Step by Step

Twelve years ago, I would watch my now sister-in-law, drop and do ten each time she passed the fireplace in her bungalow living room. Often times she’d have to put down the laundry basket or a kid to complete her regimented sit ups, push ups, or jumping jacks.

“There’s no time for the gym but if I do something each time I pass the fireplace, by the end of the day, I’ve had my workout,” she’d say.

I thought she was crazy. I chalked it up to her days as a captain in the Unites States Army. Maybe that routine was hard to let go of.

Still there was no arguing she was in great shape. She was almost ten years my senior, had four small children, and was in much better condition than the twenty six year old me. There was something to her madness, I just wasn’t sure what it was. Working out had never been my thing and doing it in five minute spurts throughout the day was just plain depressing.

Seven years later, carrying some extra pounds and two babies of my own, I sought the advice of a nutritionist to get myself into shape.

Her recommendation was a novel one: eat less, exercise more. The eating less part, was a struggle but doable. Exercise more? With two small children in tow, how the hell was I supposed to do that?

“Forty five minutes of cardio, six days a week,” was what the nutritionist prescribed. I laughed. 

Week one I decided I’d do twenty. Usually between 7 and 8 at night, after my husband was home, dinner was done, and the kids were cozy in their jammies, I’d hop on the treadmill and huff my way to the day’s end.

By week two my husband set up a little black and white TV in eye shot of the treadmill. By the end of that week, thirty minutes was not that big a deal, the length of a Seinfeld re-run or a cooking show.

By the end of that first month, I’d worked my way up to forty-five minutes which often became an hour to finish whatever program I’d started. Exercise was quickly becoming something I looked forward to. It made me feel good and I was seeing the difference.

Last summer, while sitting around the pool, a friend asked me if I wanted to go for a run the next day.

“I don’t run,” I said. Sure I was still doing the treadmill most days, but that was only a kind a sorta run. My friend was a real runner the kind that did marathons. 

“We’re going tomorrow morning at 7, just join us.”

“Okay,” I said, fully planning to cancel by text around 6:45. 

But the next morning I found myself more curious than tired. So I went. Three women, all runners, and me. For the first mile I talked non-stop. If I could wind my way through a conversation, I might forget that I was not on my treadmill. By mile two, I was feeling okay, good actually. And by the time we reached the coffee shop that was our finish line, I felt like I could keep going. 

I did it. Until that moment I wasn’t even sure I wanted to do it. Running long distance had never been a stated goal of mine (of which there are many). But slowly, step by step, jog by jog, I was a runner. 

This morning out on my now daily jog, I thought of my sister-in-law and her crazy regimen. I get it now. 

Life happens in increments. It’s daunting, impossible even, to “get into shape”, “lose twenty pounds”, “find the love of your life” or “write a novel.”  But if you do it carrot by carrot, date by date, word by word, most things are possible.

You just have to be willing to drop and do ten. 

My God

My God

When grappling with the usual calamities of youth, things like heartache, injustice, bullies, not making the cheerleading team, my mother always had the same response. “Pray about it,” she’d say with intense ease. Her words relayed comfort, but her eyes had a “this is important” demeanor. And so even though I felt like saying, “I didn’t do well on a test, I’m not flunking out of school altogether!” Generally, I’d say a quick pray for good measure.

I always knew my mother’s intentions were honorable. I was also fairly certain that the spiritual leader of the universe did not have my misguided attempts at being junior high cheerleading captain on his 1984 priority list. Despite any efforts my mother made to convince me otherwise, this was something of which I was sure.

I was also fairly certain at an early age, that God, my God, was a good guy with an acute sense of humor. I don’t know why I never thought God could be a woman. Maybe because early on it was mostly me and my mom and I felt the need for a guy in the equation. 

Or, more likely because the figure pictured in the literature of the liberal, for a Catholic church, we attended was a Bohemian looking twenty something man. Somehow I knew that he, God and Jesus, was with us. And, I hoped he was patient since my mother conferenced him in a few dozen times a day.

I recall thinking of prayers, and probably religion in general, as a sort of equalizer between what could happen and what actually did. Like the time when I fell down our rather steep stairs and my mother quickly garnished the all white bottle of holy water from the pull down desk she had inherited from her grandmother. Within seconds of easing my tears, each of my scrapes and would-be bruises were blessed with dabs of water. And since nothing but a few achy muscles resulted from the fall, I remember thinking that the stuff must work. No broken bones or gashing head wounds. Just some routine pains.

As I got a little older, I naturally began to question. Was all this praying really necessary? Somewhere in my early teenage years the questioning turned to sarcasm and then round about sixteen a healthy hostility set in. My mother’s faith in God and his ability to cure anything and everything began to simply make me mad. It occurred to me that she was wasting quite a bit of her time, and therefore mine, in deep prayer about situations that she should just plain take control of herself. And so, as she’d recite her “pray about it” mantra, I began rolling my eyes at her blatant disregard for reality.  

Surprisingly, though, I never stopped praying myself. Sometimes, like before a test, I’d find myself doing a safety prayer. The kind that just can’t hurt. But, mostly I really prayed and believed that he was listening. 

I vividly remember a moment in college when a friend asked for my advice. After describing all of her options, she looked to me and asked, “What would you do?” Without a moment’s hesitation, to my slight embarrassment, I said, “I’d pray about it.” It was probably the first time I acknowledged my own faith in prayer, no longer just an extension of my mother’s.

Once, early in our marriage when faced with an important decision, my husband and I decided to pray.  Together.  It was an awkward moment.  Between the two of us we had several decades of praying experience, but neither one was particularly comfortable with the public prayer approach. So after a few seconds of  “you go, no you start” I just launched in.  

As I began outlining all the details, telling God that we weren’t sure of our next step, that we appreciated the options, but needed his guidance, I looked over at my husband who was clearly trying to contain laughter. “Then you say the prayer!” I blurted. 

“It’s just a little more free flowing than I am used to” he said, still trying not to laugh. And then I began laughing because I knew exactly what he meant. I talk to God like I am talking to a friend not an almighty being that big statues are built to or wars are fought over.

The God of statues and rosary beads has never been in sync with the being to which I pray.  I’m not sure that guy would’ve been well suited for the early on journey, with my mother and me. That God always seemed a little too organized.

I grapple with that God and my God, and with the endless litany of rituals associated with my religion. I avoid disgruntled Catholic conversations at all costs. I refuse to defend my religion. I’ve never relied on other human beings to interface with My God and I’m never quite sure what to say to people who do.

Last week in church my eight year old leaned over and in a half whisper asked, “Has anyone ever met God? How do we really know he exists?”

I thought about punting the question until later so that I could better formulate my response. Instead, I said in half whisper, “That’s where faith comes in. You have to figure out the answer to that question for yourself. That’s why we’re here.”

He stared straight ahead. I worried that I was too vague or not emphatic enough. My response was a far cry from the “pray about it” mantra I’d been handed at his age. I was ready for him to ask me what I thought. To give him the comfort that his Mom believed. But instead he turned to me and whispered, “My faith tells me it’s 50/50.”

I smiled. And I was pretty sure My God, the long haired hippy God, was smiling too. 

In The Garden

by Holly Howley

At the end of summer, just as the nights turn crisp and mums multiply, I make my ceremonial sauce. Forty juicy tomatoes that’s what it takes. Trial and error has gone into that number. It’s enough to make sauce for a few meals with some left over for the freezer. After all, these are not just any tomatoes. They are tomatoes from the garden. 

Growing up we had a garden. I recall few details of the actual planting but I remember checking daily for progress and cheering when the vegetables miraculously sprung from the ground. So, thirty five years later when my husband and I bought a house that came with a backyard garden plot, I couldn’t wait to share the experience with my own kids. 

I soon realized, though I had no idea what I was doing. That first year we, my two sons and I, did a lot of research. And then we planted way too many seeds, way too close together. Second year, we sowed half the seeds and everything farther apart. It was one of the hottest summers on record. The entire garden grew with rapid speed. Most nights July through September we enjoyed something from our homegrown harvest.

This year, a little more confidence has settled in, along with a healthy respect for what  lies before me. It has taken me a while but I now know that even the weeds have their place.

This morning as I poured over the past prime plants, picking the late blooming tomatoes for my ceremonial sauce, I felt the familiar struggle of the changing season. In the garden, in me. The garden has come to mean much more to me than the produce it provides. I’ve learned a lot, over the last few summers, in the garden. 

Space. Plants, like people, need space. When they are crowded they either get power hungry or topple from the weight of others around them.

Balance. Plants also require water and sun. But too much of either is, too much. Balance is important.

Timing. Never water in high heat. The water bakes the plants and makes everything droopy. It’s the same as trying to reason with a tantrum throwing toddler in a grocery store. Let the intensity subside, and things will work out just fine.

Imperfections. Get rid of weeds before they’ve fully taken root. If you wait too long, it can be difficult to tell which is the plant and which is the weed. After a certain point, it’s better to have some weeds growing side by side with the plants than to kill the vegetables trying to destroy the interloper. And sometimes, it turns out, the plants and weeds grow just fine, together.

Freedom. Let plants roam. I try to plan out the flow of the garden so that the rambling summer squash vines don’t invade the more controlled eggplants and tomatoes but in the end, the plants do what they want. I gently nudge them and tie them together on sticks and cages. Plants like people need direction, support. But don’t give them too much instruction. They’ll find the warmth they need, after they figure out which path is best for them.

Share.  There is nothing like the taste of juicy homegrown tomatoes or the tangy punch of garden leeks except the glory of sharing something you’ve grown with an unsuspecting friend.  

Letting Go. There is no perfection in the garden. I love getting my fingers dirty, tending the baby plants, sowing the growing fruit. But it isn’t orderly or pretty. I am usually a sweaty, buggy mess after I’ve spent time in the garden. And despite my best efforts in May to pristinely plant seeds in perfect rows, by July the garden is a twisty, twirly magical mass of green, ready to burst with the season’s bounty. 

Then just a few short weeks later, the vines wither, the fruit is picked, and even the weeds grow weary. Summer ends. 

And that’s when I make my ceremonial sauce--to remember--summer in the garden.

This

The house is still, strangely quiet. I am writing.

Rob sits in “his room” otherwise known as the living room, reading.  

Me writing, him reading, this is not unusual. 

But on this day, no one is asking: “Mom can I play the Wii?” “Dad what’s for breakfast?” “Have you called Parker’s Mom?” “What are we doing today?”

Instead I ask the question: “Want an egg?” 

Rob shakes his head, “Already had cereal.” 

When did I miss that? Surely the crunching should have pierced the deafening silence.

Our boys are with their grandparents this week. Off on adventures of an amusement park, historic site, summer nature. 

And we are home, living life. Going to work, eating, reading, sleeping, watching TV. In the past when we’ve had the odd occasion of being kidless for a series of days Rob and I would quickly schedule our own adventures. 

But this year is different. We just took our family vacation. I’ve just started a new job. And we are years into sleeping through the night, no longer in the “hunker down” stage where babies and toddlers muck up the ability to eat, sleep and shower.

We are in the middle. Of a week without kids. Of our lives.

I could tell you that I am lost without them. That I have no idea what to do with myself. That my husband and I are strangers rattling around in a house too big for two. And that would be sort-of true.

BUT this week when I clear the coffee table of the usual scraps of paper, abandoned drinks and day old newspapers, the next morning it’s still clutter-free. Wow.

Three days after going to the grocery store there is still food to eat and some of my favorite lemonade left. Cool.

And come to find out my husband and I still enjoy talking, to each other. Amazing.

It is all very wow, cool and amazing until I think about the fact that this is it. The future. 

Someday, with any luck, our kids will make it through higher education and find gainful employment. And this is what’s waiting for us. 

A clutter-free, silent, refrigerator filled house, together. With plenty of time to read and write and eat cereal. Weird. 

Sure this is many years off. Our kids are only 7 and 9. But this moment is strangely familiar and becoming more frequent. The realization that nothing stays the same, ever. 

I had a similar moment the day before my youngest started kindergarten. It was a Monday. What was supposed to be prep-day. Rationally, I knew not all that much would change. Will had attended half-day pre-school, now he would attend half-day kindergarten. But emotionally, I could feel it. A shift was underway.

So, with lunches to pack, back packs to ready I announced: “Let’s go to the beach!” 

“Doesn’t school start tomorrow?” Rob asked. 

“Yup,” I said, loading the car.

When we got to the beach, forty miles away, the kids ran on to the sand, leaving me to carry all the paraphernalia. I was feeling and looking a tad ridiculous. Not only was it the day before school but it wasn’t exactly a beach day. The sky was overcast, a chill hung in the air.

But to my surprise, as we approached the water, I was not alone. Four other moms I knew were there with their tribes too. There we all were. Holding on.

It is now two years later, and I am two short weeks away from having a 2nd and 4th grader. I’ve adjusted to the seven hours that used to be filled with Mommy Music classes and trips to the local library. They like their “new” life and I like mine too. Still, it’s different than it once was.

With any luck, someday I will adjust to this too. But I am decidedly not here yet. 

Apparently Rob isn’t either. 

“Want to call the kids?” he asks.

“Yup,” I say, getting the phone.

Burning the Enchiladas 

Welcome to hollyhowley.com. I stare at my two week old blog. But it isn’t my blog. 

There is a friendly twenty-something Vannaesque woman motioning to a menu of plant options. I must have made a mistake, like when you type in Red Box instead of Red Sox. I try again.

And there she is, again. My blog is now a web site selling plants in Ireland. This time offering information on azaleas and peonies.

I go straight to Blogger to see what is happening. There she is again. Panic sets in. 

I search for a place on the Blogger web site to contact a person. To ask a question. To make a complaint. But when I click on “Need help?” what comes up is a series of commonly asked questions.

And not one of them says: What to do if Irish horticulturists take over your blog.

I am sure in this moment there are plenty of logical solutions, steps to remedy the situation. I opt for full throttle sobbing. It is working out fine until my husband walks in the room.

Surely he is expecting someone to have died or a dire diagnosis because he seems less than bowled over when I say, “My blog isn’t my blog anymore.” 

He stands before me in stunned silence. Clearly trying to wrap his head around me blubbering over a blog.

“I know it’s stupid but I worked all day and then answered a bunch of e-mails, made dinner and I had my new post ready, you’re supposed to change it every few days you know and tomorrow I am writing, nothing else but writing and even though a blog technically is writing, it’s not really. I want to finally finish my manuscript and I don’t have time for this tomorrow. So I was trying to get this done but now there’s an Irish woman on my blog.”

He takes out his little device and types the link in. He sees her too. “How do you know she’s Irish?” he asks.

Really that’s the takeaway question?

Thankfully he leaves the room leaving me to my pitiful rant. I pick up the phone and call my friend Nancy. The same friend who generously took time from her writing to help me start my blog. To get me to stop making excuses and just do it.

No answer. I leave a message, trying to sound casual. But through my faux casual tone, she detects my panic. The phone rings three minutes later.

“Oh, that is just awful,” she says. Thank you. An appropriate response. 

“But, Holly” she says, in a comforting parental tone, “I can see your blog just fine.” She reads the first line of my last post. 

“What, you can see it?” I say in disbelief.

“Try turning the computer off and starting it again.”

I turn the computer off, re-boot and hold my breath.

And there it is: WanderTime. My blog.

And there it is: the irony of this brave new world where a writer is expected to have a fully formed platform of “followers” and “friends” who “like” and “tweet” about them. Still, some solutions are infinitely low tech.

“Thanks Nancy,” I say.

“No problem, I was so upset when I got your call.”

“I kind of lost it.” I tell her about my sobbing. We have a good laugh.

“I get it,” she says, “you burned the enchiladas.”

“The what?”

“We have a saying in my family,” she explains.

Then Nancy tells me about her cousin, who, while going through a rough patch was keeping it all together...until...she burned the enchiladas. Something about seeing her charred dinner caused her to lose it. “My enchiladas!” was all she could say through her tears.

“We all burn the enchiladas sometimes,” Nancy says.

“Yes we do,” I say. 

And it helps to talk to an actual friend who really likes you. Someone who can suggest turning the computer off, before you turn it back on again.

Tending the Weeds

Tending the Weeds 

This morning I headed out into my weedy, unattended, “why aren’t the peppers growing?” garden. In past years I’ve been regimented about weeding, but not this year. I could give you my laundry list of excuses but suffice to say, I’ve slacked off.

So this morning I set out to right the ship. Where to start? 

I look to my precious tomatoes. Then to my single row of corn (a nostalgic nod to my Upstate NY roots). But the mirky tangled abyss otherwise known as the back of the garden is calling my name. 

For some reason only one of the watermelon plants took root, leaving a vast space with nothing but weeds sprouting little yellow flowers as far as the eye can see. I begin pulling, then pull some more. It feels good to clear it all out, get rid of the clutter. With each heave ho, I am ridding my world of weeds. 

“Mommmm! It’s ten,” Will calls out from the porch slider.

“Okay, thanks,” I say.

I’d asked my seven year old to let me know when the clock struck ten so that I’d have time to shower before we needed to pick his big brother up from camp.

How was it possible that I’d already been out in the garden for over an hour?

I again look to the tomatoes, corn, eggplants, cucumbers and marathon squash. I’d never gotten to them, my budding harvest. They were still a weedy tangled mess. 

I’d spent my time on the back of the garden. True it was the area that needed the most work. But no matter how much effort I gave it, there would be no harvest. Neat doesn’t grow produce.

I spent a few lingering minutes on the languishing peppers and the climbing cucumbers. But with my shower now in question, I packed up and headed inside.

This afternoon, after the weeding, camp pick up, pool time, and a trip to the grocery store, I sat down at my computer. To write.

Where to start? Manuscript revisions I’ve been mulling for some time? The quirky essay rattling around in my brain? Chapter 4 of the middle grade I am determined to finish? 

I should check my e-mails. I suddenly have a nagging feeling I am neglecting something, someone. I click on my inbox. A wave of multiplying new messages flood in. How did I let my e-mail get so out of control? I immediately start sorting the junk from the substance.

Then it hits me. The now neatly tended rows in the back of the garden, perfectly poised to...grow more weeds. I’ve been here before. I close my e-mail and return to the harvest. 

An essay about weeding my garden.

Postscript:

Two weeks ago I found myself quietly perched on a broadcast legend’s stairs, tucked away, as the tape rolled. Surrounded by pops of color on the walls, in a breathtaking sun drenched room with gardens visible in the distance through a large picture window.

As the interviewer made detailed inquires about each stage of a legend’s life, Anne Garrels responded with unabashed honesty. Insecurities, frustrations, sacrifices--she shared them all. 

Twenty years ago, I had headed out into the world hoping to be the next Jane Pauley. But after graduating as a communications major, the reporter’s life wasn’t tugging at my soul strings. I went in another direction, related, but different.  

Now here I was in the rolling hills of Connecticut on a random video assignment for the Connecticut Women’s Hall of Fame. Twenty years, two kids, many jobs, moves and dreams later. 

But how did I get here? Sitting in Anne Garrels’ living room on a beautiful summer day? I mused.

And then I remembered. As Will and I were leaving the Thankful Arnold House, now three years ago, I’d asked for a brochure. On the bottom of that brochure a logo read: Connecticut Women’s Heritage Trail. 

It intrigued me. I loved the idea that an organization was paying tribute to the role of woman, past and present. So I reached out, contacted the Executive Director. We’ve collaborated ever since.

It’s hard to know what you’re looking for, when the goal is to get lost. 

But when you find it, you know. 

Happy Wandering.