by Sara Barry | Nov 5, 2014 | grief, writing
Silence is early morning—rosy gold peeking through gray, snores and shifting bodies upstairs. Silence is no interruption to my thoughts or actions. If the coffee grows cold, it’s my own fault.
I love the silence of early morning that isn’t really silence. The furnace hums (more and more often these days), the coffee maker sputters and drips and hisses, and some days the birds outside are downright raucous.
Is it ever really silent?
The house grows quiet when the power goes off, all the underlying hum we don’t notice until it is gone stops.
A house goes silent, beyond quiet, when somebody has died. Even when the furnace and the coffee pot and the birds keep doing their thing, whether or not the power is on. A silence envelops you. Nothing really fills it. You can turn on music or a TV, talk to people, fill up the house, but still a silence lingers. Even when the person missing is a baby who slept a lot.
It is perhaps an absence of energy, not noise.
I had to learn to love quiet again after my son died, because for a long time I remembered that empty silence. These days, I settle into quiet again, even seek it out, because as much as I love the noise and life and exuberance, I need the quiet too.
Today, I woke to singing in the next room. With the time change they are up before me. I miss my morning quiet, when the silence is broken only by snores and shifting bodies upstairs, the sputter-hiss of the coffee maker and the hum of the heat turning on. We’ll settle into new rhythms, and I’ll sit comfortably in that silence again.
What about you? Do you love silence or are you always trying to fill it?
Usually for Write with Me Wednesday, I share a prompt related to whatever I’ve written.
This week, I was stuck. I was staring at the blank page, wanting to just dig back into my past writing rather than write something new, so I looked for a prompt myself, something to get me started. This one is from Old Friend from Far Away:
Tell me about silence.
by Sara Barry | Oct 22, 2014 | abundance, cooking, fall, grief, use what you have, what's for dinner, writing
Some people waste away when under stress or grieving.
I eat.
When my son was in the hospital, I ate cookies and candy because I had them, big, heavy restaurant-sized meals. I ate whatever plate or dinner people brought me. It didn’t matter how hungry I was or if it was what I wanted (don’t get me wrong, people brought us good stuff); I just ate.
But after he died, when I was home, I cooked.
I made soups and stews, mac and cheese, scalloped potatoes, chicken pot pie. I sautéed greens that I got at the farmer’s market. I toasted bread from the bakery, rubbed it with garlic, drizzled it with olive oil, sprinkled coarse salt.
Maybe I was trying to satiate a hunger not related to food. Maybe I just needed food from home after not being there for three months. Maybe the rhythm of the kitchen soothed me, kept me busy enough without requiring too much thought or energy.
I cooked and I ate, and although the grocery store was a gauntlet of anxiety—ignore the birthday cakes, don’t go down the baby aisle, hold your breath hoping the cashier won’t ask anything about kids—I shopped for food. I went to farmers markets. I paid more for cheese than I should have. I got a farm share of meat and bought local eggs and honey.
I hadn’t worked for almost seven months and was limping along trying to get my sluggish brain to function enough to get through the projects that fell on my desk. B. was going to quit his job come fall to go back to school. I had no business spending extra money on food, and months later when B. actually did quit his job and I readied for another self-paid maternity leave, I gave up the farm share, started buying conventional eggs more and more, cut back on the cheese.
But still I cooked. Still I ate well, and I still took comfort in food.
These days, I still cook, still like to choose good food, still like to do something with the veggies I bring in from the garden. Though with little ones pouting, “I won’t eat that” without even trying it, some days I want to go on a hunger strike, holding out on making food until they are hungry enough to eat whatever it is.
Last night I made potato leek soup with potatoes and onions and carrot and herbs from our garden. I served it with garlic toast with cheese. We started dinner with two whines, but eventually one ate the soup and one at the grilled cheese (it worked better when we put the toast together and called it that). I sat back and enjoyed both.
It was a chilly day, and soup was comforting and warm as the darkness gathered. Comfort food isn’t just for hard times; sometimes we just need to feel cozy at home.
What’s your favorite comfort food?
Potato Leek Soup
olive oil or butter
1 stalk celery, diced
1 large carrot (or equivalent), chopped in half rounds (or quarters if the carrot is fat)
1 ½ cups chopped leeks* (approximate)
salt and pepper
2 quarts broth **
5 medium potatoes, peeled and diced
2 sprigs rosemary
2 sprigs thyme
1 bay leaf
large splash heavy cream (optional, but recommended)
- Sauté the carrots, celery, and leeks until softened. Sprinkle with salt and pepper.
- Add the broth, potatoes, and herbs. Bring to just a boil and lower the heat. Simmer for a long time until the potatoes start to break down.
- Look at your soup and debate whether to bother puréeing it. Take a taste. Wonder if you should add milk like you usually do. Take a Facebook poll.
- Use an immersion blender to smooth out the soup, leaving some small chunks. Taste again. Add a hefty splash of heavy cream if you have it.
- Serve with garlic toast, cheesy or not, and hope your kids will eat it without too much of a stink.
Notes
* I actually used Egyptian walking onions in this version. I included any green parts that looked vibrant. They fade as they cook, but still taste good.
** I used homemade chicken broth this time, because I happened to have it in my fridge and wasn’t in the mood for chicken soup, but I’ve made great soup with canned/boxed chicken or vegetable broth. I went heavier on the salt because I knew my base was lower in sodium.
by Sara Barry | Oct 16, 2014 | abundance, parenting, writing
I notice K, toes tangled in the mosquito netting, her face veiled and obscured by its wrinkles. I’m watching her kick, as she usually does, trying to get the netting off. She hasn’t yet reached out and grabbed it and pulled, no, not yet, but she will. I only put it over her because she was asleep and wouldn’t know, wouldn’t fuss with it. That and I had been bit by three mosquitoes already and had swatted away others.
Ah, now, she has pulled it away. Her face clear, her toes still entangled. She smiles back at me, her two teeth showing and then hiding again. She looks up at the filtered sunlight through the pear tree at the leaves that shimmer in a whisper of a breeze. Nine months.
Nine months in just eight days. So adept with her hands, so adapt at sitting and moving. I see what her brother never did, probably couldn’t have done had he reached nine months. I flit between this, this seeing my girl, really seeing my girl just for what she is, who she is, and seeing in my girl what her brother was, what he was not, what he will never be. I see gratitude and longing. Delight and regret.
I see health in chunky cheeks and legs, strong limbs, fat little paws. I watch her wonder. She’s watching her foot, feeling the texture of the netting, wiggling the toes. She is serious and then that smiles lights up her face again, her dimples pop.
I will stop writing, put this down, away for now. I’ll pull the netting off her foot before she gets frustrated. I’ll pick her up and get another smile. I’ll bring her inside and make some lunch, because she is on the verge of hunger though she doesn’t know it yet, but it will come upon her suddenly and it doesn’t do to make her wait for lunch.
I wrote this several years ago as an exercise when my big girl was a baby. I had forgotten about this day, this quiet moment with her, but it came back to me clearly when I stumbled up on the file.
What did you slow down and notice today?
by Sara Barry | Oct 15, 2014 | abundance, writing
“This is going to be the most beautiful basket ever!”
She pauses, watches me after saying this, and I agree that it will be a beautiful basket while wondering how long we will keep it, imagining it dropping seeds and dried flowers in whatever corner it inhabits.
She’s wearing a hooded, terry cloth giraffe dress that may actually be a nightgown or bathrobe. She pulled on the spotted leg warmers I gave her to stave off a meltdown over a lack of brown tights, telling me earnestly and without the “you’re so stupid tone” that I expect will come in a few years, “These are cows, Mom.”
Her face peeks out from the hood, like an elf, wisps of blond hair tangle around her cheeks.
I keep watching her, focusing in, trying to capture her face, long stripped of it’s baby fat, her cheeks smooth and clear, her chin pointed. Her eyes are bright with enthusiasm and mouth curved into a smile.
I trace that curve with my eyes, wonder if I could conjure that exact curve if she were swept away or if I would have to rely on pictures.
One night after Henry died. I stumbled downstairs in the dark, flipped through picture after picture. I had woken with an image of him white and swollen as the Michelin man, and I couldn’t pull up a picture of what he really looked like, so I turned to pictures until I could see him again in my head.
I can’t tell you if I am being present as I focus on K’s face, try to imprint it, or if I am being morbid.
I’m thinking about how quickly life can change (be swept away, lost) because I’m reading Rare Bird. Such a loss isn’t theoretical to me, and yet it is the book that has me thinking about what I could lose.
Henry almost died seven years ago this month, but when he pulled through, I assumed he would live. I assume now that my girls will too, even though I know that change from ordinary life to inconceivable can happen so quickly.
Instead of, if she died would I remember, I could ask, in twenty years when she’s grown will I be able to conjure up her face, the soft smooth skin, the narrow chin, the sweet curve of her mouth, not turned up quite enough to activate he dimples.
For either question, the answer is the same.
No.
I won’t get all the details. Even now, one day later, they are slipping from me. I see her mouth but not her long lashes, the color of her lips but not the exact shade of her cheeks.
I won’t remember her face perfectly. I may not remember this day at all. Or maybe someday, I’ll see a basket decorated with dried flower and natural debris, or she’ll say, “Remember that giraffe dress?” And I’ll see us. Even if I don’t remember the exact curve of her mouth, I’ll feel the enthusiasm from her smile. I’ll feel the smile curve up on my own face and the warm gold bathing us on a late fall day
Write
The first Write with Me Wednesday focused on a string of memories. Today, we focus on something we might forget, a little moment.
Take one moment from today.
What do you think you’ll remember? What details that you might forget can you capture now?
by Sara Barry | Oct 8, 2014 | milestones, what I love, writing
Supposedly rain on your wedding day is good luck.
We laughed and shrugged and gave up the idea of pictures in our garden. The jewel yellow and orange nasturtiums that spilled over the cake shone bright on that dim day. We weren’t worried about luck. We had love.
I questioned the idea of luck on our second anniversary when we sat in a crowded Thai restaurant within walking distance from the hospital where our son had been in the ICU for three weeks.
I questioned it on our third anniversary when grief continued to swirl between the two of us, locking our tongues, tripping up our words. As I sipped my water, I understood we were lucky to have gotten pregnant again, quickly and easily, but I had no confidence or trust.
Today as I contemplate the rain falling and remember how hard it came down nine years ago, how people were late because there was so much water on the roads and visibility was so limited, I don’t believe in luck.
But I hold the fullness that we have packed into these nine years
Three children born, one buried.
Months of hospital life and living hours apart.
Family illness, more funerals.
Buying a canoe; struggling to learn to paddle together.
Long afternoons of shushing and swaddling.
Years of not sleeping.
Stories read, made up, remembered, retold.
Chilis bubbling on the stove, chicken pot pies browning up in the oven. Finding our rhythm again in the kitchen.
First tastes of ice cream and family outings in that green canoe.
Dancing—crazy made up swing at our wedding and dancing later with our girls on dark winter evenings in the living room.
Today the storm has passed; the sun is shining, the sky a deep blue. We’ve walked nine years together, sunshine and storm. Nine years, and despite all the statistics thrown at us in the hospital, we’re still dancing, still cooking, still writing our story together. Nine full years, not luck, but life.
Write and Share
Share your own story of good times and bad. Does one overpower? Or do both parts hold their own?
by Sara Barry | Oct 4, 2014 | fall, finding time, Uncategorized, writing
Get up early. Notice the way the red leaves glow in the gray morning. Drink good coffee. Write.
Read with your kids. Let them loll on on your lap. Make raisin toast with cinnamon (or sour dough with peanut butter if one of them is picky.)
Run in the rain. Say “good morning” to the other crazy hardy soul you pass. Realize it’s a friend you never see. Say “Oh, hi it’s you!” Go home. Clear your glasses. Take a long, hot shower.
Find a package in your mailbox. Dream of garlic scape pesto next spring. Wonder when to plant your garlic. Remember you still need to dig potatoes and pull carrots. Look out at the rain. Wait.
Go to brunch at a friend’s house. Eat, drink more coffee, have a conversation while your kids are running around the house.
Stop at the library. Pick up the next book in the Fairy Realm series for bedtime. Check out a garden book for inspiration.
Back home, smile at the flowers all over the house, the ones that this and coming rain inspired you to cut yesterday—cosmos and zinnias and mums and sedum.
Eat bacon. On a burger. With home brewed beer.
Add a side of spicy oven fries cooked in some of the bacon fat. Notice that nobody complains about dinner tonight.
Wait til the kids are in bed. Eat apple crisp for a late dessert. Wonder if your pears are ripe enough to make this. Wonder if you have time to make it for breakfast in the morning.
Put on PJs snuggle under covers. Love that it is cool enough to snuggle under covers. Sleep. Get ready to get up early, notice the light, drink coffee, and write.
How are you creating energy, connecting with family and friends, finding beauty, or nourishing yourself this weekend?
Silence is early morning—rosy gold peeking through gray, snores and shifting bodies upstairs. Silence is no interruption to my thoughts or actions. If the coffee grows cold, it’s my own fault.
