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Letter from Joyce Archives
Children
coming home and leaving… A kiss from a puppy (and none from
Willie Nelson)… and an update on the Lake Atitlan Writing Workshop
January
17 , 2009
Dear Friends,
Here is what always happens to me over the holidays -- and if you're the parent of older children (mine are 24, 26 and 30) this may come as no surprise.
First I spend months missing my children and hoping they'll make it home (home meaning my home, no longer theirs) over the holidays. Sometimes they do, sometimes they don't. This year, two out of three (all but my son Charlie) announced they were coming, and I was over the moon about that.
Then they show up. Then your house gets messy, and you find yourself spending your days filling the dishwasher and emptying the dishwasher and filling it again. You keep bringing groceries into the house. Those lovable, ever-hungry children keep eating them. They play music that baffles you. They leave large shoes all over the floor. You don't stop loving them, or anything close, because of this. But you remember a lesson I seem to need to relearn every January (and forget by the following December): The one thing sadder than having your children leave home might be if they never did.
Children are meant to grow up make their own lives. Parents -- once the children are grown -- are supposed to survey the happy wreckage of their own long-deferred dreams and aspirations, and make a new life, without them.
This is true of children. Not, however, of dogs.
So,
my younger son Willy arrived the day after Christmas, with a girlfriend
we all loved, and his Boston terrier puppy, Tuck. (Those of you who've
been reading my letters for a while may know that we used to have a Boston
terrier named Opie, who we all loved a whole lot. He was lost -- stolen,
while off leash -- six years ago. A very hard experience for us all.)
Once Willy and company were here, things got lively around here fast. Then Audrey arrived from New Hampshire, and the real party began. I made a big dinner that suited the many dietary needs of my children and their friends and loved ones: a little vegan action, a little vegetarian fare, and some meat... And pie of course.
We had a great time, naturally. Took a couple of good hikes. Played The New Yorker Cartoon Caption Game. Played with the puppy. More often than not, the kids were off visiting friends, so there I was, here at home with the puppy. Truthfully, I didn't feel neglected or abandoned. I was happy to hunker down by the fire while they went out on the town.
New Year's Eve day, Willy took off for New York, to DJ a show with his brother Charlie (aka Captain Planet, in the world of New York City DJ's). Two days later, my sons hopped on a plane bound for one of the places on the planet a mother would least like to find her sons going to, perhaps -- availing themselves of an opportunity offered to all American-born children of Jewish heritage (which, thanks to my mother, they possess) to explore Israel. Not Gaza, but close enough.
Meanwhile, Audrey was busy visiting her friends, bopping around in my car, taking hikes and checking in on her friends' babies. (I am proud to say, I resisted all comments about how much I might like a baby around here myself, though when Willy suggested that Tuck was my grandson, I nixed that concept fast. Much as I like this little dog (no, I love him) I do not feel grandmotherly toward him. Particularly not when he grabs onto my leg and behaves the way only a still-unneutered male dog tends to do.
After a wonderful visit (a long hike, a great though expensive sushi dinner, a shopping trip) Audrey left a week ago. And because Willy will remain in Israel till the end of the month, I'm here holding down the fort with Tuck. Like a true Boston terrier, he doesn't just sleep on the bed, he sleeps under the covers. This is fine with me.
In a few days, I have to give him up. (I'm heading to Lake Atitlan to prepare for my writing workshops in February and March.) I would not have guessed a person could get this attached, this quickly, but it's happened.
How one feels about a dog is nothing like how one feels about a child, of course. (It's love, but a different kind.) The funny thing is, that when I saw Audrey off on the ferry to San Francisco (and Willy, to Israel via New York) it was with the knowledge that as much as I adore them, the center of their lives is lived in other places now, and not with me. There comes a time, with children, where you have to let them go, and once you've done that, there is not so much more you can do but stand, with feet firmly planted on the earth, and watch them fly.
Where a dog never leaves you. Not while he's living, anyway. Or in my case, until (with heavy heart) I have to give him back. He asks almost nothing. (A meal now and then. A walk, and a chance to sniff the smells along the way. A sock to chew. A warm bed, and a body to curl up against.) No guilt, no anxiety. No complex tug of emotions -- the struggle between attachment and separation. Just uncomplicated acceptance and affection. There may be nothing else in my life that feels simple, but this did.
Now,
as Willie Nelson says, I'm on the road again. (There's a good reason why
Willie Nelson comes to mind, by the way. I got to hear him perform in
Santa Rosa, California the other night. He's seventy four years old, and
maybe he can't sing quite the way he used to, but when he sings "Always
on my Mind," that reedy, haunting voice of his still brings me close
to tears. After the show by the way -- age not withstanding -- he spent
a good half hour down at the front of the stage, signing the hats, bandanas,
ticket stubs and guitars of every single fan who asked him to. Many kissed
him, and if I'd been quicker on my feet, I would have stood in line for
that. Instead, I'm sharing a picture of me next to Willie's tour bus.
Just pretend there's a man in a red bandana kissing my cheek.
My own travels will take me, next week, to New York City, to meet with the publishers of my new novel, Labor Day, out next fall. I cannot tell you how much I look forward to sharing this one with you. (And I hope to be sharing additional chapters of my other new book soon too -- the memoir still in the works, about my life in Guatemala.) And of course I'm hoping the new book will take me to places where I'll get to meet or re-meet many of you, on a tour of my own.
Speaking of Guatemala: My February writing workshop -- in which I'll be joined by the wonderful crime writer, Laura Lippman -- is now filled. But spaces remain in the March Lake Atitlan writing workshop, with Ann Hood. It's going to be a marvelous week, and we have (as usual) a terrific group joining us. (Some experienced writers. Some who have never written anything before. This is more than fine with us.) If you think you might be interested, I hope you'll drop a note to Melissa Vincel, my wonderful right hand woman, at writebythelake@joycemaynard.com. And ask her about the special budget rate we're offering to those of you who may be up for a slightly different level of accommodations, to make the workshop more affordable in these challenging times. You won't be indoors much anyway. The weather, and the lake, will be too beautiful for that.
One
place I won't be next week, unfortunately, is our nation's capital. But
I will be celebrating on January 20 -- and feeling a huge wave of happiness
-- as we embark on the Obama presidency. I know many of you are having
a hard time at the moment, and I don't kid myself that this new president
or anyone else can turn things around quickly. But I feel hopeful about
times to come.
With friendship,
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