Val Muller

The Electronic Wordsmith

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This month’s prompt is to write about a chance encounter.

This week story comes from Chiara. Chiara is currently quarantined in Berlin, Germany, and doing her best to catch up with semi-abandoned writing projects.

Midnight with Shakespeare

by Chiara De Giorgi

Ever since I watched “Midnight in Paris” I’ve been fantasizing about meeting the object of my own devotion, the greatest poet of all times: William Shakespeare. Impossible, you say? Maybe so, but a girl can dream.

This is the story of how my dream came (sort of) true. More accurately: this is the story of how my dream within a dream came true, to say it with Mr. Edgar Allan Poe.

I woke up on a sunny morning and entered the kitchen, yawning like a hippopotamus.

“Good morning to you, fair and gracious daughter[1]”, said my father, handing me a cup of black tea.

I smiled and accepted the kindly offered beverage. I sighed. I really needed it, I had a day full of work meetings ahead, and no desire to attend any of them.

As I left home, headed towards the bus stop, my neighbour waved at me. “Nothing will come of nothing[2]!” she shouted, an encouraging smile on her face.

Still wondering about her words, I later entered the building where my first meeting was going to take place. I was about half an hour early, so I asked the secretary where I could go get some coffee.

“Better three hours too soon than a minute too late[3]”, she said. “Just turn round the corner, there’s a bagel seller whose bagels are the absolute best, and the coffee is also good!”

I happily followed her advice: I love bagels! I found the place, a small take-away shop, bright and clean, and I put in my order for a bagel with strawberry cream, and a coffee. The guy behind the counter licked a spoon of cream clean before setting it aside and serving me. I must have looked astonished, because he smirked and winked at me. “Tis an ill cook that cannot lick his own fingers[4]”, he whispered.

Holding my bagel and my coffee I made my way back to the meeting, which lasted almost three hours and left me drained. A long discussion had brought to no end result, except I had to prepare another report, with more figures and nonsense.

“The fault lies not within the stars, but in ourselves, that we are underlings[5]”, said my colleague, in an unusual spout of wisdom.

“Yeah”, I sighed. “An underling I may be, and yet I must rush to the next meeting! Adieu!

I decided to take a cab, so I could rest a bit. I must have dozed off, because suddenly I realized we were stuck in traffic. I was going to be late. Not cool.

“What’s the matter?” I asked the cab driver. “Can’t we go a bit faster?”

I saw the man shrug, then he looked at me in the rear-view mirror and said: “Come what come may, time and the hour runs through the roughest day[6].”

Oh, well. He was right, after all. There was nothing I could do. I called a colleague and let her know I was running a bit late, then checked my Smartphone to pass the time.

Finally the cab dropped me in front of the building where the second meeting of the day was taking place. At the entrance I almost tripped over a cleaning lady, who was on her knees, furiously rubbing the floor.

“Out, damned spot! Out, I say![7]” she was muttering. Such an odd day, that was, and I had not seen the last of it, yet!

I knocked at the meeting room’s door and entered, making my apologies, then reached my seat and sat down, opened my files on the tablet and prepared to discuss the subject at hand. The discussion lead to a nasty disagreement with one of the guys from another Company, which left me irritated. As I was putting all my stuff back inside my bag, wishing my work day was over, someone hit me.

I heard a voice near me: “Gosh, I’m sorry. Let me help you pick everything up.”

Of course the most embarrassing items in my bag had fallen out: my comb full of hair, a picture of my cats, a handful of tampons, a Mickey Mouse pencil. I lifted my eyes to see who it was, and of course he was the guy I had quarreled with just minutes before. He handed me my things, then he held out his hand. “We haven’t started on the right foot, have we? Let me introduce myself.”

We shook hands. He was smiling warmly at me and I found myself smiling back at him.

“So, do you have time for coffee?” he asked me.

I checked the watch. “I have about twenty minutes, then I must go attend another meeting”, I replied. “Are you sure you want to have coffee together? We almost ate each other less than ten minutes ago in this very room!”

He took my hand again and put a gentle kiss on it – he did, I kid you not.

“My dear”, he added, as if it were the most natural thing to say at that point, “Some Cupid kills with arrows, some with traps[8].”

I’ll be honest, here: the rest of the day passed in a blur, I don’t remember much. When I got home, I was exhausted and collapsed on my bed, instantly falling asleep. When I opened my eyes, the alarm-clock on my night-stand read 00:00. Midnight.

Around me all was dark and silent, then I heard a whisper. No, it was many whispers, coming from different directions, overlapping, confused. At last, I recognized some words: “If we shadows have offended, Think but this, and all is mended, That you have but slumbered here While these visions did appear. And this weak and idle theme, No more yielding but a dream, Gentles, do not reprehend: If you pardon, we will mend[9]…”

Around me, tiny fairy lights were dancing in the dark, I could smell jasmine, and I could hear the sound of jingle bells… I laughed, long and happy.

The Spot Writers—Our Members:

Val Muller: https://valmuller.com/blog/

Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/

Phil Yeats: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com

Chiara De Giorgi: https://chiaradegiorgi.blogspot.com/

 

 

 

[1] Measure for Measure, Act 4 Scene 3

[2] King Lear, Act 1 Scene 1

[3] The Merry Wives of Windsor, Act 2 Scene 2

[4] Romeo and Juliet, Act 4 Scene 2

[5] Julius Casear, Act 1 Scene 3

[6] Macbeth, Act 1 Scene 3

[7] Macbeth, Act 5 Scene 1

[8] Much Ado About Nothing, Act 3 Scene 2

[9] A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Act 5, Scene 1

Has anyone else been having trouble keeping up with days during these quarantined times? I’m juggling my full-time job with full-time childcare and all my other duties and neglected to post this story by Phil Yeats, which he sent well before April 23 🙂 I hope everyone is staying happy and safe.

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This month’s prompt is to write about a chance encounter. Today’s post is written by Phil Yeats. Phil (using his Alan Kemister pen name) has published two soft-boiled police detective stories in his Barrettsport Mysteries series. They’re set in an imaginary Nova Scotia coastal community with very quirky citizens. The Amazon link for the more recent one is: https://www.amazon.com/Tilting-Windmills-Barrettsport-Mysteries-Book-ebook/dp/B07L5WR948/

Today’s submission is an alternative take on an earlier SW submission. It might become the opening scene for a sequel to his current WiP – The Road to Environmental Armageddon. He’s trying to invoke late Middle Ages or Renaissance vibe, but story is actually set in a post-Apocalyptic future.

The Panhandler (take two)

by Phil Yeats

Benjamin trudged home in the waning sunlight after delivering a parcel containing four flintlock pistols and a supply of gunpowder to the southwestern gatehouse. He entered the town square from Southwest Road and turned onto the busy Western Road, heading for Little West Lane. His home was near the end of the lane, within sight of the town wall.

He hadn’t feared for his safety as he strode along the busier thoroughfares. The purse of coins he’d received in exchange for the pistols was tucked into a secure compartment within his leather tunic. It suddenly felt heavier as he approached the narrow lane with many nooks and crannies where thieves could lurk.

Thoughts of the weapons at his disposal distracted him as he approached his corner. He barely noticed the scruffy young panhandler sitting on the cobblestones suckling a fractious infant. She was wearing rags, her hair was crudely shorn, and she looked like she hadn’t washed in weeks—a perfect incubator for fleas and lice. When he dropped a penny in her pot, the baby reached for his fingers. The tiny hand and abandoned breast distracted him. He lingered for a moment too long.

“Benji?” she said as he tried to leave.

She handed him her baby and paused before covering her breasts. He diverted his gaze as he took the surprisingly clean tyke and tried to determine who she was. Was she from home, the nearby village where he grew up? If not, she wouldn’t know the childish nickname his mother dumped on him. No one but his friend Thaddaeus used it. Solving the little puzzle wasn’t difficult. She was Leah, Thady’s little sister.

She would have been twelve when he left home six years earlier to study at Caverns Technical College. He crouched beside her, leaving a gap he hoped fleas couldn’t leap and let her inquisitive tyke tug the wisps of hair representing his pathetic efforts to grow a beard.

“Are you okay?” he asked when she began gathering her meagre possessions. “Somewhere to go? Someone looking out for you?”

She dumped the coins from her pot into her hand, counted them, and slid them inside her smock. She stood while pulling the drawstring closed and adjusting the shoulder straps of her kirtle. After hoisting an ancient rucksack onto her shoulder, she reached for her child. “Completely alone and nowhere to go. I’ll find a street vendor willing to sell me a bowl of gruel, then…”

He stood without relinquishing the tyke. “I have bread and makings for stew, enough for two.” He paused glancing up the lane. “And a tub for a bath. You could get cleaned up and…” He stopped, unable to complete the sentence.

The Spot Writers—Our Members:

Val Muller: https://valmuller.com/blog/

Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/

Phil Yeats: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com

Chiara De Giorgi: https://chiaradegiorgi.blogspot.com/

Okay, so I meant to publish this last Friday, but as each day blends into the next, I didn’t realize it was Friday until…Saturday. So I figured I’d delay until today.

With much of the world shutting down, I have not yet had a chance to be bored. My young kids are with me 24/7, and I am still working full time, albeit from home. So, although I am spending more time playing with kids, hanging out with them outdoors, biking with them, etc., I have less leisure time, since I have to use all my “down time” to do my job. In fact, I’m getting less sleep than I was.

However.

That is not the case for everyone, and I have enjoyed seeing the way the world is opening up to help us all feel a bit more connected.

Even with less “leisure” time, I have been spending more time being creative–drawing with my daughter, building custom Easter crates (in lieu of forgetting to shop for Easter baskets), building a leprechaun trap out of sticks from the back yard. They are not life-changing inventions, but they are creative and will certainly be memorable for my kids.

It has gotten me thinking about the benefits of boredom. Boredom is the seed of so many innovations. Issac Newton was “bored” during a similar shutdown (plague) and made great strides in discovering gravity and calculus. As a writer, I’ve read and heard so much advice about the importance of being bored. It is from boredom that creativity grows.

I thought I’d share some of the resources I have encountered in the past few weeks of fellow humans using “boredom” (or “free time”) in beneficial ways.

 

There’s so much out there, it makes me feel hope, even as we read terrible news stories. People are still thinking of each other, still reaching out to one another, still trying to make the world a better place.

So make the best of boredom. It’s not often in our lives that we can.

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This month’s prompt is to write about a chance encounter. Today’s tale comes to you (a day late) from (the very frazzled) Val Muller, author of the Corgi Capers mystery series, who is currently teaching full time from home, while also writing, and watching her young kids, and corgis.

In Need

By Val Muller

They. Just. Needed. To. Nap.

Why was that so much to ask? An hour or two a day or silence, without unending questions from a preschooler, without a million consecutive “no’s” from a toddler. Social distancing requirements said nothing about taking a drive, and that’s just what she did.

Why was the universe punishing her for it?

The car ride had been amazing at first. The two of them conked out in about twelve minutes, and Hannah sped through the country roads, enjoying the spring foliage and rolling farms. She cracked her window to let the fresh air wash over her, when suddenly the car was overwrought with stench.

Was it the baby? Had he soiled himself?

Or was it manure from the farm nearby?

There was no way to tell. She slowed a bit and opened the back windows, just enough to let the car air out. They’d be past this particular farm in about thirty seconds, so if it was manure, it would wash out of the car. If it was the baby, well…

The rushing wind did not wake the kids, and she drove a bit longer with the windows open. It was nice. Refreshing. Symbolic. Washing all the stress of the international closures, the pandemic, away. Nature had that habit—of making everything seem fine, normal.

Except that nature had a sense of humor, too. The wind curled the corner of the sleeping child’s favorite blanket and picked it up with just enough force that it overcame her gentle clasp and sent it sailing, like a kite, out the window.

Hellen slowed, but of course—of course—there were two cars behind her. She could not slow or stop on such a narrow road. The two of them saw the blanket fly out—they had to have—but they did not stop. The driver of the sedan directly behind her wore a mask and kept the windows up. The woman—at least Hellen thought it was a woman, wrapped up in gear like that—simply shook her head and kept driving. The truck behind the sedan slowed for a moment, as if pondering what to do, but ultimately decided to plod on.

Normally a blanket is just a blanket, but this particular blanket was a custom job, a quilt made of scraps of Halloween blankets, the girl’s favorite holiday. What’s more, it had her name embroidered using scraps from the household, and each one now had a unique meaning and a unique physical feel for the child. She often lulled herself to sleep running her fingers over the familiar stitching.

To say she would be devastated was an understatement.

There were no side roads and no driveways. Hellen kept going, wondering when she could slow or turn around, and where the blanket would be by that time. Finally, she came to a side road. It was dirt, and narrow, and rutted. Her minivan would never be able to turn around on it. Forget a three-point turn; she would be lucky to complete one in twenty.

So she simply stopped, put her flashers on, and gazed down the road as an unbelievably high number of cars rushed by on both sides. Wasn’t this a deserted road? In the middle of a pandemic? The road she had pulled down was situated at the top of a hill along a blind curve. Backing onto the road would be an invitation for an accident. How was she supposed to turn around?

Her only hope would be to drive down the rutted road and hope for a better place to turn. But how far down this rabbit hole was she willing to go? She glanced in the rearview mirror and imagined telling her daughter about the blanket.

It would not go well. She got out of the car and craned her neck down the road, hoping for a miracle. Couldn’t a gust of wind bring the blanket back to her?

Even if she were able to turn around, there was no telling where the blanket had gone. She hadn’t seen it land.

“Please!” she screamed.

Almost in answer, a deep hoooonk startled her.

Along the main road, a huge truck was coming to a stop. A man in a hat got out and waved. He was not wearing a mask.

“Need help? Broken down? Flat tire?”

Hellen shook her head. “Worse. My daughter’s blanket flew out the window, and when she wakes up, things are never gonna be the same.”

The man’s concerned face cracked into a smile. “Hold on.”

He hurried to his truck and returned, the blanket in his hand.

“This literally hit my windshield while I was driving. I was able to grab it before it flew away. I don’t know why I kept it in my cab. Something told me to.”

Hellen shook her head. “Even with the threat of the virus?”

He nodded.

She took the blanket and hurriedly reached back to cover her daughter. By the time she was finished, the truck driver was already in his cab, waving at her to back up onto the road. She got in the minivan and backed out, heading towards home. She waved a quick goodbye before realizing she never got to thank him, never got to know his name. But he was already gone, down the other side of the narrow road, followed by a line of cars, on his way to deliver more needed goods to more people in need.

The Spot Writers—Our Members:

Val Muller: https://valmuller.com/blog/

Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/

Phil Yeats: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com

Chiara De Giorgi: https://chiaradegiorgi.blogspot.com/

 

Though this book is clearly within the realm of young adult fantasy, the author’s afterward lets us know how much of this novel was inspired by both real events the Jews encountered in the early 1900s and fairy tales/mythology. It follows two Jewish sisters growing up in the woods of Dubossary, and its historical origins gives it more of a literary feel than a more traditional fantasy.

For instance, the two sisters in the book, both approaching adulthood, encounter real historical events: the pogroms of Ukraine and Russia happen in the book, as does the anti-Semitic belief that Jews would take and use the blood of non-Jews for their own purposes. The book also uses extensive non-English vocabulary, such as Yiddish (there is a glossary at the end), which helps give it a realistic, historical feel.

Spoilers (sort of—we learn this rather early).

One sister, a bit plumper than the other, darker haired, grittier, is actually a shape-shifting bear. The other, blonde, airy, light, is a swan. Their Mami and Tati have to leave at just the right moment when all hell is breaking loose, which happens to coincide with their daughters having identify crises stemming from their animal sides.

So obviously, the book will require a suspension of disbelief. The events are based loosely on history, but the shapeshifting draws on the mythology and folklore of characters, such as (but not limited at all to) Zeus and the swan. If you are unwilling to read such fantasy, the book may not be for you.

I did enjoy how the two sisters’ writing styles helped to differentiate their personalities. Liba, the bear, speaks to us in long, complicated, earthy paragraphs, whereas her sister speaks in sparse, airy lines of verse to mimic her bird features.

I liked the flavor of the book. Some of the characters spoke as if they were from a different place and time, which I enjoyed. But the main character Liba sometimes seemed to slip into more modern expressions. While I believe this would make a modern YA reader understand her a bit more, it did break my emersion from time to time.

The pace was a bit slow. It took me several dozen pages to immerse myself in the book as I tried to figure out “what it was,” but its uniqueness pulled me in.

I did find myself wanting to finish the book, but the ending was somewhat of a let-down for me. With all these built-up supernatural events and characters, and the disappearance of Liba and Laya’s parents for the majority of the book, I was hoping for more to be revealed at the end. But in the final scenes, all the characters seem to be wrapped up relatively neatly in tidy gift-wrapped bows. I have mentioned in my reviews before that I often prefer darker elements, so this may be a personal preference. It was not exactly a “happily ever after” ending, but given the circumstances, it was close.

As someone with a sister, I did enjoy the bond of sisterly love. I just wished for more of the darkness of the forest, the fruit orchard, and the goblins, which were mentioned, but not enough to quench my thirst. I enjoyed the book more than I found fault, however, and I am glad I read it. Its mythological and folklore elements will stick with me for a long time.

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This month’s prompt was created using a random generator. Use these five words in a writing: suntan, paint, waterfall, inflation, exposure.

This week story comes from Chiara. Chiara is currently quarantined in Berlin, Germany, and doing her best to catch up with semi-abandoned writing projects.

Inspiration

by Chiara De Giorgi

You’ve probably heard of the “writer’s block” before. I’ve never suffered from it. Not one time. My inspiration is always sharp and present, come rain or shine.

Except the one time when it was not.

It was a supremely unusual feeling, and a supremely annoying one too. Where had my inspiration gone? Why play hide and seek then, of all times?

I had acquired a lovely cabin in the woods, facing a waterfall. Since it needed refurbishing, I had bought three cans of paint and spent an enjoyable three days painting it anew, inside and out. I hanged laced curtains at the small windows, threw knitted blankets and pillows on the sofa, put a brightly colored, woolen carpet on the floor. I spent the days on the porch and gained a perfect suntan. With no exposure to the media I forgot everything about elections, economy, inflation, and other equally worrisome news from the outside world.

One night I talked to the fire that was crackling in the fireplace. I was cradling a glass, half full with red wine, and moaned. “Where is my inspiration hiding?” I asked.

“It was never yours”, the fire replied.

Since the half full glass was my fourth, the fire talking didn’t bother me in the least. “How do you mean?” I asked.

“Inspiration is a free creature, a living creature. She goes where she wants, not where she’s wanted – or needed, for that matter. You may try and call on her, though. What do you want her for?”

“I’m not sure”, I confessed. “I guess I’m just waiting for her to come to me.”

“And why would she?”

“I don’t know. She’s done that before.”

“Maybe you’ve done something to upset her and now she’s eluding you.”

“Maybe. I’ve no idea, though. But I don’t think so.”

“Maybe you don’t need her, then.”

“Of course I need her! How can I write, without her?”

The fire crackled a bit, before answering.

“Do you remember what the world is like, outside this cabin?”

I grimaced. “I try not to. So many problems.”

“Exactly. And how is it here?”

I smiled. “It’s great! I wake up every day to the smell of pine and the sound of birds chirping and water falling. I love every minute of my days here.”

“So, maybe the people out there need inspiration more than you do. Don’t you agree?”

“Maybe…” I whispered, unconvinced. “But what about me? How will I write again?”

“Well”, crackled the fire, “I guess you’ll have to make a choice. Stay here and live in your dream world, or go back and write about it.”

I pondered its words for a couple of seconds, then gulped the rest of the wine. I didn’t answer.

“So: which one will you choose?”

 

The Spot Writers—Our Members:

Val Muller: https://valmuller.com/blog/

Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/

Phil Yeats: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com

Chiara De Giorgi: https://chiaradegiorgi.blogspot.com/

 

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This month’s prompt was created using a random generator. Use these five words in a writing: suntan, paint, waterfall, inflation, exposure.

Today’s post is written by Phil Yeats. In December, 2019, Phil (using his Alan Kemister pen name) published his most recent novel. Tilting at Windmills, the second in the Barrettsport Mysteries series of soft-boiled police detective stories set in an imaginary Nova Scotia coastal community is available on Amazon.

Ticky Tacky

When I was a young man in university, I imagined I’d make enough money to guard against inflation eroding my nest egg and killing my dream.

And my dream? To sail to a tropical island where I’d live in blissful isolation. Not a coral atoll where the maximum elevation was four feet, and I’d constantly fear exposure to global warming and sea level rise. No, I dreamed about an isolated spot on the flank of an extinct volcano where I could paint a waterfall and maintain an all-over suntan.

It didn’t work out that way. When I awoke from my university dream, I found myself in suburbia with a house, a wife, and two kids. If you want the gory details, you can look up the words to Malvina Reynolds song Little Boxes. It describes my lifethe one I lived, not the one I dreamed.

 ‘Little boxes on the hillside

Little boxes made of ticky tacky

Little boxes on the hillside

Little boxes all the same’

  

The Spot Writers—Our Members:

Val Muller: https://valmuller.com/blog/

Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/

Phil Yeats: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com

Chiara De Giorgi: https://chiaradegiorgi.blogspot.com/

 

Today I’d like to welcome Carla Vergot to my Writer Wednesday feature. I greatly enjoyed her first novel and was excited to learn that her second book (the sequel) released yesterday–no foolin! She is also a wonderful human being who took the time to chat with me over coffee one day and also to talk to my creative writing students as well. Please check out her links at the end of the post to learn more!

Hey, friends! I’m so excited to be sitting here, tapping the keys, taking a minute to visit with y’all. This has been an awesome but hectic week. My publisher and I launched my second book on March 31—Book 2 in the Lily Barlow Series titled Lily Barlow: The Mystery in the
Mangroves.

The desire to write has been in my veins since elementary school. The skill to write has been there since college. But the time to write…that didn’t present itself until 2016 when my husband gave me the gift of a sabbatical. I put in for a one-year leave of absence from teaching special education at Fairfax County Public Schools, and that’s when it all started.

I did a series of things to position myself for The Year of the Book. I connected with a critique partner. We established a writing schedule and made a writing space in her home. I entered contests to get some initial feedback. I got my feelings hurt upon receiving the feedback. I eventually stopped listening to the feedback, and instead, I wrote my story. When the
sabbatical ended, I was so in love with the job of writing, I resigned permanently from teaching and started the next book.

I’m a slow writer. I do an incredible amount of re-writing as I go. I might change one sentence
20 or 30 times before I move on. That first year, there were days when I wrote for a solid
eight hours and produced barely 250 words. I’m talking about legitimate writing, not that
kind of writing you do when you’re really goofing around on social media.

That was the first book. I was faster and better at it for the second, because, well, that’s
what 84,000 words will do for you. Do your craft, and you get better at doing your craft,
right?

I love my first book (Lily Barlow: The Mystery of Jane Dough). It represented a big
achievement, the product that forced people to stop using air quotes when referring to the
“book” I was working on. But, no matter how much I love LB1, I have to admit that LB2 is
better. Which is funny to me since I wasn’t even sure I had a second book in me. I didn’t know
if the storyline would hold together, or if the characters would stay authentic, or if I had any
ideas left.

Now that LB2 is launched, I’m itching to start LB3. My plots weave elements of romance, comedy and mystery, and I borrowed the genre “romcomstery” to describe it. I don’t know where book 3 is headed. I have a couple of action items that need to happen, but how those things come about is up to the characters.

Book 1 starts in Marshall, Virginia, when Lily Barlow comes home from UVA to get her family’s bakery opened after her dad’s heart attack. That’s when Lily thinks she has identified a murder victim online. Meanwhile, she believes her landlady is caught up in something nefarious. Oh, and there’s the little matter of Jack, her best friend since kindergarten, who suddenly wants to start dating. In book 2, Lily and her friends take a short trip to the Florida Keys, looking for the identity of the murder victim, only to uncover a different mystery.

If that whets your appetite for more, join me in my Facebook group, Carla Vergot’s Back
Porch, or on my website, CarlaVergot.com. I’m also on Instagram @carla_vergot, and I love to
connect!

The world is under stress. The news is grim. Panic is contagious.

I, like many parents, am finding that I now have to work from home and watch my little ones full time. Though I am saving commute time, overall I find less downtime, less time for me. This can be frazzling, especially for an introvert like me.

So this week I have tried to focus on finding joy in the moment. I find it’s best to get through times of uncertainty one day at a time. If I try to plan out too far into the future, I lose my mind. After all, we can only control our reactions to situations, not necessarily the situations themselves. At least, not situations of this magnitude.

So today, I thought I’d celebrate this state of mind by sharing some of the moments I was able to capture with my children.

The first is—sorry—a little gross if you’re not a bug-lover. I was taking the kids for a walk when my daughter discovered a muddy puddle from the rain the day before. She knelt down studying the puddle, and at first I felt the annoyance rising up in me. After all, children take forever to do anything, and I was trying to get our cardio in for the day. Stopping to stare at a puddle certainly does nothing for heart rate, right?

mitesBut then she started getting excited. “Look at those little things. Are they ants?”

I couldn’t even see what she was talking about. But indeed, there was something tiny in the puddle. The picture below is the best I could do with my phone (while trying to keep the toddler out of the road—in case a car did decide to come by). The whole collection would fit on less than half of a dime.

A Facebook quest among friends led me to later learn they are likely clover mites.

The whole incident reminded me how short-sighted our rushed lives are. There are amazing things happening all around us. Who knew a thing like clover mites exited, and could be observed by the casual eye?

For the next few days, including today, I tried to be more observant of my surroundings. Watching my young kids takes energy. They aren’t old enough for me to “tune out,” and the toddler certainly can’t be left alone for more than 30 seconds (with my back turned, he dumped out a bag of potato chips all over the table that had our mail on it, then dumped out a pretzel canister that was almost empty. One of my dogs ate the pile of salt from the carpet. All this while I was literally upstairs for 30 seconds getting my daughter’s water cup).

So during the hours that I must be vigilant about watching and interacting with my kids, I thought I’d look for the magic in the world.

In the process, I:

-saved a worm while filming a virtual lesson for my class (the worm was struggling to find its way off the pavement after the rain)

-observed a bird’s egg newly hatched on our lawn

-watched the way my dogs’ behavior changes from one hour to the next and detected patterns and quirks that will help make my next installment of Corgi Capers stronger

-Shared with my daughter the way bark from a chopped tree trunk peels off like pretend bacon (for playing pretend cooking) and how worm-trails, spider webs, and ants can be found on the bare wood. Such beauty in nature:

-discovered how everything seems more magical after a rain

-witnessed nature’s whimsical side, as an early-morning cloud and budding pear trees looked more like a winter landscape than a spring one. How easily the mind can switch the white buds with snow-laden branches.

-Watch the calming effect a small campfire can have on even the most rambunctious child

In some ways, these first few weeks of social distancing have made me feel like a Transcendentalist. Every time I studied the Transcendentalists with my students, I was a little jealous. I had never had, nor could I imagine having, the time and means to live the way they did, shutting themselves from society to find some sense of inner peace and connection with the universe.

And now, though the global circumstances are not pleasant, I find myself being thrust into a similar situation. I am having the time to de-clutter, to notice details, and to strive for a sense of balance.

In the words of Thoreau: “I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.”

Like so many, I am home/working from home in social isolation to hopefully prevent the spread of COVID19. I must admit that as an introvert, being stuck at home is sort of nice (obviously, it would be much nicer if it were a) voluntary and b) without the threat to humans across the globe and constant fear of the invisible danger.

But I realize not everyone is an introvert like me.

At first, my daughter was thrown off by being pulled out of preschool. She was disappointed and lonely (in her words) about not being able to see her teachers or friends. It even seemed she blamed herself for having to stay home (“If I promise to wash my hands, can I go to school again?”).

From time to time in our play, she would pause and frown. When I’d ask what was wrong, she’d say something like, “At school when this happens, so-and-so always tells a joke about a racoon laughing” (or some other preschool quirk). It was clear that a hole had opened in her life that had been filled with her friends.

And now what?

In the first few days, I (like most) was burdened with anxiety. There are so many unknowns about COVID19 and its impacts. Mostly, my fear of getting sick and not being able to take care of my kids. One day in particular, my corgi Yoda would not stop barking, trembling, or clinging to me. And my son, who had been sleeping through the night, woke up four times with nothing wrong except for seeming unsettled.

Their unsettled behavior was my wake-up call. Soon, I realized that it was up to me to make this a positive experience for my family. From the next morning on, I made efforts to look at the positive, to remind family members how glad I was to have so much time together with them. I even played up the fun of staying in your PJs for as long as you want (which my daughter took literally and now wears PJs all the time!).

But as the days went on, she stopped talking so much about her school and her friends. Though they come up from time to time, she echoes my outlook now, saying things out of the blue like, “I love you” and “I’m so glad we have time to play this game together” and “my brother and me are becoming good friends.” Positivity certainly is contagious.

The other night we read a book called “My First Book of Girl Power,” about some of the superheroes, like Wonder Woman, Bat Girl, Super Girl, etc. Each superhero has a power that real girls (or boys, or anyone!) can adopt, like strength, wisdom, knowledge, magic. Okay, well maybe that last one is metaphorical. But with each superhero, I talked about the strength highlighted and how my daughter could demonstrate that strength in her life.

At the end, she sat with a profound look on her face. Then she got up and wrapped me in a hug. “Mom,” she said. “Do you know who my superhero is?” There was a pause. I started to choke up, but then I realized she was probably going to say something wacky, like the joke about the laughing racoon that seems to be circulating through her class.

“Who?” I asked.

“You,” she said, wrapping me tighter.

It meant the world to me. It was needed reinforcement of a lesson we too easily forget. We are all so connected, even in isolation. It’s easy to forget how our actions or lack of actions impact others. Perhaps a benefit of the world being put on hold is the gift of time—time to think, to reach out (from a safe distance, of course!), to make connections.

Because you never know whose hero you’ll become.