-magnetic stainless steel refrigerator; now I have nowhere to display my hundreds of magnets, so it is OK to stop bringing them home. Some simply die a natural death; with the demise of smoking in public watering holes, no one makes matches with clever bar logos anymore. Does that make my thousands of matchbooks more or less interesting? With his transition from youthful ballcaps to nicer fedoras and brimmed hats, my husband doesn’t know what to do with his shelves of souvenir lids, but at least he is no longer compelled to buy them when we travel. 

      Maybe we collect in order to stave off the passing of time; if I have all the plastic Harpo’s cups from my sorority years, I can’t possibly be old enough to have a child looking at colleges, right?  Or to tie us to a certain time; I love using my grandmother’s china because it makes me feel her around my table, although she has been gone for decades.

    I am at the point in my life when purging is more attractive than acquiring. Unfortunately, so is my mother, and frequently her outlet is me; many the mom night when she brings another load of “my things,” which I reluctantly take, knowing these items of questionable sentiment will soon hit the Goodwill pile. I look forward to the inevitable downsizing of the house, as my clearing out will then finally have purpose and justification.

      Until then, I resolve that collecting will be as it should; narrow, focused, and only of those things meaningful and symbolic. However tempting it is to continue acquiring decorative plates for my kitchen, knowing that I now have enough is both liberating and satisfying. I will revel in the seashells I have without needing to pick up any more. I will collect experiences, and memories, and emotions; all things for which I have unlimited storage. Although I can never fit them in a display case, they will never be purged from my heart. Or have to be dusted.

The Block Kitty

          We all know the adage that it takes a village to raise a child. In this part of the neighborhood, it apparently takes a block to keep a cat.

          Over the last several months, a full grown all-over-gray cat with gorgeous green eyes has been spied in and around our Brookside area block. When I grew concerned that she was lost and couldn’t find her way home, I sent out an email for information. I got back a flood of responses from neighbors who have had their own experiences with this resourceful feline.

          At 645, the kids call her Smoky and she does NOT get along with the terrier of the house. Down at 627 she goes by Kitty Gray Gray and likes to cuddle and have her tummy rubbed. She has been seen leaping the fence in the back yards of houses backing up to the next streets, and spending lots of time on the cushions behind 609. At 628 she gets chased out by their large poodle, and across the street the 3 year old calls her Glen, his generic name for any kitty he sees. She’s been known to stroll in through the open back door at 622, and like Batman, seems to be everywhere, and yet nowhere. Here at 641 she goes by the name Cat Benatar; she has taken up more or less permanent residence on our threshold, or napping on the deck couch in the sun. Thanks to our nephew who recently visited from Hollywood and was taken with the idea of a transient pet, she also now has over 400 likes on Instagram.  She’s clearly well-fed, although no one will admit feeding her. And always up for a leg rub.

          She’s friendly, independent, and to me symbolizes some of the best things about living in this neighborhood. Close neighbors make for strong communities, and those who are willing to help tend another’s pet will also help look out for each other’s homes, families, and well-being. We are open, but responsible, and will reach out to one another. We will look for solutions, but in the meantime make sure a stray kitty doesn’t go unloved. Brad down the street summed it up by noting that after the communal cat experience, he is reassured that if any of his three little boys goes astray or “runs away from home” as only a six year old can, he will be well taken care of. Maybe not fed, but watched over.

          That’s what neighbors do. We look out for one another. Thanks, Cat Benatar, for allowing us all to be just that much more neighborly. 

From the Balcony  by Molly Williams

From the third floor balcony of the condo we rent overlooking the Playa de los Muertos,  . . . read more:

http://www.vallartatribune.com/2014/03/29/from-the-balcony/

Originally published in the Vallarta Tribune, the English language weekly in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico, March 29, 2014, as part of an ongoing series of my articles.

When What Was Lost is Found

     Over a dozen years ago, for a milestone birthday, my best friend gave me an exceedingly special gift. It was a sterling silver bracelet with links of my family members' birthstones and my late-in-life baby's name spelled out in silver baby blocks. I adored it. It was my all occasion accessory which I wore with great pride.

     And then, on my next birthday, it inexplicably disappeared. Maybe the wine at dinner helped me lose track of when I last felt it on my wrist, but one minute it was there, and the next gone. I was desolate. We tore the houses where we had gone that night upside down looking for it. I pestered the restaurant for weeks asking if it had turned up. Eventually I gave up looking, but never stopped being sad about the loss.

    And then, yesterday, a surprise. It came back.
    
    A chore much put off, that of sorting through my ridiculous collection of wrapping paraphernalia in the guest closet, led to the emptying of the storage box of ribbons, bows, tissue paper and gift bags. There, at the bottom, was my dulled but still lovely family keepsake bracelet. I can only surmise that it fell into a gift bag while a present was being opened, and there laid undetected for over eleven years. I polished it and immediately began wearing it again, this time first to the jeweler for a safety clasp.
     
     Its loss and recovery made me think about the nature of that which is valuable to us. I oddly enough had the bracelet all along, there in my closet, so hadn't really lost anything of true value. But because it was lost to my wearing, and unaccounted for in my heart, I grieved.
 
    We treat many things as lost that are not. Losing faith is common, especially in times of sadness or stress, or perceived isolation from the things that make us happy. But the faith is there all along, waiting to be resurrected from the bottom of the box of unnecessary things, much like my bracelet. Regaining confidence in our spirituality ought to be as joyful as finding a piece of jewelry.

     Sometimes a dear friend will be lost to the busyness of living, which leaves us no time for long meandering phone calls catching up on each others' families. Peeking into their lives on FaceBook is no substitute for the meaningful shorthand speak that conjures decades of shared adventures and confidences. I grieve the loss of those roots in my life, but they, like the bracelet, are never gone, just waiting for me to sift through the right box of my past. Besides, I could not today be the person I am without the touch of those friends, so they will never be lost to me.

     So when lost things are "found" I will be thrilled, but they will remind me of all the remarkable things which are still a part of me, waiting to be brought back to my immediateness. That which is gone is not really, ever; it cannot be, as long as it has touched me. As long as friends, faith, love, family are still sought they are to be treasured. No matter how deep and unused the storage box.

Becalmed

And now, a few thoughts about inspiration. 

     Is distress a motivator? Is it easier to be creative under the weight of unhappiness, anxiety, or that nibbling whisper of self-doubt?

     Is happiness incompatible with bursts of productivity? That doesn't seem likely, and yet must be the explanation for my lack of output in the recent weeks. I have been blessed with some of the most relaxing, stress-free times of my life lately, in which I am released from the vague, non-specific apprehension which habitually hovers at the periphery of my consciousness. That nearly perfect state which led even my husband to note that he thought I was happier than I had been in a long time. I must agree, and don't take this gift of peace of mind lightly. This time was reserved for my opportunity to delve down a path of career diversion, to see whether any other than me is interested in anything I have to write. So why is it so hard?

    Severe pressure results in flawless diamonds; war produces timeless literature; heartbreak yields transcendent poetry; misery and madness gave us Edgar Allen Poe, among others. So what does contentedness grant? Rainbows and unicorns do not make for compelling reading. No one wants to peek inside a happy life - it's the challenges that bring out our inner schadenfreude. Makes us feel better, does it not, when we aren't the only unhappy ones?
     
     The challenge of this time will be to translate my comfort level into strength. To take power from my completeness, and propel it into creativity. This is my commitment to mobilize domestic serenity into professional satisfaction. I will do my best to make it entertaining. Maybe not a diamond; but better than brass.