That Time of Year

Shmuel hissed at Richard when he entered the goose pen this morning which he thought was odd, it hadn’t happened in awhile. But when he stepped back to think for a moment, he had an inkling of what was going on and sure enough, about a half hour later, he looked out the kitchen window up the hill to the pen and Shmuel was humping Mary Ann while Felicity was in a “The sky is falling! The sky is falling!” screaming panic, circling with her wings up all around the pen. Don’t worry Felicity, you’ll get yours very soon. Probably later today. It’s that time of year. Goose eggs should be popping out in about 2 weeks.

I’m getting this update from far away since I’ve been in NYC since February 1st for a job seeking professional stay which should stretch to the beginning of March. Whenever I come here, I go through my own inner Ellis Island, feeling displaced from my homeland. Actually I’m an immigrant to Vermont as well, and I’ve felt a little bit like an immigrant or outsider wherever I’ve lived my whole life. I wasn’t able to get a good night’s sleep for 4 days running when I first got here and the fatigue fed my displacement. It greyed the way I was looking at everything – the city, my career, my life. Even nature felt off: 62 degree weather at the beginning of February, daffodils blossoming in Central Park, no one really that concerned about the climatic shift. (Of course, I’m not a mind reader, so who knows, they could have been screaming inside, like Felicity.) Through it all, though, Vermont has never been far away from my thoughts. I’d sit down to write, starting out with pithy titles like: “Vermont Removed” or “Vermont Once Removed” or “Vermont Ramble” but my wherewithal would wane, possibly due to an early bout of Spring fever, and I’d maroon these attempts into “draft” status. Here’s a bit from February 3rd:

I know there are signs of Vermont all around me. For instance, the evening I arrived, my host told me that Patricia Newray, a famous opera singer who won a Tony Award for playing Mother Abbess in the original "Sound of Music" on Broadway died at the age of 92 last week. After her singing days were over, she moved to Vermont to live with her husband, and not just Vermont, East Corinth, Vermont, which is 5 miles down the road from us! This Saturday MOMA is showing a 1963 documentary about Robert Frost with a lot of footage of him roaming his homestead shortly before his demise. The woman at the cash register where I got my herbal sleep tonic yesterday, very much an urban girl, smiled when I mentioned Vermont, said she'd lived near Cabot, VT for awhile. "It gets a bit separate there," she said. And later in the day I went to a matinee of "A Separation" - a fantastic Iranian film which hands down is the best film I've seen this year and I've seen some really good ones -- and the woman accompanying my host and me was in town visiting from Burlington. The state, the state of mind maybe, is reaching out to me, keeping itself stoked within, good and steady and warm, like our Jodul wood stove warming our kitchen.

Since writing the above Vermont has continued to insinuate itself. References to Vermont popped up in the pages of John Lithgow’s wonderful book “Drama.” There was an article on All Things Considered the moment I turned on the program the other night about High Mowing seeds, an organic seed company in Hardwick, VT, reporting that they’d had to raise the temperatures on their planting instructions because of climate shifts. I bumped into a young writer and his actor partner at a play, the young writer grew up near Lake Champlain. I noticed in the paper that Annie Baker, a wonderful playwright from Vermont, has a new adaptation of a Chekhov play about to begin rehearsal. And on and on.

I don’t know where all this is heading. Probably just getting back into action. Getting the sap running again. Checking in. Letting you know I’m still here. Letting ME know I’m still here, alive and well.

The other night I walked from W. 4th back up to where I’m staying at W. 88th. I’d just seen a spirit enlivening dress rehearsal of “The Illiad” and buoyed by the experience I launched out on the trek. I grabbed a quick falafel on St Mark’s Place for fuel. The walk was so fun. A still indigo night, clear and starlit, the perfect chill in the air. I used Broadway as my main thoroughfare. There was barely anyone out. I’ve been reading Pete Hamill’s terrific “Downtown – My Manhattan,” a loving history of New York and its main players – a chunk of whom had ties to Vermont, of course - and it felt as if he was alongside me pointing out various sites, whispering to pay attention, see, notice. I was so happy to feel buoyed and energized and grateful, effortlessly so, after having force fed myself gratitude and affirmations to buck up from the day I arrived. And as I walked I marveled on all the memories this great city has brought into my life, all the experiences, the people, the highs and lows, the lessons learned (I hope), the chance encounters (I look up to think about what I’m writing and notice one of the 2 women who just sat down at the table next to me a couple minutes ago is Angelica Huston.) I think I could have walked all the way to the Cloisters that night, I was on air. The next morning when I told my host of my walk the night before she told me “That comes out to about 4 miles” which is almost exactly the distance of my daily walk when I’m back, home down Fuller Road to North Road and back. A simple connection, but it’s what came up.

So things are all right. I’m walking around New York, writing, living large, and Shmuel’s humping his harem up in Vermont. And I feel connected to both. Not bad.

Have a great day.