Spring is springing in my garden thanks to the huge dose of moisture from that pre-Earth Day snow, and there's change ahead for me as well.
First, if all goes well, this will be the last post you'll read on my current website. A new website--which will include all the blog posts currently on this one--will go live sometime in the next week or so (same URL, just a new platform).
The project has been months in the making, and wouldn't have taken nearly as long if I had kept up. My friends who make up the programming/design/editing team have done their part, but I've lagged at writing new content, partly because I was on the road a lot in March and April, partly because of the infection in tooth #23, which has really zapped my energy.
The other big project absorbing my time now that I've wrapped up a season of successful habitat-gardening talks is what writer/editor/fiber expert Deb Robson calls a "French polish" of Bless the Birds. Here's how Deb describes it (through finishing wood):
You rub the surface with 0000 steel wool and then brush off the tiny bits of wood, shellac, and steel and then coat with another dilute layer of shellac: repeat until the wood gleams gently as if lit from within.
It's a great metaphor for the kind of fine work I hope to accomplish with this pass through my memoir.
I really thought I was done after the last major revision. Only in the weeks since I emailed the manuscript to my agent (who in one of those twists of a complex universe, never received the email), I've had snatches of memories float into my consciousness, small details of the sort that speak to the life Richard and I lived and the people we were. Evocative details, necessary, I think, to the success of the whole story.
Like this passage from Richard's first-ever night in the hospital, long before we knew the bird hallucinations presaged a brain tumor that would eventually kill him:
I remember vividly that first night in the hospital when the cheerful aide delivered a dinner tray filled with food I couldn’t imagine Richard ever choosing: chicken-fried chicken buried under gravy, mashed instant potatoes and anemic canned peas; a plastic container of waxy fruit cocktail floating in sugar syrup, and another container of chocolate pudding whose ingredients, I would have bet anything, contained no actual nutritional value at all.
“I could go to the deli over on Colorado Avenue,” I said, “and bring you a real dinner.”
Richard thought for a moment. “No. I’m going to submit wholeheartedly to the treatment my doctors recommend, and that includes eating hospital meals.” He poked the slice of squishy white bread sealed in plastic next to the plate and added, “Except perhaps the bread.”
I'm five chapters in (out of 34) and feeling good about the work.
Then there's tooth #23, lower jaw, front. It's abscessed and can't be fixed by a root canal. Choice number two is orthodontia and some kind of cap. Last week I drove to Colorado Springs to talk to the orthodontist; next comes another consult with my dentist to determine the final plan. The cost and time commitment are both staggering. But it's got to be taken care of.
And it's spring: I've a new website sprouting, I'm working on Bless the Birds, and my restored mountain grassland yard is beginning to bloom.
As are the annuals I just planted for pollinators in the galvanized steel window boxes I designed for the faux window that decorates the street-side wall of my house.
It's spring, when as ee cummings wrote, "the world is puddle-wonderful"--or here in the puddle-deficient high-desert, the air is at least intermittantly showery and smells delicious, full of life waking up.
It's hard to be gloomy in this season of possibilities!