November 2nd marked the last day of Día de Muertos, and our village of San Pedro Ixtlahuaca, outside Oaxaca, Mexico, celebrates it in a big way. Gathering myself up to go took some doing—I am still recovering from October 22nd surgery.
Amy and I drove the three minutes from our house to just outside the village cemetery, near the town square. A big party was already underway at 7 PM. A brass and percussion band blasted away on a stage while revelers danced, many in masks, costumes, or painted faces. Fireworks shot off with loud blasts, sparklers surged from the stage amid the pounding music, and costumed servers went around giving out cups of mezcal.
Wow, what fun! Even with my bandages.
Two days later was my post-operative appointment. My surgeon took out the stitches and prescribed new medicines to help prevent infection.
“In two weeks it will all be over,” he proclaimed.
Music to my ears!
I am still wearing the catheter, which I complain about loudly but realize is necessary to keep my bladder empty so I can heal. This morning it occurred to me that this strange contraption has probably saved many lives. Anyway, it comes out soon.
Some months earlier, I had submitted my memoir, The Weight of Air, to a literary competition. Having heard nothing, I decided to visit the organization's website and see whether the winners had been announced.
To my astonishment, there was my book, listed as a winner in the memoir category!
I contacted the publisher, who informed me that the Pinnacle Book Achievement Award, presented by the National Association of Book Entrepreneurs, had been announced a month earlier. He did not know why I had never received notification.
What made the discovery especially poignant was that I had received the very same award in 2001 for A Heart Traced in Sand, the book I wrote about my life with Naomi, my oldest daughter, who died of cancer at nineteen.
Twenty-five years have passed between these two awards.
The first emerged from the crucible of grief, from the experience of loving a daughter through her illness and death, and discovering that love does not end when a life does. Her life had been so remarkable I knew it had to be shared. The second grew from a one year journey across the world and, ultimately, inward—a chronicle of surrender, transformation, and the mysterious currents that carry us through life.
The news caught me unprepared. Other winners in the memoir category already had polished websites promoting their books. I had some catching up to do! So I set about creating a new webpage for The Weight of Air, presenting the book and its award. It looks good, and now I can begin the work of bringing the memoir to a wider audience.
This morning, reflecting on the week, I realized just how much of my life has become devoted to writing.
In some ways, I have embarked upon a change of career late in life. For more than forty years, painting has been central to my identity. I have also pursued photography and writing, often simultaneously, each medium offering another way to explore the mystery of existence. But for over a year the brushes have been quiet, and the easel has stood waiting while words have occupied nearly all my creative attention.
Perhaps the distinction matters less than I imagine. Whether through pigment, light, or language, I have always been trying to give expression to something that cannot quite be named. Something glimpsed beneath the surface of ordinary life.
The recognition of my writing is gratifying, especially at this stage of my life. It suggests that the years spent at my desk, following memories and intuitions wherever they lead, have not been in vain.
And so, here I am, at seventy-four, still becoming.
My body is healing, my creative life is taking unexpected turns, and the world outside my door continues its exuberant dance.
I do not know what the next chapter will bring.
But I am grateful to still be writing it.
“In two weeks it will all be over,” he proclaimed.
Music to my ears!
I am still wearing the catheter, which I complain about loudly but realize is necessary to keep my bladder empty so I can heal. This morning it occurred to me that this strange contraption has probably saved many lives. Anyway, it comes out soon.
Some months earlier, I had submitted my memoir, The Weight of Air, to a literary competition. Having heard nothing, I decided to visit the organization's website and see whether the winners had been announced.
To my astonishment, there was my book, listed as a winner in the memoir category!
I contacted the publisher, who informed me that the Pinnacle Book Achievement Award, presented by the National Association of Book Entrepreneurs, had been announced a month earlier. He did not know why I had never received notification.
Twenty-five years have passed between these two awards.
The first emerged from the crucible of grief, from the experience of loving a daughter through her illness and death, and discovering that love does not end when a life does. Her life had been so remarkable I knew it had to be shared. The second grew from a one year journey across the world and, ultimately, inward—a chronicle of surrender, transformation, and the mysterious currents that carry us through life.
The news caught me unprepared. Other winners in the memoir category already had polished websites promoting their books. I had some catching up to do! So I set about creating a new webpage for The Weight of Air, presenting the book and its award. It looks good, and now I can begin the work of bringing the memoir to a wider audience.
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In some ways, I have embarked upon a change of career late in life. For more than forty years, painting has been central to my identity. I have also pursued photography and writing, often simultaneously, each medium offering another way to explore the mystery of existence. But for over a year the brushes have been quiet, and the easel has stood waiting while words have occupied nearly all my creative attention.
Perhaps the distinction matters less than I imagine. Whether through pigment, light, or language, I have always been trying to give expression to something that cannot quite be named. Something glimpsed beneath the surface of ordinary life.
The recognition of my writing is gratifying, especially at this stage of my life. It suggests that the years spent at my desk, following memories and intuitions wherever they lead, have not been in vain.
And so, here I am, at seventy-four, still becoming.
My body is healing, my creative life is taking unexpected turns, and the world outside my door continues its exuberant dance.
I do not know what the next chapter will bring.
But I am grateful to still be writing it.
