Oh Susie! Full of images, this gorgeous meditation ends with the oneness of mother and child...such an archetypal, irresistible picture. I love this, and you, and wish you and all the world a turn towards goodness on the threshold of our new year.
Thank you, Jinks. It's interesting how writers seem to have a fixed number of subjects that they need to return to again and again. My mother, insomnia, these are headline topics for me. Wishing you l'shanah tovah as well.
It is an auspicious day, isn't it? I had a lovely experience with my son and grandson at Mayim Rabim. Feeling a renewed sense of blessing and appreciation for the people like yourself who are kind enough to read my essays and write to me. Shanah tovah.
Always moved by your articulation of being alive. The "abrasive conditions of life" --such an apt description of what we're all trying to both make peace with and take a pause from.
Ah insomnia the bane of my existence. I now listen to a very clever sleep podcast called Nothing Much Happens. Loved this piece. Wishing you another year of beautiful writing. L’ shanah tovah.
Susie, you look like you have found your bliss napping in the warm air in the charming grounds of your home. For myself, I expected my mid-life insomniac tendencies to get worse in old age but was pleased to discover that's not the case. I think it's because I moved from the city to the country, where it's much quieter and darker at night. I also have a simple breathing routine that helps quieten my daytime "monkey" mind.
I've been through some very rough patches with sleep. When my mother died in 2006, I didn't get a good night's sleep for six months. It's much more manageable now. I'm realizing that "getting ready" for sleep doesn't happen in the late evening. It goes on all day by living a contemplative life. Stockbridge and environs is where I lived for fifty years. I now live on the outskirts of Minneapolis and in the Sierras in the winter.
Ah, Susie, the baby’d worn out playing with your shoelaces. What sweetness!
The happiness on your face in the photo seems to have a similar source, along with the warm sun.
Your nap in Venice reminds me of one I took in the sunlight stretched on a fallen log in a meadow on a hill in southeast Alaska, deep, dreamless, nourishing.
Then I remember waking, thinking, I hope when I open my eyes I’m not looking at a bear!
The Venetian nap was in 1992 and still fills me with joy. No bears in Venice, just gondolas. I'm starting (at this late date) to realize that the preparation for sleep takes place over the course of the whole day.
"Writing is the comforter and pillow that allows me to tolerate the abrasive conditions of life." Oh, yes! This has helped to keep me sane through these unique and sometimes frightening times. And sleep, when it comes, is sweet relief. That you for such an elegant and eloquent post.
I get excited when I see you have written a new post. I love your writing.
Gotta say, that's thrilling.
Oh Susie! Full of images, this gorgeous meditation ends with the oneness of mother and child...such an archetypal, irresistible picture. I love this, and you, and wish you and all the world a turn towards goodness on the threshold of our new year.
Thank you, Jinks. It's interesting how writers seem to have a fixed number of subjects that they need to return to again and again. My mother, insomnia, these are headline topics for me. Wishing you l'shanah tovah as well.
Warm, fuzzy, tender feelings on reading this essay on the first day of the Jewish New Year. Thank you as always, Susie.
It is an auspicious day, isn't it? I had a lovely experience with my son and grandson at Mayim Rabim. Feeling a renewed sense of blessing and appreciation for the people like yourself who are kind enough to read my essays and write to me. Shanah tovah.
I'm so glad, Susie. Shanah tovah!
Always moved by your articulation of being alive. The "abrasive conditions of life" --such an apt description of what we're all trying to both make peace with and take a pause from.
That's such an accurate description of this moment in history, Zoe. Sometimes I feel both of those impulses at the same time.
I spoke with Mort. He said how much he enjoyed seeing you.
Ah insomnia the bane of my existence. I now listen to a very clever sleep podcast called Nothing Much Happens. Loved this piece. Wishing you another year of beautiful writing. L’ shanah tovah.
L'shanah tovah, Alice. That's a very lovely wish to offer another writer. Your writing about Poland has been a revelation.
Lovely essay. Glad you had a good time in the Berks, seeing old friends and dozing in the sun.
Thanks, Betsy. It was lovely to be there. Visited our mutual friends in Copake.
Susie, you look like you have found your bliss napping in the warm air in the charming grounds of your home. For myself, I expected my mid-life insomniac tendencies to get worse in old age but was pleased to discover that's not the case. I think it's because I moved from the city to the country, where it's much quieter and darker at night. I also have a simple breathing routine that helps quieten my daytime "monkey" mind.
I've been through some very rough patches with sleep. When my mother died in 2006, I didn't get a good night's sleep for six months. It's much more manageable now. I'm realizing that "getting ready" for sleep doesn't happen in the late evening. It goes on all day by living a contemplative life. Stockbridge and environs is where I lived for fifty years. I now live on the outskirts of Minneapolis and in the Sierras in the winter.
Ah, Susie, the baby’d worn out playing with your shoelaces. What sweetness!
The happiness on your face in the photo seems to have a similar source, along with the warm sun.
Your nap in Venice reminds me of one I took in the sunlight stretched on a fallen log in a meadow on a hill in southeast Alaska, deep, dreamless, nourishing.
Then I remember waking, thinking, I hope when I open my eyes I’m not looking at a bear!
I wasn’t.
The Venetian nap was in 1992 and still fills me with joy. No bears in Venice, just gondolas. I'm starting (at this late date) to realize that the preparation for sleep takes place over the course of the whole day.
the whole day... something to ponder! We sleep like we wake?
Ah Susie, thank you for this! And I loved your recent visit!
Likewise, Signe. I'm blessed to be so deeply connected to my old home and my old friends.
"Writing is the comforter and pillow that allows me to tolerate the abrasive conditions of life." Oh, yes! This has helped to keep me sane through these unique and sometimes frightening times. And sleep, when it comes, is sweet relief. That you for such an elegant and eloquent post.
Thank you, Stephanie. Writing allows me to "empty out." I'm glad to be able to share this lifelong concern with you.