Meredith

R was off to pick up the kids in Traverse City today and then head up to Petoskey for the family event. I worked around the house, mostly dealing with matters in the yard. I trimmed grasses, sawed off dead branches, weeded, cleared some overgrowth, and sprayed something to deal with the nutsedge, which seems to be taking over everywhere.

I headed down to the Lake Michigan beach at about 5 o'clock. I did my usual hour-long round trip walk to Baldy. The beach, as usual, was empty. The water was warm, so I swam.

I spoke separately with G and N. Going and coming, inversions in connections.

B says E is in Leland and wanting to connect with her. I'm concerned about B's news. I don't expect that this will be easy for her, will go well for her.

Dinner tonight will probably be a Caesar salad. I'll read, slogging through a highly praised novel that I realized almost immediately that I did not want to read it, should not have bought it.

Although the sky is clear and the sun is bright and the day is warming, it sounds as if it's still raining as the breeze shakes big drops from last night's storm off the leaves of trees at the edge of the ravine and from the plants around the porch.

The solitude I've enjoyed for the past couple of weeks is now suspended with the arrival of a guest who will be here for a couple days. Although I'm happy to have company, I feel anxious. I've developed a pattern of thought and action while alone in previous weeks, including these observations and reflections, and fear I'll lose momentum toward personal insights that I seem to achieve only in solo-ness. I don't expect this week to be one of collaborative thought, mutual inspiration or other expanded benefit. Instead it will most probably consist of the overlay of one's thing on the other's, affecting the capacity and quality of each of us.

I sometimes make lists of all the things that interest me in my reading at the beginning of the day or take my attention through the day. These are brief notes, keywords, associations, and the like that I assume will move into a more complete journal entry, yet rarely do.

I woke with a sense of reinvigoration, today, the renewal of energy. Over the past couple of days, my energy had been low, getting little nourishment and little pleasure from an all-liquid diet, prepping for the EGD procedure. A strong feeling of undifferentiated optimism seems to have arrived, as well.

It's a lazy, hazy morning, the yellowy disc of the sun diluted and magnified in the thin white air.

The big rumble of the downshifting diesel rig moving farm equipment down the road fades into the lament of the morning dove in the new silence. Later, the distant storm over the lake resonates in a vibration in the land more than a sound in the air.

I've spent most of the morning with a box of Kleenex at hand. I haven't experienced the boredom of allergies since I was a kid but, for some reason, over the past couple of days I've been sniffling nonstop. It's OK, but I resent the energy that it takes.

Today's rainy forecast provides an excuse for doing little on a day that doesn't need one.

I'm not sure why, but I like doing tasks here that I'd otherwise resist at home.

I've been spending most of my Summer in this modest space, this little outdoor room.

The table is at the front window of this humble, now restored house. I built this simple porch in front of it. Off to the right is the little lake, and beyond the orchard, there, is the great lake. The forested ravines are behind me. Off to the left, across the road, are orchards, corn and cows. Just to the left is a row of cedars. Sitting here, I am barely visible to any of the rare passers-by. Here, I revel in the privacy. I read, I write, I listen to the farm machines, I listen to songbirds, I meditate and I exercise.

The rising sun hits this space first, so it's the first space I hit in the cool of the morning to warm facing into the light with a hot cup of coffee and boiling news on the phone. Mid-day, it's a cool, shaded respite from heat and work, a channel for breezes, a spot for a simple lunch and then a nap. I use the deck for a mattress and a short chunk of 4x4 leftover from my work for a pillow. I've now just finished dinner here, a meal more satisfying than the police procedural I also just finished, a type of beach read I always think I might be okay to surrender to in the Summer but never find good enough to relieve me of the guilt or resentment for wasted time.

Over the past couple of years, this has also become a rich and rewarding community space. I've been very happy to host pre-dinner cocktails with long-time friends staying at the nearby resort, and other friends who've found large properties here, similarly dedicated to rural preservation.

I've been very pleased that this little table – a folding card table brought out in the Spring and elevated with a tablecloth, a bowl to hold it down in the winds, and sometimes a small vase of field flowers – is a place also of connection, deliberation, and resolution. The farmer with most of the big apple orchards sat here and, over a beer, told me surprising stories of his life and this place and offered mediation in a conflict. The cattleman across the road sat here a couple of times over the past couple of weeks and, as we compared land apps, looked over satellite images, and reviewed surveys, told me of stories of land, cows and crops, and the intimacies of my neighbors. The guy who mows my fields sits here, well, no, stands here and tells me stories that help me understand history, and family, and business here.

I didn't have to leave to go to Traverse City for my procedure until after noon, today. There was plenty of time to get some things done, yet, uncharacteristically, I lolled in bed til after nine and then sputtered through the morning doing some scattered reading, some nominal tasks, and preparing an overnight kit. When I left the house, locking up, I felt as if I was going to be gone for a while.

I had a nice discussion with John about the pleasures of retirement while sitting at his kitchen table killing time before it was time to leave for the surgery center.

Is this a thing to do?

A very light and thin cloud cover makes this a softly sunny morning.

Looking out the kitchen window into the side yard shaded in the early morning I see that singular clinging dew drop, a gem in the grass.

In this place, in this open agricultural landscape surrounding this lake, sound moves effortlessly through the air. I can find the presence of others and mark the cadences of the community day in the sounds that I hear. The FedEx truck in the morning. The garbage trucks on Monday. The farmer's truck mid-day. Amazon and UPS in the afternoon The dogs at night. Then there are morning songbirds birds, the afternoon busy birds, the evening crowd of crows. The hummingbirds. The bees. At other times, the loggers over the hill.

I deeply appreciate and enjoy my solitude here. There are, however, times when I wish I could conjure the presence of another. For a while.

I’m heading up to Herring House tomorrow. This will be the first time there this year. Since this little cabin, a kind of paradise for me, is very simple and without heat, I have to shut it down each Winter. This trip up, to Arcadia, Michigan, will be a preliminary visit, to check on conditions, arrange for the plumber and others, and generally shift my seasonal lifestyle.

I wake every morning here, overlooking the house next door.

I rise and move through the house to the kitchen. Still in darkness, I look over the back yard of the house next door, illuminated by the light over its back porch. There is never anyone there and rarely any sense of anybody in the house. The driveway that separates us is typical, leading to a garage that I've seen, when the door is open, overloaded with lots of the stuff of life – boxes, kids stuff, yard stuff – and nothing of the car. The house is big, in a neighborhood of very nice big houses clustered too close together to have big yards. This one has an odd assortment of features, wicker furniture too big for the space, a pyramidal outdoor gas heater, a randomly placed Buddha, stones articulating a path to nowhere. I never see the people there despite evidence of the presence of at least one infant. I never witness arrival or departure, never any movement up or down the drive.

There are no curtains or blinds on my kitchen window so, when I flip on the light, I immediately imagine the complementary and opposite view, what they may see now that this place is illuminated. I, unshaven and with bed head and in the wrinkled tee I slept in, pull yesterday's filtered coffee out of the machine and dump the grounds. I then count out the five measures of fresh grounds for the new pot and move into the dining room, along the same edge of the house, to wait for the brew. I sit at this computer and write stuff like this with my back to the window, the yard, and the people below.

Well, fine. Here it is, the new year.

At Hill Terrace House on a cloudy, moist and mostly cool day.

"The kids" came over for breakfast this morning. Charlotte, a total charmer at the NYE party last night was a total delight this morning, too. We then headed to a nearby park along Lake Michigan to play with her. These are joyous days for me, a pleasure I'd never expected nor anticipated.

I've been here in Chicago for about three weeks now, and will be back in another three weeks after a short stint checking back in at home base. I'm anxious to get back there, certainly for the pleasure of independence, solitude and focus but mostly to satisfy my anticipation for a shift in life and lifestyle. Over the past couple of years, there have been major events that should have provided that flex but I could never successfully capitalize on the opportunities brought by those external influences because the internal patterns, contexts and conditions never aligned. I'm hopeful that now may be the time.

I thought I might once again get into a more personal form of "blogging." I'm not sure why, however. Perhaps the sense that I'm writing to or for some other is a way to motivate a discipline of and for writing, in general, and a way of moving to more considered and critical thinking, otherwise. This is transitional thinking, not a New Year resolution, but good that my intended commitment aligns with other recent events (retirement, grandfatherness) taking place at this time over the past couple of years.

I don't have music in my life. I think it ended many years ago when work demanded too much attention for its comprehension and production, and I never really liked the distraction of music in the house (perhaps because of the carryover of work without boundaries). I do, however, appreciate the references that appear in certain writings. I enjoy a periodic dip into the Flow newsletter and its recommendations, consistently aligned with my taste and moods. I periodically imagine I'm missing something but, apparently, not enough to move me to pull other's sounds into presence.

I am making a presentation in a large board room or small auditorium. There are several distinct subjects to cover and I present each of them with satisfaction for both the audience and myself. I am aware that I am presenting material that is not mine and the presentations have been designed by others. Although I am seeing the material in the presentation for the first time as I speak, I speak with confidence and authority. There is a point, however, about the eighth presentation in, when someone challenges my authority in the subject and, in my emerging anxiety, the dream ends.

The knife attack is a recurring dream. I was walking through a mostly abandoned urban street lined with institutional buildings, like courts, clad in a white limestone. It's a clear and sunny day but I am unaware of temperature. Up ahead are two guys, the only people on the street. One is closer to me and one further in the distance. The closer one is standing at the curb, apparently busy texting or reading on his phone. The one in the distance is merely a silhouette, leaning against the side of a building, a few steps up from the street. As I expect, as soon as I pass the near guy who has been faking his preoccupation with his phone, he folds in behind me. The one in the distance, previously disconnected, now steps down from where he stood leaning against the wall. The two close in on me. I don't recall that any words are spoken. One of them stabs me.