July 10: A writer needs a pen — or a keyboard, or a 1940s vintage typewriter, or a mechanical pencil. Jeremiah is writer, and he has all four of those things. He also has New York City rent, a small teaching stipend and no budget for luxuries. Even so, while doing a bit of Back to School shopping today, Jeremiah and I wandered into a Mont Blanc store.
Although Jeremiah politely explained that we are not actually able to purchase a $1,600 gold-plated fountain pen, the charming sales associate nevertheless presented a few gorgeous pens to Jeremiah for his admiration. Seeing the sales associate’s white glove, Jeremiah asked if we, too, needed to wear gloves. (No.) The associate then turned a writing pad toward us and invited us to try a suite of Mont Blanc pens.
Oh my, oh my. With exquisite balance and heft, the fountain pen produced from my hand a smooth, clear, blot-free line. A million dollar check? I’ll sign it with this Gustav Klimt pen. (Actually, we didn’t get to touch that $4,500 beauty.)
The best part of our dizzying visit, though, was our conversation with the sales associate. Herself the mother of a young adult, she asked Jeremiah about his writing. She congratulated his teaching appointment and she inquired about his publishing intentions. (I haven’t dared to ask that!) And then she urged him to share his work, even anonymously. Someone out there, she said, is waiting to read it and to that person, it will make a difference.
July 11: A joke in our household is this: Jeremiah’s partner Honora entered the vet’s office last September with six legs, expecting to exit with five. Instead, she left with ten.
The answer to this riddle? Honora (two legs) carried her cat Parpignol (four legs) into the vet’s office for the amputation of his front left leg, which he sizzled in the engine of a neighbor’s Mustang. Departing, Honora possessed her own two legs, Parpignol’s three undamaged legs, the amputated limb and a tiny abandoned kitten Honora rescued during Parpignol’s surgery.
The kitten eventually found a home in North Carolina and the amputated limb found a home in Honora’s freezer. The latter outcome, however, was not sustainable. Last night, in a ceremony attended by Parpignol’s godparents, grandparents and aunt, Honora and Jeremiah buried the amputated limb. Songs were sung, tributes shared, and grave goods deposited in the hole in Honora’s backyard. Joining the frozen limb was a painted gingerbread one, which had resided since December in our freezer.
Parpignol, meanwhile, gamboled about at home, happily oblivious to the fact that most cats have four legs. Under those happy circumstances, no one suggested singing any thing from Legs Miserables.
July 12: I scored the second-to-last vacancy for a “Sound Bath” offered this evening at my exercise studio. My allergies and garden-sore back were excited to snuggle with pillow, blanket, dim lighting and resonance from many sounding bowls.
This is a form of meditation, the practitioner counseled us. Acknowledge your thoughts, acknowledge your feelings, then return to the sound, she said. “If you feel sleep coming, yield to it!” she exhorted.
This would be my first Sound Bath, and I figured my Delight for this day would write itself.
Well, not exactly. The shushing of the “ocean disk” stimulated relentless waves of thought and the whale-like tones of some of the bowls kind of spooked me. I loved the occasional deep gongs and the tinkling bells, but mostly I longed for noise-canceling headphones.
I guess one nice outcome from trying new things is appreciating old pleasures. I think I’ll go to bed early tonight, with the sounds and snuggles I already love.
Postscript: I wonder whether our physiological or neurological makeup affects our receptivity to Sound Baths. Over the past few days, I’ve chatted with other sound bathers. Some echoed my experience; for others, the experience was immensely restorative. Aren’t we fearfully and wonderfully made?
July 13: Speaking of old pleasures, one of my favorites is spending an afternoon at Spa World. Adapted from traditional Korean wellness practices, the center near me features a hydrotherapy massage Bade Pool, poultice rooms and the best bibimbap in Northern Virginia. So today I settled my chopsticks into my sizzling stone lunch bowl, my garden-sore back onto the tiny heated beads of the red clay ball room, and my book onto my lap. I allowed the jets — so many jets! — of the Bade Pool to massage every weary muscle.
My only needful effort was wrenching myself away.
July 15: A week ago, I was joined at a baseball game by a young college student, Michael, whom I’d gotten to know at Nationals Park. An absolute sweetheart, we met last summer after Michael snagged a rare foul ball landing near my upper deck seat. Settling himself after the ensuing excitement, Michael needed help updating his scorecard. Spying me scribbling away in my own scorecard, he came over. We became baseball buddies, bumped into each again, and finally made a date to go to a game together.
This past Saturday, to my delight and surprise, I saw Michael towering over the crowd awaiting my Smithsonian American Art Museum tour. After walking from one side of Washington DC to the other (literally), he decided to escape the heat with art. (Everyone knows that museum marble is good for sore feet. Ha!)
Although I already had an energetic, engaged group, Michael’s contributions both filled momentary silences and infused me with confidence. It was such a pleasure to share with him one of my non-baseball passions. He even asked for my cemetery tour schedule.
I don’t expect — or need — Michael to come out to Virginia for a cemetery tour. Sometimes, the biggest kindness is just expressing a sincere interest in another person’s enthusiasms.
Bonus: I learned only belatedly that Michael enjoys some of Norman Rockwell’s work; therefore, I couldn’t show him the Rockwell hanging (for one more day) in SAAM’s Grandma Moses exhibition. So, Michael, this one’s for you.
July 16: You may recall from my June 30 Delight that I bought a hat. Here’s a photo of me at Oakwood Cemetery before one of my tours, having treated my “authentic self to the most fetching straw hat [I could] find.” After the tour, I treated my (very sweaty) authentic self to a pitcher of beer with Kevin!
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Fashioned For Joy 