#NewThisDay Writing From My Photo Stream
Charles River Morning Grapevine
Heat wave, it’s passed. The brook is cracked, dry, black. The fish, the ones who do not get away, do not survive. The grapevine thrives. I don’t need to run or swim or bike today. Just to be outdoors. Energy wise, it’s a good day for trash picking. I tuck two bags into my belt and bring my thick gloves. My daughter comes. It is gray-skied and cooler, strangely not like the rest of this summer. Someone has picked up a lot of the trash at the trestle bridge. Surprise! There is still plenty, though, of water bottles, many socks, masks, cloth and paper, candy wrappers, a beer can or two. Today is a day for going slow, taking my time, being in rest. The bag is full and heavy and I am satisfied with cleaning up. I work on my manuscript, my new version. I begin to feel something taking shape because I am giving it energy. Or, it is giving me energy. That’s a nice way to feel about it; as if the process has a life of its own. Frank and I go out on a couple of errands and have the chance to talk about the fall and winter and spring: our vision. I am surprised to hear his acceptance of this year being unpredictable. He does not feel a need to plan the winter away from snow. In fact, he’s imagining finding a way to enjoy staying in New England this winter if that’s what we need to do. Our family through this pandemic has been so remarkably special. My daughters, growing into best friends, after years of various challenges to their intimacy. One of the four of us, tonight, presented a problem. We had the time, the willingness, the desire and the insights to talk it through, and so we were all helped. Problem, out in the open, feelings shared, ideas shared. Everyone’s point of view respected, appreciated. We all ended the conversation with a sense of being reassured by each other: All will be well.
Because my son asked for some of his diaries a week ago, I happened to find a letter my daughter had sent to Santa as a girl, and read that one aloud to all of us–delightful. My youngest pulled one of hers off the bookshelf where I keep them in my office and read some passages aloud to me of her in the 5th grade, and we laughed at some, and she was surprised at how much detail I had written about her day. “How did you know I had a crush on so and so?” she said. Tonight, as she was leaving to go back home, she said, “I’m taking one of my diaries home. I’ll be careful with it and make sure to bring it back.” I love that they see me, still, and maybe always, as the keeper of the diaries, even though, I imagined, 2001, when I published my book, that they would take them.
Write the stories, keep the fire, tend the hearth. When they leave,
your children will take the diaries with them; and they will always return,
return to the flame, and pass it on.
~ Excerpt from Before You Forget: The Wisdom of Writing Diaries for Your Children