This Hyphenated Life

My man surprised me today with an unexpected delivery via what used to just be called mail, but is now referred to as "snail mail."  I picked the package up from the front porch, weighing it and, not recognizing the return address, tearing off the outer envelope.  Inside were two little boxes containing my new, groundbreaking business cards, heavy stock and gorgeous, featuring my name and contact info, a flaming typewriter, and the lone potent word like a bold decree at the bottom: "WRITER." This was a first.

I have been working varied jobs since the age of 16, scooper of ice cream at Baskin Robbins, graveyard shift postal work at the Kansas Main Post Office, bookseller, fille au pair, science guinea pig, editor, gardener, dog walker, floral designer, free-lanceer at numerous newspapers and magazines, caterer, antiques vender, and of course, waitress, waitress, waitress. Anyone in an artistic pursuit will be familiar with this duality

: always chasing the paying jobs, while still trying to leave some time and energy for "one's art," be it dancing, acting, painting, clowning, acting, sculpting, etc. Income has a way of trumping creative endeavors every time,  so it is a constant juggling act to try and reserve enough bandwidth and passion to manage both.

I call this my hyphenated life. My business card might say "Floral Designer," but there is always the unspoken hyphen, the silent second half of the title, as in Floral designer/Writer, Personal Assistant/Writer, Waitress/Writer. But this silent second half of the equation will forever stir up a terrible moment of doubt in the one who fishes this card out of purse or pocket and hands it to the stranger who has asked "what do you do?"  The trepidation boils down to this: which one is the career, the serious life-long pursuit,  and which one the hobby?

I enjoy seeing commonalities between myself and others of my species, and have noticed that one of the first questions we ask one another when meeting for the first time is invariably: What do you do?  This may be a springboard for other topics, an icebreaker,  but in many ways, is may also be a stand-in for the real question, "Who are you?"

Many of my artist friends also have two sets of business cards. The one that says "realtor" or "contractor," and then the one they made years ago on a whim that never manages to make it into their wallet, the one that says their name and under it, their passion, be it carver, acrobat, sword swallower, or novelist. So does this mean the business card represents less of who you actually are, and instead speaks more to how you pay your rent? Or does it mean that artists have a hard time taking their art seriously enough to let it be the full-time job? Of course the ideal is that one's art is actually also one's source of income, and we all continue to hope that SOMEDAY this will be the case. But shoulder-to-shoulder with this dream, there is also the slightly deluded, romantic notion in my tribe that one should never "sell out," with that subtle disdain for the overly practical. There is a long tradition upholding the conviction that seeing to food, clothing, and shelter is in fact  the antithesis to excelling creatively.  We want the security, and at the same time, we resent the time it takes away from that other, equally, if not more, important part of ourselves.

I wish I had a big, frayed top hat filled with the best business cards I have seen over the years, for many of them belonged to artists. There was the stand up comedian whose card portrayed him as a hard-up Depression-era figure, wearing a barrel and suspenders, and beneath it the phrase: "No reason to live but doing it anyway." Or the casting director whose card was simply a depiction of a large red couch with her phone number on it. Or perhaps the most straightforward of all, the musician whose card showed a piano with the words "Wage Slave" spelled out on the keys. These are clever ways of edging closer to giving that silent second job top billing. So today, for me, was a landmark of sorts, as the cards in that box said only the one word: Writer, straight no chaser, no disclaimer, no qualifiers. A thrilling hear-me-roar moment of commitment.

My Recurring Bouts of Spring Fever

Despite California's current and terrible drought, a smattering (or perhaps well-timed, if meager?) amount of rain has tricked the countryside into a state of greenness that makes this hiker catch her breath in wonder.  Other symptoms include dreaminess, spaciness, random euphoria, heightened sensitivity, and a burning desire to learn bird calls. Coupled with the unseasonably warm weather we've had in February, I think I can officially diagnose my condition as Early Onset Spring Fever. Here is a piece I wrote for The San Francisco Chronicle a while back on this condition....

I often joke with friends from other locales that Sonoma has two seasons: wet and dry. This straightforward system makes for some dramatic changes in our landscape, as it transforms the brown hills and the brittle beige stalks of wildflowers gone to seed in the dry months to miles of dazzling green. Such a verdant panorama can bring on the palpitations, delirium and zeal that are the first signs of spring fever. Other symptoms may include a certainty that everyone is flirting with you, an irresistible urge to wear chartreuse and/or hot pink, and frequent sighing. Let us take our cue from that old Herb Newman song as we attempt to unravel the mysteries of spring fever on several levels: a) the birds, b) and the bees, c) and the flowers d) and the trees. We will conclude with: the moon up above and a thing called "love." 

The birds 

I will admit to being more than a little envious of the female bird. In no other species will the males go to such lengths to dazzle and woo the females, and never is this more apparent than in the spring. It's as if the Goddess of Color had one glass of mead too many and drenched every male bird in colors so magnificent that any winged female would be a fool not to fall for him. Blue feet get bluer. Rosy beaks get rosier. Cranes just wanna dance! Feathers go beyond flamboyant into plumage that truly takes the breath away. Gular sacs on frigate birds puff out like a Valentine's balloon, so the fellow is literally wearing his heart on his sleeve. And the bowerbird from Down Under goes beyond a great set of pipes or a flashy costume, wowing potential mates with his nest-building prowess. This bird pours his heart and soul into the construction of mounds, luring the females in for a "visit," by actually decorating the structures with pods and flowers or shiny bits of foil, even "painting" the walls of the interiors with chewed up berries or pigments. What's not to like? And don't even get me started on epaulets! Is there anything as fetching as the liquid trill of the redwing blackbird munching on some exploded cattail or another, trying to look nonchalant but puffing out his scarlet epaulets with all his might so they catch the light just so for any female onlookers? Would that we flight-challenged creatures could learn from them all! 

The bees 

When I hear a soft buzzing somewhere off in the distance in March in Northern California, a shift occurs. My whole body relaxes and I am reassured that spring has arrived. There is no mistaking the whirr of a working bee for the dreaded cacophony of a leaf blower (have we somehow forgotten the virtues of a rake?) so I begin to search for the source of the sound. There, nosing around in the first delicate plum blossoms or taking advantage of a calendula that has jumped the gun, is a bee, gathering pollen and getting the fertilization ball rolling despite a bit of chill still in the air. The bee, for me, is a far superior harbinger of warmer and longer days than some seen or unseen shadow of any old groundhog. Long live the bee. 

The flowers 

Nothing says spring like flowers, in particular: bulbs. Maybe it's because they are planted as remarkable oniony things in the darkening days of fall and lie in wait under sodden ground all those months. Or maybe it is because they are the first to bloom when all else is bare. Or, perhaps I revere them because they come back year after year and multiply all by themselves and are not fussy, high-maintenance citizens of the garden. But mainly, I love the spring bulbs because so many of them smell so good. To call the soil in the North Bay where I live clay-ish is like calling cement firm. But the bulbs, when the world is, as e.e. cummings rhapsodized, "mud luscious and puddle wonderful," valiantly manage to push their green shoots through every single year, come flood or frost. Seeing that first narcissus traditionally brings on the first symptoms of spring fever in me, the flushed cheeks, the disdain for woolens that were welcome only a few days earlier. 

As early as January in California, the narcissus begin poking their green shoots of promise through the muddy puddles, followed by hyacinths, then daffodils, then anemone, then freesia, then ranunculus and last but certainly not least, the tulips. There is something reassuring about the consistency of this parade. I love following their procession, one ushering in the next, the slugs laying waste to the predecessors. There is also this orderly procession in the realm of wildflowers. After the first few rains, the fields near me fill with wild radish. Next, painting all the rows of earth between the vineyards a dazzling yellow, comes the wild mustard (planted there, rumor has it, because the flower imparts nitrogen to the soil, which is good for the grapes.) My dogs love to dig up the peppery roots and chomp them down, and I always imagine myself on our walks as a type of confident Euell Gibbons, able to survive, if necessary, for days in the wilds of Sonoma by knowing which of all those greens and roots that sprout each spring are edible. Mark that as another symptom of spring fever: sudden urge to graze. 

Is it wrong to have a favorite flower? Shouldn't they be like children where you love them all equally? After all, they are frivolous things of beauty, there exclusively and purely to delight the senses, and there are so few such things left in this world. And yet, I must confess that lilac is the favored one. Nothing can send me reeling back in time to a specific moment and experience as instantly as certain smells. This holds true for many people, so when they lean down to inhale the perfume of the lilac, you can almost see the wheels turning in their heads as past scenes flood their memories: "Grandma's Sunday breakfasts, the white pitcher she put lilacs in, the fresh strawberries," or "the house I grew up in, playing hide-and-seek behind the tall purple hedges" or "putting one behind my ear the first time I kissed my husband." Lilac wins the Most Evocative Scent of Spring distinction every time. And since it is, technically, a bush, this leads us handily into: 

The trees 

Trees go into a hullabaloo of fancy dressing in springtime. Eucalyptus acorns don their pastel hula skirts. Manzanita put on their dangly, pearly pink earrings. Acacia trees, with their abundance of yellow puffballs, enjoy a friendly rivalry with mustard as both aim to color the landscape in yellows. And once magnolias start boasting creamy pink blossoms the size of loving cups and plum trees begin to burst into romantic showers of pink or white, well by then, one can catch spring fever by simply walking down any street. 

Meanwhile, in the woods, chestnut and buckeye trees present their upright green buds like sleepwalkers holding candles as they move through the night. The word "bud" is usually accompanied by the adjective "tender" and therein lies the hopefulness of spring. Seeing all those tender buds on peach, plum and cherry, I can almost taste the fruits that will soon hang on every branch. 

The moon up above 

Moonlight exacerbates the condition of spring fever and makes poets of us all. There is some misinformation circulating that spring fever afflicts only those who can be considered romantics, but in truth, no one is immune to moonlight. Once the mockingbirds return and start inspiring awe at dusk, with their staggering repertoire, and all the white flowers, (you know who you are, jasmine) which smell stronger at night because, it is said, they need to be pollinated by moths, once they go into olfactory overdrive under the light of the moon, there is no use resisting. Even the logical and practical among us are lured by the moon, answering a sudden call to sit outdoors at cafes, wearing jackets if need be, if only to bask in its glow. Howling is optional. 

A thing called "love" 

Interesting that Newman chose to put the word "love" in quotes when writing his song, as if it is some fictional thing. Love, however elusive and enigmatic, is a huge part of spring fever, to the degree that Tennyson declared: "In the spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love." After all, falling in love and spring fever share similar symptoms: inability to concentrate, sweaty palms, palpitations, irrational behavior. Is it my imagination or is every couple walking down the street holding hands, sweaty or not? If spring is all about lushness and rebirth, and the birds are flying around with nesting materials clutched dearly in their small talons, and the outdoors is so buzzy and pollen-filled that I feel woozy just inhaling and exhaling, then am I not already a goner? Every spring, I get to experience that falling-in-love feeling all over again. 

In fact, by the time you read this, many of you, too, will be showing the early symptoms of spring fever, as it is almost epidemic this time of year. No sick days are allotted at the office for the condition, no downtime granted to take off the shoes and wiggle one's toes in the new grass. There are no inoculations against it though it is highly contagious. Yet spring fever is the one condition most of us are more than ready to catch. 

New Year, New Poem, New Newts

Winter Estate

By Jill Koenigsdorf

The mist was a tease today when

what was needed, was rain.

Is it the same as passing through

a cloud?

The newts here

wriggle onto their backs

displaying yellow bellies,

playful & twisty,

before lumbering, dinosaur-like,

off the path,

& the Poison Oak, devoid of its greasy, warning

leaves,

more deadly, here, just bare sticks.

Fog makes everything more mysterious, therefore more

beautiful-

the slack phone wires vanishing, becoming

trapeze lines into infinity, or else

the wires of a swinging bridge over

some fern-choked chasm miles below, maybe in

a tropical locale.

The woods grew darker, became an estate, 

a mansion of rooms needing exploration,

My friend Marian lived in a mansion.

There was a dumbwaiter that fascinated us, 

a travelling box that would deliver

toys to the foyer closet,  soiled clothing to

the basement, &

her mother’s many empty highball glasses bleeding

their own, melted ice

to the kitchen.

We sent each other things,

from floor to floor,

toast, wildflowers, the family cat,

using the dumbwaiter. We wanted to climb

aboard, shape shift, travel

inside the walls, be

in a place no one else had seen,

but were already too big.

This mansion was her home, 

lonely and strange, a place

of experiments-

of no father-

of secret nooks and crannies-

like the forest today.

I do not feel too big for this place, 

my skills proportionate

to what light remains.

The booming of a Great Horned Owl 

to his mate resounds and thrills,

amplifies 

in my chest.

When she calls back to him,

it is like a great gust of wind-

making the shaggy locks of

Spanish Moss tremble,

the branches they hang from

all but invisible.

New Poem & Year's End Musings

Is the California drought over? Judging from the greening of the hills, the hopeful sight of bulbs poking through the soil, and reports that this last bout of storms brought nine inches of rain in 24 hours (!) I would venture that this has certainly made a dent in the harrowing lack of water in our state. It feels like a true Northern California Winter's day here today, a week from Solstice, the soupy grey light a sharp contrast to the dazzling green fields, the crystalline beads of water clinging to the tips of every branch and leaf and bough, . We have not had a hard freeze here in The North Bay yet, so some soggy flowers persevere. A good writing day, short on light, big on quietude. It is a glad sight and makes it truly feel like the holidays, the end of a very full and varied year.....that and my annual Wreath-making pre-mega-storm yesterday. Wishing everyone a Yule season with much to appreciate, brightness, and a healthy, joyous 2015. I am never sure who actually reads these blogs, but every writer is told to "amp up the social media," so I contribute to this page from time to time. Often, with poetry, as in the following I wrote just now:

Fern Lake

Witnessing Fern Lake 

recede 

these many dry months has hurt

my eyes.

I watched 

on each outing as

it went from 

healthy oasis, antidote to

the brown hills-

The electric cackle of a Kingfisher

as it zeroed in on a fish, dives-

& amorous duets of Mallards as they sleekly parted

its surface,

the “V’s” of their wakes forming

a second set of wings,

to a mere puddle as if someone

had pulled a plug, leaving 

gaunt Egrets and angular Herons to stab

at the muddy banks

in vain.

Now it is two weeks before Yule & 

the rains, at last, are back.

From my perch/my porch

the persimmons become ornaments

glossy orange 

against the wet, black, bark.

The birds here, closer

to Home

are giddy, shivering

with delight

in new pools.

And the pomegranates 

split wide, their

gory jewels exposed

Gape at the

drenched reveling

open-jawed,

another glistening

offering.

Fellowship In The Land of Enchantment

Since October 8th, 2014 I have had the great good fortune to be a fellow at The Women's International Studies Center in Santa Fe New Mexico, my former home and a most beloved environment. October is such a special time here, when the Aspens are shimmering gold in the moutons and the farmers market smells like roasting chilies, and pumpkins make you happy just by their shapse and colors, stacked everywhere on bales of hay.  I cannot believe I have to return to quotidian life in one week. My quotidian life in The Bay Area is not a bad one by any stretch, but this respite has given me that great gift of time and focus. I can honestly say that I have never been so productive with my work as I have at this Fellowship. There is something about an organization believing in you, taking your ideas seriously and showing it by saying: here is a beautiful room in a beautiful little adobe on a beautiful street in a beautiful city, now off you go, WRITE! Not having to be a wage earner or even walk the dogs for four weeks, I have been able to immerse myself in my second book.  I wake up at 7:30 each day, wolf down some brekkie, make two tall glasses of Earl Grey tea with honey, carry them into my room, shut the door, after saying good morning to wonderful fellow Fellow from Turkey, Ozlem, across the hall, sit down at my desk, look out the window at "my" dirt road and "my" faded blue truck, (which I have grown extremely attached to,) unplug the WiFi and write until 1:30 or 2. As Hunter S. Thompson once said, Kill the body and the head will die, and here I am also reminded of the classic film Night of the Living Dead in which the opposite order of that line was mentioned.  So with that sage advice, I head for the trails every afternoon, breathing in the cedar perfumed air to move the neglected limbs. My suitcase will weigh twice what it did when I left since I seem unable to hike for any amount of time without picking up one or two of the dazzling rocks I find, flashing their mica or quartz in the sunlight. If anyone saw my windowsill, they would guess me to be a geologist.

New Mexico has always spoken to me since I attended three years of summer camp up in the Northern part of the state, in Ute Park at Camp Cimarroncita, where the days were filled with archery, horse riding, songs, pottery, swimming, hiking and jewelry making, (and the nights were filled with huddling around our adored hippie counselor Susan's pilfered copy of Everything You've Always Wanted To Know About Sex But Were Afraid To Ask.)

Enacting the requisite Mid-Life Shake-Up, I like that term more than crisis, I actually moved to the state after turning fifty, not knowing anyone but my boyfriend and not having a job.  It was bold and exhilarating and atypical for practical me, and I have such fond memories of setting up house, exploring the state by doing a different road trip every week: to see the cranes migrate at The Bosque del Apace south of Albuquerque, the hike the white marble canyons of O'Keefe's Ghost Ranch, to talk with farmers and buy chili ristras on the High Road to Taos, to participate in the Day of the Dead cemetery walk in Old Mesilla, to dodge thunder and hail storms in The Galesteo Basin with the dogs, to fall asleep to the sounds of coyotes yipping and howling in Eldorada, to shell the peas I grew (under a screen to protect them from rabbits and ravens) at an old table on the back porch as the sun set over the Sangre de Cristo mountains.

I have always resonated with the desert's singular charms. Its vastness and that undiluted light make some feel an odd mix of too minuscule and overly exposed. But for this writer, it's a gift that puts everything into perspective, and invites exploration, both within, and outside, amongst its challenging, varied, bracing, limitless terrain.

Musings From The Back Porch….

My back porch is the power spot, or as they say in Sedona, the "vortex," of my property. It is there, sipping a bowl of tea with milk and honey, binoculars within reach, that I do some of my best thinking and get many ideas for stories. I am out there in all seasons, hence have tried to make the surroundings a magnet, a haven for bird and beast. My panorama includes a fence that badly needs repair, sagging under the weight of dense and randomly intertwined Trumpetvine, Honeysuckle, and Jasmine. A bluebird box with three hatchlings peeping to be fed is next door to a Bat Box that I am hoping will draw some takers this year. Hollyhock, started from the seeds I brought back from Santa Fe, grows extraordinarily tall in its more cushy, non-desert home. Volunteer sunflowers are sprouting up hither and thither bellow the bird feeders, and Goldfinches, impatient for the heads to turn to seed, simply begin munching on their leaves.

Today, on the back porch, I was appreciating how lucky I am to be a part of the tribe of Artists, to have felt that kinship with poets, dancers, painters, novelists, musicians, the whole bohemian parade, since childhood,  that need to tell a story, to write it all down, to express. It is often lonely business full of self-doubt, this work, and just to know there is a community out there struggling in the same way is a balm. Call me elitist, but I do not think everyone and his or her Aunt Sally "has a book in them." I do not think my friend's twelve year old son or daughter "does paintings that are just as good as Picasso

." I still believe artists are special, that one does not suddenly just "decide" to be one.  How much of the end product is the result of discipline and application and how much just innate talent is an ongoing debate, as is the odd equation of success. But I believe it boils down to: NOT doing it, not creating/expressing/dancing/playing/carving/welding/painting/acting is simply not an option.

I was thinking about which of the five senses the artist in each given field needs to hone. Some are obvious: the Musician: hearing. Painter: sight. Or maybe not. I think the interesting work takes place where the senses overlap. The writer needs a hefty does of empathy. Perhaps empathy should be the sixth sense: being able to imagine what a totally fictionalized character would eat/wear/feel.  How he or she would speak. What their bedroom would look like. What secrets they hold. It is ironic that writing is such a solitary pursuit, when people-watching and eavesdropping are such helpful components to the task. I empathize to a ridiculous degree, helpful in the literary world, but what may be seen in modern parlance as "boundary issues." I have to turn away from newspaper articles that show atrocities, be they  starving children, mutilated elephants, animals in a factory farms. The anguish lodges in my brain and heart for too long and I have a hard time shaking it.

But the up side of empathy takes place on the back porch. If I eat a melon, I make sure to step outside and scoop the seeds onto the ground. I take much delight in watching a towhee hop up to those strange and delicious seeds and taste one for the first time. Maybe a little part of me becomes that small bird, for  just an instant, experiencing something as wonderful as a new flavor. Maybe it is as Picasso himself once said:
"Everything you can imagine, is real."

Another new poem

First Summer

-For K

I am a happy insomniac-

serenaded from midnight til dawn by

a lovesick Mockingbird.

In the light of day,

too softhearted even for the

flyswatter,

I access it all from my porch-

The way the tiny Goldfinches splash 

in a pan of water-

 feed each other

thistle seeds.

& I am reminded 

of you, the way you

care.

I could make a fine summer list-

Apricots?

Your complexion.

Ten feet tall Hollyhocks?

Your stature.

Then there is the way the breeze sets them

ticking-

floral metronomes

blessedly soundless so that Time

can remain an abstract, something

on the periphery.

The plums too could snap me back

into a world of hours, days.

The plums ripen all at once,

the ones beyond our reach 

plonk

to the ground, untended.

But the harvested ones,

jam now,

an open jar of it at your own table 

& I picture

licking it from your upper lip.

My yard is full of chase &

indolence.

Darting scarlet-necked Hummingbirds speeding past

floating Yellowtails hovering above a blossom-

Any movement more like a tremble.

The two kinds of sweat:

cold on my glass of iced tea,

then the other-

at your temples,

the nape of my neck.

Inside, a pint of cherry ice cream

puddles on the counter

forgotten, but not

the cherry stem

you tied into a knot

with your tongue.

Green leaves sag in the afternoon heat, the figs

pendulous & warm.

I pluck two from the tree, bring them to you

in the hammock.

It is there I feel 

I cannot contain it all-

Not just the way we look

into the blues & greens of

each others eyes,

but more than that,

The way we really see.