On our lunch break yesterday, as we often do, my husband and I cozied into chairs at Barnes & Noble and with hot beverages in hand, each of us picked a book or two from the shelves to peruse until it was time to head back to the office. While Bill’s interest tended toward learning the intricacies of the new Canon 70D we recently gifted to ourselves, I decided on something a little more domestic.

Because we are (still) committed to finishing our basement, I scanned the shelves in the Home section for inspiration. While there was plenty to choose from – books devoted to the design process, remodeling how-to’s (more Bill’s bailiwick than mine), decorating and feng shui – I was instead drawn to a beautifully illustrated volume entitled Back to the Cabin by Dale Mulfinger. Filled with stunning photographs and stirring prose descriptive of a wide variety of woodland and lakeside retreats, this beautiful book immediately (but gently) pushed me into daydream mode – and I went willingly along for the ride.

Secluded getaways, far removed from the daily grind and go, go, GO mentality that drains us of our souls, these cabin structures and their environs, offered the reader (me!) images of an enticing shelter – a cocoon to envelop and warm and hug us into complacency. Imagine yourself, on a bright and sunny morning, stepping out the front door of your calming fortress (whatever its form) and taking in a lake, stream or mountain view (or even perhaps something not quite so dramatic but no less soothing such as rolling fields of corn or wheat) and experiencing the satisfying reality that such is your existence, with only the weather and your own whims and preferences to dictate how you wish to spend your time each day.

How is it that life as we know it, life as we pursue it, does not take this essential need for beauty and calm and peace (serenity now!) into account? Why must we be constantly bombarded with the bump and grind, the rush and mania of our everyday dealings, a lifestyle much more accelerated and fast-paced than when I was growing up or even just twenty or thirty years ago? Much of it what we are subjected to today we do to ourselves: Facebook, Twitter, 24×7 cable TV and all manner of social media. This is our hurry up, gotta have it, gotta do this, gotta do that, gotta know what’s going on and gotta have it NOW culture.

It’s hard to imagine just chucking it all and spending the rest of our lives in a small cabin in the woods (or is it?) because for one thing, we need to work, we need money to live on, to buy clothes and food and medical care and to plan for retirement. I did mention that I was daydreaming, though, did I not? A Walden Pond type of existence certainly beckons though at times, to get away from it all, to simplify and live our lives examining joy and beauty and nature, relishing quiet and solitude, having time to really just think and enjoy the stillness and wonder of not constantly moving.

A girl can dream, can’t she?


Just like the aftermath of a New York City ticker parade, these locust leaves provide a vibrant ground cover beneath the arc of this sweeping handrail. I reckon this is as good a metaphor as any to celebrate this, my 100th post on A Sawyer’s Daughter.

Thanks to all who’ve stood on the curb cheering me on!

Temperature: 36 degrees. The wind, a brisk northwesterly blow at 16 mph. It’s 6:00 AM and I’ve been awake since about three. Fortunately, I had set out my sweats, underwear, socks and shoes the night before so I wouldn’t wake my husband if I decided to step out for an early morning walk. Fully dressed, I don a light-weight jacket, cap, scarf, gloves and adjust my favorite rhinestone-studded bling earmuffs so they fit snug against my ears.

The pre-dawn sky is a deep, almost turquoise blue which I find odd for this time of day, this time of year. A few stars and the always fascinating moon, half-full peering through the darkness helps to light my way as I begin my morning prowl. I don’t get too far before I first hear and then see a trio of the younger gals from down the street out for their run. The air bites, only just a little, and it feels refreshing. Still though it’s cold so I quicken my pace. Seems I have two modes when I walk: plodding and striding. Today, I’m definitely striding and it feels good.

I’m around the ‘loop’ and more into the open now and the wind, it’s strong. A tiny voice whines: Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. But I push it aside and think how satisfying it will feel to persevere and DO this thing. I love walking in the early morning like this although I don’t do it as often as I’d like. The quiet, the solitude, the stillness. Knowing that once I’m done I’ve gotten my exercise out of the way for the day. It’s a great time to just think or better yet, just to BE. No computers, no phones, no To Do list to check off. Just me. That’s not to say I wouldn’t love for Bill to join me (and every so often he will) but alone time, ME time – well, I think everyone needs and is entitled to that.

The fresh air clears my head. The cold makes a body feel so alive! You have no choice but to react to the elements, accelerating forward in order to keep warm and moving one step closer to your destination. Kind of like life, eh?

I think it’s going to be a good day.



To write ~

Start with an idea, ponder it awhile, flesh it out and approach it from different angles and perspectives. Try it on for size; you’ll know when it fits. Next (or more appropriately, throughout) add passion to the mix, modulated by the voice only you possess, the one that announces to all that this is who and what you are. Sift it, shake it up, sit on it awhile, revisit as needed. When it feels right (write?), begin.

If it has momentum, the task is a pleasant, satisfying chore. The words and thoughts and essence of your message will fly from your fingertips, the keyboard barely able to keep up. Success does not necessarily follow but if it is a joy and genuinely represents your soul, your very core, then that is its own reward.

Should, however, the completed effort require more than you were quickly and easily able to give but you stretched beyond what you thought you knew to be your limits, very likely then, the warm glow of achievement, of a job well done will honor what was extracted.

This, I believe, is why we write.

IMG_0372 I don’t want to creep anybody out but I snapped this sitting in one of the stalls in the women’s restroom while my husband and I were touring the campus of our alma mater on Game Day last weekend.

It made me smile.

Ah, life is good.

Beautiful fall weather, that incredible light late in the day, reconnecting with family and friends, reading the Sunday paper in the morning with a yummy cup of Starbucks cheer (husband sitting across the table from me, unaware that I occasionally steal a glance his way, thinking to myself ‘God, he’s handsome’), the satisfaction of lazing away the afternoon – never mind that there are chores that need done, snatching glimpses of football games in progress (with Bill ever vigilantly monitoring the status of our Fantasy Football teams) and a belly not-too-uncomfortably full from a late lunch at our favorite Mexican restaurant where the owners know our order and quite frequently deliver it to our table, unbidden, with nary a word passing between us and the waiter.

While Monday morning and a full week’s work looms just over the horizon, for now, we are content. Still madly in love, happily enshrouded in our own little ‘La-La Land’, ours is a marriage that continues to work, to soar, to flourish, to thrive. Life is good and I’m over the moon to be spending it with this thoughtful, wonderful man, my partner, my husband, my friend. Yes, life is good.

Hopefully this isn’t a harbinger of things to come, not just yet anyway since we all know there is no way to ultimately prevent it, but death has been on my mind lately.

No, no. Not to worry. I’m not depressed or anything like that but two things this past week got me to thinking about dying and death, leading me to wonder what the fear is like when you know that the end – your end, your demise – is imminent, likely, certain – and knowing that you are helpless to prevent it. On a somewhat different plane, I have recently questioned too, what it is that goes through a person’s mind in a situation, where it is, sadly, what one seeks by one’s own hand, to bring about one’s own death.

First, the latter.

Amidst the beauty of the Rocky Mountains last week, as my husband and I were finishing a long hike, we encountered two park rangers and red tape strung between two trees to prevent us from taking that section of the trail. We were told there had been an accident at the falls. They wouldn’t provide us with any details but we later learned that someone had died there, presumably from having fallen off the steep cliffs towering over the river below. A friend who lives in Colorado told me a few days later that it had been a suicide, a 33-year-old male.

No one can ever know what another person’s motivation is whether it’s in regard to their career choices, their deeds (good or bad), their relationship choices (again, good or bad) and certainly not in regard to the state of such desperation as to drive them to end their own life. But it’s always tragic because whatever is currently causing so much hurt and so much pain may not always be so. I’m always a little annoyed when people claim that God ‘never gives us more than we can handle’. I beg to differ. I think not everyone is equipped to deal with the hardships foisted upon their lives whether due to nature or nurture (or more likely lack thereof) or caused by some evil act or simply as the result of the randomness of the universe. To proclaim such a thing, then, I think is to imply a weakness or a failing of the individual which I liken to adding insult to injury. Some things just ARE more than some people can – or should be able to – handle. It’s easy to come up with examples of individuals who have beaten the odds and won out over adversity, who despite a truly lousy set of circumstances, were able to persevere, to continue on, to be happy and enjoy their lives.

Not everyone, however, is so equipped to deal with hardships, for whatever reason. How enormously difficult must it be to deal with the violent loss of one’s childhood or innocence? How are we to suppose someone deals with physical disfigurations and bodily grotesqueries that severely impede their ability to meld into the social fabric of everyday life, having to endure taunts as children or the never-ending stares of strangers? To never know the stirrings of self-confidence and the ease of navigating the world thanks to a healthy self-image? Who are we to judge?

So while it is heartbreaking to learn that someone was so lost, so unhappy, so miserable with their lot in life that he or she would choose to end it, we cannot ever know, truly, the pain and despair that was so embedded in their being that to die and be no more was preferable to their suffering.

The second trigger to my pondering death and dying was an event that that occurred in 1888. I’m reading about a blizzard of epic proportions that killed hundreds of schoolchildren. On the morning of January 12, the people living in the plains area of the Dakotas, Nebraska and southwestern Minnesota woke up to a beautiful sunny day. Temperatures were milder than they had been in some time and as such, many of the children wore no coats, hats or gloves to school due to the unseasonably mild weather. Later in the day, however, the sky ‘exploded’ with sand-like snow, harsh, driving winds and a cold wave unlike anything the settlers there had ever seen.

In some cases, the teachers kept the children sheltered at school while others decided it best to dismiss school early to allow the students time to walk home. Some survived but many, many – far too many – people died. Their stories of struggling to seek shelter from the cold and the wind and the snow are heart-wrenching. Stories of bravery, loyalty and sacrifice, stories filled with parents’ decisions to not send their children to school that day, teachers’ decisions to stay in their classrooms, decisions to brave the elements, chance decisions to head in one direction and not the other: the chronicle of this staggeringly savage meteorological event is a tapestry of ‘if only this’ and ‘if not that’ which is harrowing to contemplate.

To find oneself caught in the open plains during a raging snowstorm, where you cannot see your hand in front of your face or to be unable to hear the shouts of your companions due the fierce howling winds, where the cold is literally sucking the life out of you, your body covered only with the thin fabric of what you’d worn to school that day and not having a coat or jacket to wrap around your body, or a scarf to protect your throat or gloves to cover your hands and fingers or a hat to keep what little heat remains within you from exiting your body through your head, is simply more than I can imagine. The horror of it, the reality of what this exposure to the elements would ultimate exact – one’s LIFE – may not have been on the minds of the youngest children but certainly the adults and the older students had to know they were not long for this earth.

I’m not known for having a high tolerance for pain. Nor do I easily bear being cold. It is, therefore, difficult for me to envision myself lost and alone, cold, so bitterly cold and unable to see or hear or feel anything except the blinding white, frigid, shrieking chaos all around me, frightened beyond anything I’d ever before experienced and knowing that the likelihood of survival or rescue or ever feeling warm and cozy and safe again was a reality of brutally false proportions. The terror and agony of what these people had to face is inconceivable.

How and when and where death makes itself known to us is impossible to say. May it, when death comes, be swift and painless, best perhaps, while we sleep. A mystery for the ages, contemplated throughout the course of history, unknown to all. I have no wisdom to impart. I only know now that these events, a chance encounter on a wilderness trail and picking up a book whose jacket cover caught my eye, has lead me to think of death in ways I had not before and for that, strangely enough, I am grateful. For I have been made urgently more aware of how beautiful and satisfying and comforting my own life is so I’d best enjoy it while I still can.

Re-blogging this wonderful piece from a dear blogging friend of mine. I haven’t “known” her for long but I very much enjoy her writing and her photography. What I know of her from her blog, she is one very amazing and interesting person. Good job Martha!

Therapeutic Misadventures

The connotations of the word “intimacy” were flooding through my mind on the way home from work. Is intimacy the tiny details we pick up from daily interactions with people? I shared an intimate secret with a woman who is most easily described as a customer. We know nothing about each other’s lives except her love of cooking and her passion for inspiring ingredients. Her unconscious aroma is lemon. We talked about essential oils and I shared my signature scent, the perfume I have worn daily for over 30 years; Annick Goutal’s Eau d’Hadrien. I first found it while working in Harvard Square. There was a small, hole-in-the-wall shop that carried only finest European soaps and perfumes. You could find a real, boar’s bristle hairbrush, exotic toiletries, and you could test out wondrous scents from decades of ago.

The intimacy I witness in other arenas of life are the ones…

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