Proust Questionnaire Revisited

I have been tidying up my blog posts, deleting a few along the way. I found this one and liked it. I've updated a few of my comments from the original three years ago and post them again in hopes some of you will write your own answers.

Marcel Proust was a French novelist, essayist and critic. He is quoted as saying, "All our final decisions are made in a state of mind that is not going to last," and "Our intonations contain our philosophy of life, what each of us is constantly telling himself about things," and "The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes, but in having new eyes." I like the way he thinks.

What is your idea of perfect happiness?
A comfortable place to rest when I’m tired, something good to eat when I’m hungry, sunshine on my shoulders, good company in small doses.

Which living person do you most admire?
Each one of my children, for different reasons.

What is your greatest fear?
Unbearable pain.

What is your favorite journey?
The one that takes me home.

What do you consider the most overrated virtue?
Of the seven, diligence. I'm a big believer in frequent breaks, naps, and just sitting, staring off into space.

On what occasion do you lie?
When telling the whole truth would do more harm than good.

Which words or phrases do you most overuse?
"Well, huh!" "And your point is?" "Knock it off!"

What is your greatest extravagance?
Books. Chocolate. Clothes. More books.

What do you dislike about your appearance?
Depends on when you ask that question. First thing in the morning? Egads, my hair! Middle of the day? Egads, my hair! Just before bedtime? Lordy, the bags under my eyes!

Which living person do you most despise?
That’s a strong word – I’m not fond of many Republicans at the moment.

What is your greatest regret?
Losing my home as a result of some poorly-made decisions.

What or who is the greatest love of your life?
My family, my kids and grandkids. My old blue sweater. My down comforter ☺

When and where were you happiest?
Whenever and wherever I stop and remember that I can be happy anytime. As a specific location? My old homestead on Silver Street.

Which talent would you most like to have?
Oh, to be musical!

What is your current state of mind?
Contentment.

If you could change one thing about your family, what would it be?
I’d love to have both of my parents still alive and in good health. But if the question means, would I change anyone in my family, the answer is no – we’re a good bunch.

If you were to die and come back as a person or thing, what do you suppose it would be?
A dust mote so I could dance in a sunbeam and travel the world on the wind.

What is your most treasured possession?
Family photographs. My books. Things my children have chosen as gifts for me over the years.

What do you regard as the lowest depth of misery?
Hopelessness.

What is the quality you most like in a man?
Kindness.

What is the quality you most like in a woman?
Kindness.

What do you most value in your friends?
That they ARE my friends.

Who are your favorite writers?
Richard Bach; Elizabeth Berg; Maeve Binchey; Deepak Chopra; Billy Collins; Annie Dillard; Rumer Godden; James Herriot; Barbara Kingsolver; Garrison Keillor; Anne and daughter Reeve Lindbergh; James Mitchner; Mary Oliver; Cynthia Rylant, Rumi; Anne Rivers Siddons; Amy Tan; Lewis Thomas; Margaret Mitchell; Tolkein; Neil Donald Walsch; Laura Ingalls Wilder; Andrew Weil and a host of others.

Who are your heroes in real life?
Anyone who tries to be a little kinder than necessary.

What are your favorite names?
No favorites, though I’m partial to Annie and Jake.

How would you like to die?
Quietly in my sleep while dreaming about something happy.

What is your motto?
Life is short but wide.

***

What about you?

Quietude

The turkey has been devoured, the china has been washed and dried and returned to the cupboard, the lace tablecloth is freshly ironed and replaced in its drawer, the company is gone. My little cottage is suddenly quiet. We had a marvelous time as we cooked together, said thanks together, ate well, and laughed much. The phone rang often as distant family members called to say Happy Thanksgiving.

Today I took a long walk in the cold sunshine. The trees are showing their bones; the landscape is painted in muted shades of buff and brown. Now at twilight, the sky is blanketed in a quilt of dove gray. The air is damp and promises snow flurries for tomorrow. We are headed toward the longest night of the year after which the light will begin its slow but steady increase. Now is the time for hunkering down. For me, winter is not a season of death so much as one of rest, a time to withdraw and be quiet, to renew ones' self.

Holiday Break

The best china, the set handed down from my grandmother, is waiting to be taken from the cupboard, the turkey is waiting to be stuffed, the potatoes and the vegetables are waiting the paring knife, the delicate china cranberry dish is waiting to hold the shimmering sauce, the pies are waiting to be baked to golden perfection, and I am waiting for my family to arrive. Tomorrow and the next day will be a flurry of cooking and talking and eating. Happy Thanksgiving to those that celebrate it!

Of Calendars and WInter...

This day began with a hundred geese that rose from the pond at dawn and flew eastward into the sun, the light gilding their undersides. Their cries roused me from sleep, stirring some ancient longing to flee the coming cold. I look out my window at the colors of winter, the buff colored grasses, the shadowed woods, the trees inked in black against a steel sky, and watch the sun paint it all with a gold that spills slowly over the bare tops of the trees and into my yard.

Except for a few days last week when the temperature dipped into the 30s overnight, the weather has been mild. October was a glorious riot of color and somber November has so far boasted temperatures in the 60s. I set off into the early morning with only a jacket. Great drifts of mahogany leaves line the road and here and there a few bittersweet berries glow orange. The pond is a pewter plate, empty now of geese until the afternoon. The mornings belong to the crow and the jay, the chickadee, and the flocks of little purple finches that winter over. The cardinal that sings me awake at 4:30 on summer mornings is silent now, though I’ve seen him at the feeder, he and his dun-colored mate, eating the sunflower seeds I’ve set out for them.

The roadside brush is showing its bones. Great tangled vines of bittersweet curl over leafless bushes. Milkweed pods have dried and burst. I stop to release a last bit of gossamer fluff into the wind, sending the attached seeds on their journey, wondering, as I watch them lift and disappear, where the winter winds might take me. There are times when my life seems as insubstantial as milkweed fluff and I, too, am at the mercy of the prevailing wind.


By noon, the sun is still only a few feet over the horizon and as it descends into the afternoon, the air grows cooler and the wind quiets. By five o’clock the sky is violet and then gray. Night drops its cloak over the day and stars are visible by suppertime. I close the curtains against the dark and listen to the geese gabbling on the pond. One day soon they will fly south instead of east. Despite what the calendar says, that will be, for me, the day winter begins.

No Particular Reason

I’ve read several posts of clever sayings. Here’s my own contribution to the pile.


Seen on a t-shirt — “National Sarcasm Society: like we need your support"

Warning—I am the grammarian about whom your mother warned you

Overheard: I’m so far behind I thought I was first

Egrets? I’ve had a few…

On a greeting card: I’m fairly certain that, given a cape and a nice tiara, I could rule the world

On a doormat: Welcome to the (insert own name) —putting fun in dysfunctional since 1993 (or whenever)

On a sweatshirt: “Don’t make me use my opera voice”

On a sign: “Traveling at 33 rpm in an ipod world”

On a wall plaque: “If we knew what we were doing, it wouldn’t be called research.” (Albert Einstein)

and my favorite, printed on a plain gray nightshirt—This IS my sexy lingerie!

Gratitude and Wishes

my inspiration corner: books and a lava lamp

Barbara made a wish list post recently, first stating all the things she was grateful for followed by what she wished for.

I set about making a thankful list, starting with the obvious – health, home, family, friends. But as I began to look around me, I realized that there are a number of actual things that, though I may have to dust or keep after them in some way, I am pleased to have. Here are a few.

Photographs: They are everywhere – on the walls, the fridge, my desk. They perch next to the books on the bookcase, decorate my nightstand, fill innumerable albums. The faces of my family and friends smile at me from every corner of my cottage, reminding me that though I may live by myself, I am not alone in the world.

Postcards: I often use them as bookmarks. To come across one unexpectedly is like making an unplanned visit. I re-read lines scrawled from Scotland, New Zealand, Costa Rica, New Orleans, Florida, California, Iowa, England - places my children or my friends have visited and thought to share with me. They’re the written equivalent of “reach out and touch someone.”

Books: Best friends in bindings, books are always there when you reach for them; steadfast, full of hidden depths and meanings revealed with every re-reading; repositories of information and insight; teachers, guidance counselors, comforters. One can never have enough books.

A lava lamp: Scoff if you will, but watch one in action and you will see a life lesson in the constant separating and reuniting of the lava ‘goo,’ a reminder that all of life begins and ends as part of the ONE.

Music: I span two eras, the age of the phonograph and that of the CD player. Fortunately, someone thought to combine the two in one handy cabinet. One of these sits in my entertainment corner. I can lift the lid, slip a yellow plastic disk on a spindle and spin a 45 or I can open a plastic case, slide out a compact disk and fit it in its cunning little drawer. Either way, dusting is more fun when one dances with the dust rag.

Poetry: The written equivalent of music, poetry is an object lesson in “less is more.” It is distillation framed in discipline. If you want to see the essence of your days, write about them in verse.

Flowers: There are always flowers in my cottage. Geraniums bloom on the window sills, cut flowers in season come in with me when I return from my walks. I use flowers to gift a friend, celebrate an occasion, comfort the bereaved. Their beauty amazes me, soothes me, encourages me, delights me. First to greet the spring, last to celebrate summer, blooming even in the depths of winter, flowers are the finest teachers I know and the best antidote for whatever ails me.

And my wish list?

A second job that I will like as much as the one that just collapsed because of the state of the economy.

Continued joy in every new day.

Preserving the Moment

My friend Peter often delights his readers with photographs of reflections and shadows. His eye is keen and discerning; his posts allow me a glimpse of things I ordinarily overlook. I had a Peter moment the other morning when I went to wash my face. There in the basin of my sink was a detailed reflection of the sheer lace curtains through which the morning sun was pouring. I grabbed my little digital camera and snapped these photos. The whole of the day I was more aware of my surroundings though nothing else rivaled that lovely sunshine play of lace on porcelain.

Deja Vu

It’s been an odd week. It started with a flood of childhood memories triggered by the colors of the falling leaves. In the days that followed, four old high school classmates—people I’d not heard from in years—got in touch. It’s like living a flashback. I work in the building that once housed the middle and high school I attended as a teen and which now serves as the elementary school. In light of the memories aroused by contact with old school chums, walking into the building is like walking into two worlds. Side by side are the current me and the younger me, walking down the same hallways, passing the same doors (even though they no longer open to classrooms full of teenagers), even seeing some of the same faces I knew back then; older faces to be sure, but still familiar. Two of my coworkers are former classmates and several of my students are the grandchildren of others.

Maybe it’s the time of year. Autumn is often a season of tallying, of looking back and taking stock before winter slows us down, lulls us to lethargy with cold and ice. Maybe it’s my age—though I’ve eased into my sixties with little fanfare and less concern, the idea of endings has crept into my thinking with the deaths of three of my former graduating buddies.

Whatever it is, this strange feeling of déjà vu will pass, buried under more pressing thoughts about my recent job loss (my summer job is a casualty of the economic crisis) and how to survive without that income. The world never stops spinning; now and then, though, it feels like it’s turning backwards.

Walking With a Camera

When I was a young girl, I had a skirt made of the softest velveteen. It was sewn of squares in different fall colors—russet, mustard, forest green, brown. I loved the way it felt under my fingertips, the way the material shimmered in the light as if the colors were actually sunlit leaves. I wore it as often as fashion sense would allow; when I was 13 those things mattered more than they had at ten.

It’s funny what jogs the memory. Yesterday I was walking along my street past the pond, basking in the fretful sunlight, drinking in the last of the autumn colors—russet, mustard, forest green, brown. I saw that skirt in my mind’s eye as clearly as if it still hung in my closet. It brought back a rush of attendant memories, thoughts of other clothing (oh, that lovely flowered dress with bodice ties of black velvet, the leaf print blouse that looked like a watercolor, the brown dress with tiny balloons embroidered on the collar), of the scent of the leaves I scuffed through while walking to the neighbors’ house to iron (the wife had severe arthritis; her husband loved freshly ironed shirts but was unable to do them up properly himself). Injured during his stay in a concentration camp toward the end of WWII, he regaled me with tales of the war as I starched and ironed his shirts.

I stood stock still for the longest time as one memory after another washed over me. All that from the sight of a few colored leaves. I walked on, the young me, the present me, all of a piece and happy.