writing

“Dear March—Come in—”

/ Brett Ann Stanciu / 19 Comments

I stand outside eating a cheese sandwich stuffed with a handful of the lettuce I bought for my cat Acer. The trees across the road shake furiously in a wind as if outraged. What’s your complaint, I wonder.

Such a strange winter: a handful of skiing days, no ice skating, the hard cold a distant memory. The yuck of this winter has been the lack of sunlight, the sodden clouds that have lingered from last year’s rainy summer through January’s gloom. We kvetch. My own antidote is the early morning, my insistence that writing, that order and beauty, are a transformative might. There’s nothing new in that approach; it’s the ancient path of seeking luminosity, of Rumi’s words that the wound is where the light comes in.

In March, of course, sudden sunlight in your living room is apt to reveal the dirty cat hair clusters balled beneath your couch, the cobwebs trailing from the ceiling corner, drenched in dust. Make of it what you will.

Oh March, my long-time friend, giver of fine weather, betrayer with your miserable cold snowstorms. In the lengthening days, the sun returns like a long-ago lover. My friend the sun and I take long walks, my sunny friend whispering in my ear that brighter lovelier days are already here.

A few lines from Emily Dickinson:

Dear March—Come in—
How glad I am—
I hoped for you before—
Put down your Hat—
You must have walked—
How out of Breath you are—
Dear March, how are you, and the Rest—
Did you leave Nature well—
Oh March, Come right upstairs with me—
I have so much to tell—

Song against Reductionism.

/ Brett Ann Stanciu / 20 Comments

A pretty wet snow covers our muddy world — temporarily, for sure, a grace of sugar snow in a long mud season. Early March, and I’m already hanging the laundry out to dry, the pale green nubs of perennial bulbs pushing up through matted debris of last year’s leaves, broken twigs.

On a warm afternoon, I put the snow shovel away — my usual blind enthusiasm about spring! I’m the woman who rails against reduction, that the world can be defined as this or that. This world is nothing but gray, an unending smear of thaw and freeze. And yet, I’m wrong about that, too. Daily, the bird chorus gains, the winged creatures flocking in the box elders in the ravine behind my house, feasting at the feeder in the mock orange.

A poem from the late David Budbill:

“What Issa Heard”

Two hundred years ago Issa heard the morning birds

singing sutras to this suffering world.

I heard them too, this morning, which must mean,

since we will always have a suffering world,

we must also always have a song.

Vermont’s fifth season: mud.

/ Brett Ann Stanciu / 4 Comments

I carry my laptop out the backdoor of Hardwick’s coffee shop. A couple I know pulls up on their fat tire bikes and rave about the biking. There’s an adage in Vermont that the state’s fifth season is mud season. The first week of March is way early for the back roads to break up. Most towns post their roads around March 15, prohibiting heavy trucks, like log or delivery trucks, from destroying already soft roads. Now, towns have already posted these warnings, ribboned with orange survey tape, a sure sign that winter is on the wane.

I meet a friend at a former golf course now owned by the city of Montpelier where people let their dogs run. The course is last year’s brown grass, but when I squint I can see emerging green beginning shimmer, pushing back the dull amber. How much the world leans into living.

My oldest daughter calls from New Mexico, on her journey to visit the grandparents. Through our phones, her face glows with desert light. I think of her driving around Santa Fe, this old adobe city and the stunning landscape an infinitely complex story that stretches so far back. Within that human history, my own family story lodges in with its numerous plot points. Ah, family… never a straight line.

T. S. Eliot wrote of that April is the cruellest month, breeding/Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing/Memory and desire, stirring/Dull roots with spring rain. Winter kept us warm… Mud season may be the least loved. But in my mind, it’s the sweetest. Sap runs. The softening ground sucks our boots into its stickiness. Tender green unfurls, strengthens. We move, onward.

March 1: Cabin Fever, the Impossibility of Spring.

/ Brett Ann Stanciu / Leave a comment

March: a day of singing chickadees, mushy ice, all the little paths running with thaw, twinkling in the sunlight with the promise of what I cheerily call early spring! The next morning, the temperature pegs itself solidly at 15 degrees and refuses to budge. I walk down to the post office, the wind scraping my cheeks. What grit of sandpaper is this? 80? 60?

Vermont late winter/spring is the season of vehement vacillating, of freeze and melt, sun, snow, rain. It’s the season of cold hands, flushed cheeks.

Late into the night I lie on the floor reading Leslie Jamison: “It’s what fairy tales have been trying to tell us for centuries. Don’t be afraid of never getting what you want. Be afraid of what you’ll do with it.”

March: the lurching season of cabin fever, of Where are those crocuses, anyway? Will flowers ever bloom again? I bake a cheesecake, fill bird feeders, have one, two, three essays picked up by little mags. The waning moon shines up the rutted mud, the dregs of snow. Early morning, the birds are at it, singing for dear life, tugging in spring.

‘Soon it will be the sky of early spring…’

/ Brett Ann Stanciu / 8 Comments

Wild February!

At noon, I stand talking to the road crew in a sparkling snowfall. I wax on about the prettiness of snow on the emerging earth. The crew, who’s endured the strange vagaries of mud season in December, the fickleness of Vermont’s winter weather made weirder by climate change, humor me with a nod.

Fifty degrees and rain forecasted for today, followed by more, followed by bitter cold, then rain and wind, the sun I lean towards…. Late winter, again, and I remember when I could distinguish the years: the spring we boiled sap from March 1 to the 31st. The year we made 540 hard-earned gallons, two of us and a five-year-old, and I wore through three pairs of gloves carrying in wood and feeding the arch.

Walking around my snow-scattered garden, I envision where I will plant the bare root Japanese lilac I’ve ordered, for me or someone else to admire and love. The path down to my compost is both icy and soft mud, the conundrum of winter reluctantly losing its teeth to spring. The true joy is the inevitability, the earth’s order to proceed from twinkling snowflake to downy crocus, the planet’s sheer opinionlessness regarding skunks and black flies.

The road crew and I kick around a few more pithy remarks about government corruption, and then we head along….

From my one of my favorite Louise Glück poems, March:

The sea doesn’t change as the earth changes;
it doesn’t lie.
You ask the sea, what can you promise me
and it speaks the truth; it says erasure.

Finally the dog goes in.
We watch the crescent moon,
very faint at first, then clearer and clearer
as the night grows dark.
Soon it will be the sky of early spring, stretching above the stubborn ferns and
violets.

Don’t let your cow get the upper hand, er, hoof…?

/ Brett Ann Stanciu / 5 Comments

Ah, February, the month with the strange “U” that children stumble to spell. Two inches of a sugar snow this morning when I carried out the stove’s ashes, the cardinals whistling the day alive, a buttery full moon charming the evening sky. For the past few weeks, my life has overflowed with the challenges of faraway aging parents, with details mundane and immense, and all very very real. There’s that Tolstoy saying about families unhappy in their own way. Carrying in firewood, I remind myself: families endure the unspeakable in their own particular vernacular, swaddled in the way of all human life.

Sugaring season is hustling into Vermont now. The years I spent sugaring with a husband and two young daughters taught me to strip away the unnecessary, to bend into work when bending is required. It’s a habit I’ve carried to writing, and I’ve managed now to write three books against odds that even now seem not in my favor. But it was single parenting that honed my skills to grasp the nourishing in times of hardness, suck hard the marrow of the real. In a conversation with a young homesteader and poet today, she offers me a line of wisdom so pithy and wise I laugh out loud: Don’t let your milk cow get the upper hand on you. Yeah, think that one over.

Here’s a David Goodman interview with Elizabeth Price, mother of the young Palestinian man Hisham Awartani who was shot with two friends in Burlington, Vermont, last November. The family epitomizes courage, knowledge, and depth of heart — highly recommended.