good harbor: review

I was unsure about reading Anita Diamant's Good Harbor (man it hurts to spell the title like that) when I first read the back blurb. Two middle-aged (give or take) women who forge a friendship while walking on the beach? Sounds like a snore-fest. And yet, I love the beach. And some of my best conversations with girlfriends are on the beach. And, my mom did highly recommend it. And Diamant's earlier novel The Red Tent remains one of my all-time favourite books. And Good Harbor was more of a novella so not much of a time commitment. All things considered, what did I have to lose? 

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I'm glad I worked all that out, because Good Harbor is a short, honest, rewarding read that reminded me once again how essential honest female friendships are. The back blurb doesn't do justice to the depth, richness and complexity of the two friends' - cancer-fighting Kathleen and meaning-search Joyce - lives, but Diamant's skillful, sensitive writing more than makes up for that.

Good Harbor is so unlike, but equally revealing of the importance of women's relationships with each other, The Red Tent. Kathleen and Joyce share a connection through modern Judaism that seems almost circumstantial. Their real connections are through their struggles as mothers, as wives, and as humans. There are rich themes here of love, loss, time, mortality, faithfulness and forgiveness that Christian, Muslim, and atheist women - and probably men - can equally relate to.

As a story Good Harbor started a little slowly for me, but by the middle of the book I'd taken my familiar stance - reading late into the night, trying to stir dinner with a book in my hand, stealing moments away from my family to read just a few more pages. Slowing down to savour the ending. Grieving and celebrating and identifying with Kathleen and Joyce.

I've said many times how much more I respond to strongly written characters than I do to a tense plot; Good Harbour offers some of both, though in the end these ladies are women I want to know more of, and that's what sticks with me. 

in the toes

I think of it nearly every time I'm at a beach, and definitely every time my toes tingle on sun-baked sand. For me, the image is synonymous with summer, and is the clearest memory I have of my grandpa. 

It was a day when you could see the heat sucking steamy vapors out of Okanagan Lake and dancing on the sand. My cousins, sisters, our parents and I splashed and squealed in the water, and grandpa sat in his chair in the shade of a giant pine. His button down short-sleeved shirt, pressed pants and fedora was both anachronistic and comfortably familiar. I imagine he smiled a lot, watching his family enjoy rare time together. 

I wish I had a picture from that day - I
bet my swimsuit was AWESOME

At some point he beckoned a big cousin - or did we dare ask? - to come get some money from Grandpa and get us all ice creams. A small troop of us set out, not content to have our treat selected for us. The searing sand under our feet is a pain I can still feel. We walked as far as we could along the cooler water's edge before dashing across the stretch of beach to the ice cream cart.

We didn't know he'd leave us soon after - that gentle generous poet in the gentleman's hat. And yet he's always with me - in the ringing of an ice cream bell, a line of Irish poetry, the angle of a jaunty hat, and the sand between my toes.

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Write on Edge Prompt:

It’s the first full week of summer here in New England, so to celebrate, take 450 words and write about sand. Whether it be beaches, backyards, or hourglasses, think sandy thoughts and come back on Friday to link up!

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on the other hand

I woke up on Tuesday and finally admitted to myself and my beloved that I am deeply unhappy. Not with anything in particular, just like a cloak I've thrown on and can't seem to shake. I'm not even really sad - I'm just unhappy - tired, and unhappy. I'm not seriously immobilised like I was last summer - this is a high-functioning unhappiness, an unhappiness with moments of sparkle and touches of laughter. This is probably not a surprise to the people around me, but I was in denial.

In some ways it just doesn't make sense. I don't want to change anything - work, STG, the love shack, etc. But, I'm deeply disappointed in myself - this is the life I said I wanted and I want to wake up with joy and gratitude for making it happen. It's frustrating that there was a time I didn't have the life I wanted, and yet was frequently grateful and satisfied in it. 

Anyway, I'm contemplating my options for 'fixing' the problem - do I go to a doctor & get anti-depressants (they've never worked in the past)? Do I revive my alternative medicines - accupuncture, herbs, massage - that cost money, but seemed to work for me? Or some combination of those two things? Do I just need to move my body and lose some weight and stop being a whiner? Do I need to find new 'things' to bring me joy, or just remember who I am? 

This is not a post I want to write - it's just what I have to get off my chest so I can get on with everything else. But the other day UberCoach wrote on her Facebook status

"And suddenly, happy. Just there, no reason. I've missed that." 

And I realised how much that's the only thing left for me to want - it was a celebration for my friend, and bit of a challenge for me.

I suppose this post contradicts last week's post about happiness being a shallow pursuit. On that, let me  again quote my dear old friend Walt Whitman:

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