Confessions of a cafe writer

I was amazed when I read that J.K. Rowling wrote the beginnings of her first book “Harry Potter and the Sorcercer’s Stone” in a cafe near her flat in Edinburgh, Scotland.

“Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. They were the last people you’d expect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious, because they just didn’t hold with such nonsense.” …

Magical.

Consequently, I wondered whether there were a link between environment and creativity, and if the world’s bestselling author capitalized on that connection.

Throughout most of my career, I have been chained to a desktop computer in the Newsroom or in my home office, watching the world pass by my window. Two years ago I bought my first laptop, and even then I slowly ventured to the couch.

But a freelance job for new media took me on the road. There was no office building.

Writing at Wi-Fi cafes seemed cumbersome, chancy and distracting at first.

I used to write with a squirming toddler in my lap typing with one determined finger, but it’s been awhile since Pandora’s  soothing strains have been my only companion.

Now, after cutting the cord from traditional journalism, I smile when I think of my foolish reservations and how much freedom being a mobile writer has afforded me.

Today I drove to a Barnes & Noble Café with my laptop and Color Nook in tow. This is one of my favorite places to write, since Borders bit the dust. There’s something stimulating about being surrounded by a store full of books and sipping on a Starbuck’s Marble Mocha Macchiato that gets the wheels turning.

Above my head in the cafe are caricatures of literary figures: Dickinson, Hemingway, Orwell, Nabokov, Joyce, Fitzgerald, Parker, Faulkner, Steinbeck, Eliot, Singer, Kafka, Neruda, Hughes, Tagore and Hurston. One can only hope that some of their genius will rub off.

If that’s not enough, I can wander around the stacks, take notes and get lost in the written word. My fingers will be flying over the keys before long.

One by one I have left behind many of the skills gleaned from years as a veteran reporter to adapt to the new technologies. Every day seems fraught with more hurdles to jump through, new ways of doing things that at first are frustrating and time consuming, but with each accomplishment comes a confidence and an expanding base of knowledge.

“Sir, there are some things I’d like to know, if you can tell me … things I want to know the truth about,” said Harry Potter.

“The truth.” Dumbledore sighed. “It is a beautiful and terrible thing, and should therefore be treated with great caution.”

Nothing magical about that.

The cautionary tale of Dolly Copp

Winter ended this morning when I awoke to birdsong, the official herald of springtime.

Sitting up in bed, I scanned the backyard through the multi-paned window searching for my companions; but despite the symphony, they were hidden from sight.

But what really caught my attention was the grimy window. The bright March sunshine showcased a winter’s worth of dirt that had accumulated on the panes.

Catching spring fever, I started a mental running list of things to do: wash windows and screens; vacuum and clean windowsills; wash, iron and hang curtains; vacuum cobwebs off ceilings; scrub fireplace bricks; paint front door red and lintel white; power wash unpainted shingles and brick walkway; stain railings along front stairs; power wash deck; hang basketball hoop; plant seedlings; weed and cultivate kitchen garden…

Then, I remembered the cautionary tale of Dolly Copp and stopped myself.   

Many years ago, I discovered an obscure sign near Gorham, N.H., in the deep woods of the White Mountains National Forest, marking the site of the Copp Homestead.

It read: “Here Hayes Dodifer Copp made his farm about 1827. He built a log cabin and barn and carved the farmland from the wilderness. On Nov. 3, 1831 he married Dolly Emery and brought her to this glen. A frame house replaced the cabin. Here travelers found fine food and comfortable beds. Dolly won early fame for her handicraft. Her woolen homespun linen and dyes of delicate blue, her golden butter, rich cheese and maple syrup were much sought after by the “city folk.” After 50 years of storm and sunshine, pinching poverty and substandard comfort, Dolly said, “Hayes is well enough, but 50 years is long enough to live with any man.” Dividing their possessions, Dolly and Hayes separated and left this valley.”

These words moved me so much that I wrote them down to reread whenever I get too ambitious.

Suffice to say, Hayes was not responsible for the breakup. The daily grind of housework eroded the marriage: the never-ending pile of laundry to scrub at the washboard by the stream; the dishes stacked near the hand pump; the unmade beds; the cobwebs in the outhouse; the batches of watery maple syrup, curdled cheese and butter that refused to churn; fingers stained a delicate blue; scratchy woolens on the loom…

My mother told me that my grandmother was a meticulous housewife. But there were times when she was in the middle of scrubbing the floor with the bucket at her side, and my grandfather asked her if she wanted to go for a ride. The bucket was left where it stood. She knew the secret to a happy marriage.

So whenever I get that overwhelming urge to clean, polish, scrub and fix things, I think of Dolly toiling for 50 years, only to call it quits and send Hayes packing.

History is a great teacher, and I plan to profit from Dolly’s mistakes.  

Religion and the election

As a political junkie, I find this presidential election fascinating.

I have not missed one Republican debate since the Iowa Caucus, and CNN is ambient noise in our house. I hang onto every word spoken around the Reporters’ Roundtable on “Meet the Press,” and I wish Tim Russert were a candidate for sainthood.

The presidential candidates often say that this is the most important election of our lives, and they may be right. Over the next four years the president will have to deal with the economy and the dipping Dow, high unemployment rates and lack of jobs, and the Arab Spring.

Obama may be the right leader for our time, or perhaps one of the Republican candidates will be the man for the job. As an independent voter, I listen to all the rhetoric and try to have an open mind until I make the final decision in the ballot box.

But what is most interesting about this race is that religion plays a pivotal role. The two Catholic candidates, Rick Santorum and Newt Gingrich, are constantly on the defense, denouncing Catholic bashing and the loss of religious freedom in this country.

These mainstream Conservatives wrestle with the media and the Obama Administration, but nothing much has been said about Mitt Romney’s faith, Mormonism.

As a religion writer, I would have bet the family farm that his membership in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints would be a hot topic, especially in the Bible Belt.

Personally, I think his Mormon faith is what makes his candidacy so compelling. No one can dispute that Mormons have family values, the mantra of the Republican Party during the Bush years. Their large, close-knit families, disciplined lifestyle and high moral standards are exemplary.

I am blessed with close Mormon friends, who gave me a copy of “The Book of Mormon” to use as a reference when writing stories about their faith. Inside the front cover, they wrote:

“We know with all our heart that strong families are the lifeblood of all communities and nations. We know with all our heart and soul that strong family relationships are founded on eternal proven principles that have been taught by Jesus Christ and by prophets throughout the ages of time. The Holy Bible is a witness of our Savior Jesus Christ and the principles He taught. The Book of Mormon is another witness of Jesus Christ and teaches these same principles. We are grateful for these two books of scriptures that unfold these important truths as we strive to continually strengthen our family. We know that we are close as a family and closer to our Father in Heaven as we read from the scriptures daily.”

Four years ago, we elected our first African-American president, and perhaps the time has come to elect our first Mormon president.

During his candidacy and presidency, Barack Obama has spoken as eloquently as the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. about his faith and heritage.

Conversely, Romney touts his business acumen and mums the word on Mormonism.

It would be refreshing if he would reveal the real Romney, the man of deeply held religious principles. Our American family needs strengthening.

The trouble with tech

Sometimes it’s just so hard to lead a simple life.

We seek a peaceful existence, but contemporary life encroaches. We wonder how “to be in the world but not of it.”

Contemporary living requires the use of technology, which ultimately should make our lives easier. The trouble with tech is that it often doesn’t.

As a writer, I earn my living at a laptop or desktop. Yet whenever I can, I head for the beach, away from the buzz of electronics.

I walk by the sea, and tap into the Source.

It is nature that restores the equilibrium: the cry of a gull, the gentle lapping at the shore, the wind whistling in the sea grass. Unplugged, I walk by the sea and tap into the Source.  

And this is the saving grace, because lately, coping with technology has been a real chore.

I pay bills electronically, and I find this new technology to be a great time saver.  I no longer lament the time consuming ritual of writing out checks. I decided to change banks, and then spent three hours trying to set up online banking. Multiple calls brought no resolution, other than the suggestion from the bank representative to wait four business days for the system to refresh for each new payee I added to the list.

I received a bill for a routine dental visit that should have been covered by our insurance company. I called the customer service number twice and listened to recording after recording, but there was no option to leave a message or speak with someone. I had to call my dentist’s office, and they finally were able to straighten out the carrier’s error three days later.

By far the worst technological mishap occurred at the ATM machine. A routine withdrawal turned into a nightmare. I put my card in the machine, punched in the pin number, and the receipt came out but no bills. The bank was open, so I reported the problem, and the teller assured me I would be credited within the week. I spoke almost daily to corporate representatives from here to India, each promising to rectify the matter. Three months later, the credit finally appeared in my checking account. The assistant manager told me that he personally would never use that particular ATM. Go figure.

Since it took three hours for one online banking transaction, three days to fix an insurance overcharge, and three months for one ATM withdrawal, I question whether it would have been easier to write a check, mail a letter and keep a stash of money in the mattress.

I mill over these musings at the water’s edge. I walk it off while I seek a path that allows for life’s little annoyances but technologically speaking, gets back to basics.

'To putter is to discover'

It was the perfect setting for a bookstore.

When I stepped inside Bethany Books in Bridgewater, I entered a magical place like Mary Lennox in “The Secret Garden.”

The old Victorian clad with delightful architectural flourishes lured me through a maze of small rooms, each stuffed with all sorts of interesting books and bric-a-brac, resting on shelves and displayed in nooks and crannies.

A writer’s dream assignment, I remember counting my blessings as I wandered around the house on company time, enthralled by my surroundings.

When I reluctantly left a longtime later, I took with me the makings of a fine story, as well as a paper bag tucked under my arm, a souvenir of my visit.

The red and yellow cover had attracted me, and once I read the title, I knew that I wouldn’t be making much on this assignment. I bought the book.

Now 25 years old, “Living a Beautiful Life” by Alexandra Stoddard is still one of my favorite books.

The how-to book is chock-full of wonderful suggestions, but the most valuable piece of information is the pastime I adopted and incorporated into my own life, the author’s penchant for puttering.

Webster’s “New World Dictionary” defines “puttering” as “frittering and busying oneself in an ineffective way,” but Stoddard disagrees.  

“Puttering is really a time to be alone, to dream and to get in touch with yourself,” said Stoddard. “Plan for this kind of essential, unstructured time alone; give yourself time to become influenced by your private feelings.”

This winding road leads to our summer house by the sea.

 At our seaside place in Tiverton, we get the concept of puttering. One can saunter in the sand seeking sea glass, sit on a rock and gaze at the crest and fall of the waves for hours, or take a dip in the ocean and air dry slowly under the warm summer sun.

Leisure time lends itself to quiet contemplation and puttering.

But lessons learned at the beach are easily forgotten at home.

“I’ve noticed that many people have a tendency to save up 95 percent of their money and effort to spend on 5 percent of their lives,” said Stoddard. “Instead, the way to live a beautiful life is to make the daily 95 percent of your life wonderful.”

While I write this in my home office, I look out the window and see bands of blue sky, squirrels running along the branches of the oak, and tranquil pond waters across the street. These little breaks spark the creative process.

Folding a load of laundry, washing a sink full of dishes, making beds, stirring cake batter, taking out the trash – all these routine tasks offer unhurried time to ponder.

Puttering around the house, “you’re free to let your mind travel to new distances,” said Stoddard. “The smallest gem of an idea can turn into a real jewel, and puttering allows you time and space to develop your concept. To putter is to discover.”

All creatures great and small

When I awoke this morning, I peered through the window and saw movement in the woods behind our house. As my vision cleared, I made out the outlines of two white-tailed deer.

Living in dense woods populated with hundred-foot pines, I am accustomed to coming upon these beautiful and gentle gray-brown animals, but it was a welcome surprise to observe them unannounced outside my bedroom window.

Even in winter, I dwell in a veritable zoo. Twenty wild turkeys congregate in my neighbor’s front yard. A family of geese lines up in single file and takes their time crossing the street, while an impatient driver honks to no avail.

Our bird feeder attracts a menagerie of fine-feathered friends, especially my favorite couple, the bright red Northern cardinal and his buffy-brown mate, who take turns nibbling delicately on the seeds.

We also feed many uninvited guests. A freeloading Eastern gray squirrel hangs upside down from the kennel fence just in reach of the bird seed, while our Jack Russell terrier growls beneath. The squirrel chatters and clucks as he overfills his mouth, puffing out his cheeks.

Finding the feeder empty, the brash blue jays complain.

Even with the constant companionship of these incredible creatures, I catch cabin fever in the middle of February and succumb to the seasonal malady. In deep winter, the house in the forest can feel confining after a glut of short, lackluster days with little sunshine. I start climbing the walls.

“Most of us, I thought, are caged in some way all our lives,” said Gladys Taber in “Country Chronicle.” “There are walls and bars and fences of all kinds, invisible but tangible. We spend a great deal of time climbing over obstacles – perhaps this is what life is all about. But we must all, I think, long for a brief time of real freedom outside the restrictions of our existence.”

Seeking escape, I yearn for open spaces, and I head to our summer place by the sea 40 minutes away. At the beach, the truck navigates over frozen tundra, the stretch of sand interrupted by occasional potholes brimming with icy shards.

The winter sun cannot penetrate the windshield to warm the small cabin, and when the wind whistles, it rocks the vehicle and sends shivers down my spine.

In discomfort with my arms wrapped tightly about me, I gaze at the steel gray seas that lure me away from the rigors of a New England winter and direct my thoughts to the beauty before me. I feel a calming presence as I realize there is so much greater than ourselves at work here.

“Not knowing how to feed the spirit, we try to muffle its demands in distractions,” said Anne Morrow Lindbergh in “Gift from the Sea.” “Instead of stilling the center, the axis of the wheel, we add more centrifugal activities to our lives – which tend to throw us off balance.”

The truck’s heater hums, and I slowly begin to thaw. The warm air circulates, and sitting in silence, I feel warmth radiating from within.

Seagulls stand together on the seashore, buffeting themselves against gale-force winds. The sea pulses with life, teeming beneath the waves.  

The old Anglican hymn by Cecil F. Alexander comes to mind:

“All things bright and beautiful, / All creatures great and small, / All things wise and wonderful, / The Lord God made them all.”

The gentle, generous spiritual perspective of Sister Vilma

Walking by the sea, I am on pilgrimage in close companionship with saints.

“Solvitur ambulando,” confesses St. Augustine. It is solved by walking.

St. Benedict instructs: “Be mindful of the little things.”

“May you trust God that you are exactly where you are meant to be,” assures St. Therese of Lisieux, the foundress of the Discalced Carmelite nuns.

Today my journey is filled with visions of one of her own, Sister Vilma Mathilde Seelaus of the Infant Jesus.

A kindred spirit, she took frequent walks along the shore of Narragansett Bay in Rhode Island.

“Vilma gradually began to see the power and glory of God even in each little grain of sand on the beach – the power of God holding it in existence, the glory of God who made it uniquely different from every other grain of sand on the face of the earth,” said Carmelite Father Kevin Culligan, a close friend of Sister Vilma’s for over 40 years. “And if God’s power and glory are in each grain of sand of the beach, how much more, she concluded, must the divine power and glory be present in each human being? In fact, she realized, God is everywhere. And the fruit of this realization was Vilma’s great reverence for life, for all of creation, for each human being.”

Born in Philadelphia, Sister Vilma entered the Carmelite community in Newport in 1946.

As the years went by and they discovered her many talents, she was called upon to serve her sisters as a director of formation of new members and then as prioress or local superior.

Eventually, when Vatican II called for the renewal of religious life, Sister Vilma was asked to serve in leadership on a national level with the Association of Contemplative Sisters and the Carmelite Communities Associated.

As a young nun, she had discovered a translation of the 19^th-century theological masterpiece “The Mysteries of Christianity,” by Matthias Joseph Scheeban. Likewise, she found God speaking to her in books of contemporary psychology.

“She reasoned, rightly, the more she could understand persons from a human, psychological perspective, the better prepared she was to understand this mystery of the divine-human interrelationship which was the consuming interest of her life,” Culligan said.

Her understanding of Scripture, theology, psychology and other sciences manifested itself in both the depth and balance of the books and articles she wrote, her taped lectures, and other conferences and talks.

“Her reading especially bore fruit in the wise personal guidance she provided, both for her Carmelite sisters and brothers, and for so many other men and women beyond Carmel,” said Culligan.

Twenty-two years ago, a group of psychotherapists and caregivers formed at Sister Vilma’s monastery to explore the connection between psychology and spirituality.

“The therapists brought their applied knowledge of the theory and practice of psychotherapy while Vilma supplied the spiritual perspective,” said Dan Musholt, a clinical social worker. “The group’s monthly discussions might involve taking on some difficult psycho-spiritual issue, such as the persistence of evil or the process of addiction.”

He added that the members always valued Sister Vilma’s gentle, generous perspective that the divine presence permeates all of human life – the dark parts and the light.

“Group members invariably left each meeting feeling renewed by the power and presence of Spirit,” he said.

According to Ethel Fraga, a member of Contemplative Outreach and a Centering Prayer facilitator, Sister Vilma also worked on the Carmelite Forum with other nuns and friars, committed to interpreting the texts of Carmelite mystics, including John of the Cross, Teresa of Avila, Therese of Lisieux and Elizabeth of the Trinity.

“She lectured and wrote for 15 years as a member of the Forum, which drew people to hear the works of the Carmelite mystics reinterpreted for a new age,” Fraga said. “Her book on Elizabeth of the Trinity will be published during Lent.”

Sister Vilma died on Jan. 26.

“I could feel her presence next to me as I prepared this homily, and she kept nudging me to allow her to speak to you today,” said Culligan to those gathered at her Mass of Christian Burial. "She told me, 'Tell them how important the divine-human relationship is. Whether we consciously acknowledge it or not, we are always in relationship with God, whose power and providence sustain us in every moment of our lives. This is also our most important interpersonal relationship, potentially more intimate than the relationship of spouses, more faithful than parents for their children, more lasting than the best of friends. Encourage them to make this relationship the center of their lives, and they will discover the secret of human happiness and fulfillment.'”

Vintage Vilma.

Sister Vilma Seelaus, O.C.D.