520: Duluth's shore

Just a few steps from our room in Duluth, we tapped along smooth rocks and took photographs of the water splashing up. On the last day of our trip, we drove out to the peninsula and visited the sandy beach, collected a few stones, skipped some others, examined driftwood and the sparkle of firewood.

One day we'll have a daughter, and we'll each take one of her hands, and we'll show her this town where her father spent his undergraduate days, where our relationship was young and we knew the things we always knew--that we'd love each other for the rest of our lives. There are places like this, where we trace our fingers in the sand or look closely at the way the tide shifts, and we know there is belonging between our hearts, and now, between three.

492: last bread loafian day

Meryl was kind enough to take a photograph of me reading my poem in the Little Theatre during a Blue Parlor one-minute-marathon event. We bullied each other into doing it, and now we can say we read in that famous theatre. While you are at it, see this post on her blog and drool over that last photograph.

This year has been more difficult than last in so many ways:

The obvious is that bump that is ever-protruding. I watched the curve of the desk get closer and closer with each workshop day. The greatest delight (and I hate that this word is so banal, but it's exactly what my heart is saying, exactly with that "light" at the end, the lit-smile radiance) is when I feel the tipsy babe roll in my stomach, a little fish below the surface, skittering around. It's a beautiful sensation, and more than makes up for my trips to the bathroom, my little winces over toilet bowl. And despite the long, dark hallways at night, I'm still grateful for the plumbing in the middle of sleep, when I wake to my shrinking bladder's wails.

I'm also approaching the last year of the MFA program, which means I've got a book manuscript to worry over. In one frenzied morning, I collected all of my wandering poems that are thematically linked to the thesis, and another was spent tinkering on the organization. I had a conference with a famous-writer, and for the first time, I experienced the tinges of one aesthetic dominating my own. I'm used to instructors who will help guide me toward my own vision, but some of the suggestions completely unmoored me, in some ways a good thing (while I might not take it word-for-word, I do realize I need to use some of the suggestion injection), in other ways it threw me, and Meryl had to remind me to stand firm, that my vision was my own and that it had merit in the world. It's been hard--I've felt in turns deflated and elated while here, and last year, it was so much more even-keel. I'm not sure if I should attribute that to the rollicking pregnancy hormones or the urgency of a full-length book as opposed to individual poems that could come or go.

What's really shook me this time around is the invasive feeling of homesickness. I hadn't felt this on any other writing retreat; this is the first time I've felt achy inside. I miss my sweet pups whose noggins knock me about, I miss my chubby cats who wedge themselves into me when I read in bed, I miss my own bed and the shape and color of my house (so much yellow and green shutters here) and the kitchen and abundant milk, I miss my husband, I miss my husband, I miss him. I miss how he is such a firm comfort: I can wedge myself into his arms when I am upset, I can have him talk me down from crazy ledges, I can cry openly and plainly. It isn't quite the same, especially when you've had this comfort for eleven years.

This is all so very whiny and complaining and I hate that, especially since this experience has been such a gift. I love these mountains, I love these old buildings with their dysfunctional doorknobs, I love the daily conversations about poetry, I love being able to ruminate with one of my best friends, I love falling asleep and being able to turn the lamp off when I want to, I love the freedom to not worry over dishes and what to prepare for the next meal, I love the bookstore beneath our room, I love the books and books I've been reading. I love that each time I come here, it transforms me, pushes me into a new phase of being "a writer" that would have taken so long before, love that I have gotten so much work done and have been given so many things to consider, love that there is some measure of hope that the thesis will become a manuscript will one day become a book.

I'm just ready to come home, to carry this experience with me, to love and love and love.

Oh, and all week, I didn't do any knitting on my little kicking bag (oh, the baby just moved again, just as I was writing this!), but today I picked up the needles again, knowing I was returning home, a little rise in domesticity.

And one more thing: I do love that I didn't have to leave my child behind and miss it fiercely. I could carry it with me this go-around, bring the little secret self onto the journey. Next year, I won't be able to fly across the country; I know I wouldn't be ready to leave that expanded family for ten days. It's truly been a good "last hurrah," especially having the company of someone you love (and in this case, yes, baby could count, but I mean dear Meryl).

491: hello from bread loaf, happy 3 year anniversary

Meryl and I arrived safe and sound in Vermont; last year, I was trapped at the Newark airport, changing gates, finding out how many rotations of planes they couldn't give us (mechanical, mechanical, mechanical). Of course, it sounds as if Meryl might have gotten the bad luck--her husband's car decided its engine would no longer work, so she lost her four a.m. ride to the airport, the trains were slow, and she just might have been the last person boarding the plane, which certainly kept my knuckles quite white.

Instead of going straight to the conference, we spent the day and evening in rural Vermont, on a large swath of land, mostly wooded, complete with wild blackberries and toads, where Meryl's old college friend lives. Her aunt owns the property and lives in a house with her five adopted boys, and Heather lives with her girlfriend Lori in a camper at the back of the lot. Camper is, of course, being a bit liberal: the inside was plywood floored, the bedding was a camping mat and sleeping bag, the lighting was candles, and the toilet was the woods. Needless to say, it was quite an adventure for me, and I think I could have managed mildly better if I weren't pregnant, but everyone was so extraordinarily kind and generous that the surprise roughness of the accommodations didn't fully phase me. We had plenty of excellent vegan fare, a campfire, a rainstorm, and plenty of storytelling.

Here at Bread Loaf, I will be slowly updating this blog on the trouble that Meryl and I get ourselves into, though one qualm is that I have lost my dear camera battery charger somewhere in my summer travels, so I am not certain if I will upload pictures as I go. The toad above was actually found in our backyard before I left, as opposed to the wilds of Vermont, but I will let it substitute charm you in the meanwhile.

I am tired but content. From what I remember of last year, these ten days feel both an eternity and the briefest flash of time. It's a good way to end the summer, even if the baby sometimes decides it's a good time to wallop me with a sad stomach. I've been warning the other women on the floor that if they hear someone getting sick, it isn't a drunk at ten a.m. or a bulimic, but instead a four-and-a-half pregnant person who can't seem to get into the swing of things. (And for the record, my only moment was still at the camper, just after the sun rose, and with the sweating and trembling and urgency, it felt more like the flu than morning sickness, so I'm not sure if was something I consumed in the past twenty-four hours or the heat, but I'm grateful I have managed to gracefully survive campus without any upsets.)

I already miss home, but I think that's the wonkiness of the hormones; once the conference begins to swing, I will be too distracted to think of how much I want to fall asleep next to Ryan or tell him in person about my day and how today we are missing being with one another on our three-year-wedding anniversary (Bread Loaf, by the way, is having its 85th anniversary, so they are winning), will vaguely think it would be better with Penelope by my side or Zephyr to entertain me, will only ache a little for the cats to curl up in my armpit as I read volume after volume of poetry in bed. This year, too, I have one of my dearest friends with me, which is the biggest gift, since this is my last hurrah for some time. Baby will keep me planted, which is fine. I have a book to write.

xo

489: michigan in july

We went to Michigan for the 4th of July; the 5th of July was my grandmother's 89th birthday. I love going to this lake: I meditated at the edge, wrote some poems, canoed at dusk, cooked dinners with my husband, many with vegetables straight from my garden and hers.

483: at least my knee is getting some action

This past weekend we did a tour of Wisconsin: Green Bay to see both sets of parents and Milwaukee to visit our friends BJ and Lynn, whose rabbit Herbie is not "fixed," and therefore, fell amorously in love with my arm. He also liked to rearrange my fuzzy pants, and I have to say: I had a little crush on him too. Not so much that I would "mark" him with my chin-glands or ready myself for a little humping, but enough that Herbie's nuzzling was a highlight of our visit.

Missouri was somehow easier on me; I was safely ensconced in a five-day hiatus from stomach unrest. This Wisconsin trip had Ryan pulling over both to and from, which is never terribly pleasant, though being outdoors, centered in such a strange way, was kind of peaceful. The dogs were a tad distracted, panting out the window, desperate to run around in the tall grass.

I have to say this, above all else: I have been blessed with such a kind and caring partner. This early pregnancy has not been easy, as evidenced by my many pregnant friends who are chipper and enjoying themselves. I'm pathetic and miserable, but I do have a husband who will bring home six different cans when you ask for one of chicken noodle soup, a husband who will experiment with the CSA goodies when I cannot fathom opening the refrigerator without detouring to the bathroom, has been sympathetic and patient and listening. I just know he's going to make a fantastic parent, which makes me very lucky indeed, because I know I will go into this with coltish legs. We both will, but he has that calm that will keep me steady.

482: the sky on the way to missouri