Literary Imaginings by Lisa C. Taylor

June brings me to a shore place I’ve returned to for most of my adult life. I pass dozens of houses rented in seasons past, remember the bicycle rides where I once dodged scooters and skateboarders. New businesses crop up and familiar ones disappear. Yesterday, we discovered a new restaurant with extraordinary food, more akin to New York City than a tiny beachside town. There are other surprises like this flowered china teacup glued to a post in the midst of a flower garden. I returned to look at it and it transformed into a gathering of people in operatic style finery, sipping tea amid the roses, hydrangea, honeysuckle, and lilies. Whimsy is an integral part of this town. I miss it when I leave. It is as if I’m entering a story and I never know how it will play out. The alleyways, porticos, murals, and street musicians add to the enchantment.

Someone hurt me so I walked five miles, paused to smell roses and honeysuckle —my favorite, pocketed a perfect rock, and bought a flamboyant scarf and glittery stud earrings. All of this slowed my heart rate and cleared my head. There is much to be sad about in the world today and I know a personal hurt is tiny in the larger context. I also know that how we relate to others is a reflection of how we interact in the larger world. I strive to be kind and though I don’t always succeed, I continue to work at it. I love people–babies, toddlers, children, teens, twenty, thirty, forty, fifty, sixty, seventy, eighty, ninety somethings and beyond. All have something to offer and I try to view interactions with curiosity and enthusiasm. I can’t control the world around me but I can vote, volunteer, help a child, write books. My power in the world is my ability to write and connect with people. One of the reasons I enjoy public readings is the interaction. How can I write without experiencing? How can I understand the impact of my words without listening to others?

I am grateful to be in this place for a short time. I carry within the sharp smell of the ocean at low tide, the broken shells, the skittering crabs and doe-eyed seals, and so many unparalleled sunsets here. I’m working on the third draft of my second novel and I will go back to that, hoping that one day soon that story, a very different one from the one that will be published next spring, will find a good publisher. My characters are never people I know but I hope they are as complex, infuriating, and redeemable as most of us.

A woman in dreadlocks left her large gold purse on the bench and I reported it to the yellow clad police officer who looked through it to find her name. A man let me pet his small dog that he said was not a puppy, the barista with kind brown eyes and a thin moustache made me a perfect latte, Beverly at our favorite ice cream place knows everyone by name. Tonight, friends in town will drop by and in a few days, more friends will share a bonfire on the beach and s’mores. The air is crisp and the ocean cool but not freezing. This is the 2024 summer solstice, a summer of change, upheaval, and hopefully healing.

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I arrived at a place both familiar and elusive. Cool, misty mornings give way to cloudless afternoons where I watch cormorants dive and surface with their catch. Wading amid tiny translucent crabs and innocuous jellyfish reminds me that I’m an insignificant part of this ecosystem. Our rental house is across from the bay, with a small private section that is quiet except for a few shell and beach glass hunters and dog walkers. The evenings are breezy, salty wind ruffling curtains. We have rented many houses and cottages on this small strip of land, spent hard-earned weeks recovering from our challenging jobs and the schedule of our children. All of us view this place as a kind of sanctuary. We have traditions here, ice cream at Lewis Brothers, seafood at Mac’s, beach walks, bicycle rides, friend meetups. I’ve spent birthdays and anniversaries here, watched numerous Carnival Parades, and shivered through the unrelenting January wind at Race Point. I’ll be here for my birthday this year and dear friends will come to join our entire family—all in one place though we live thousands of miles apart. When I leave, I’ll ache to return, though it is more complicated now that I live far away.

I do not know why certain landscapes speak to me. Mountains are stoic and hold their secrets close. For me, the cacophony of the sea, its crescendos and dips, briny odor, and the way it teems with life—swirling seaweed, tiny fish, scurrying crustaceans, barnacle-encrusted rocks remind me of my own insignificance. The sea nags me to write wildly without holding back. I have memories of my children running into the sea, digging in the sand, making trenches with dutifully lugged pails of water. Now adults, they still hold this place close. The youngest member of the family, just two, builds sandcastles, watches fish, and splashes in the water as often as he can, shrieking with same delight I remember from my own kids. It is something I pass on. Although he may turn out to be more enamored of desert or mountains, I hope he will return to this noisy, joyful place and think of us.

I try to write without limits. Writing is the crest of a wave, a storm, the battering of the wind. When I leave, I will carry the moodiness and variegated colors of the sea and its possibility of danger from a rip current or shark. White sharks have returned because they feed on seals and the seals are abundant. We all survive however we can.

Living far away has made these trips harder and more expensive. When I leave, there will be a space inside of me that I’ll try to fill but it isn’t possible to replace awe with busyness, wonder with routine. Instead I’ll tamp the feelings down and pretend patience until once again I can drive, fly, or take a boat to the place I feel most at home.

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It’s National Poetry Month and I’ve just returned home after a week of travel in Sedona, then Denver. My week in Sedona with friends had moments that nestle in my memory like stanzas in a poem–a hike to caves where sun patterns cast shadows around the irregular doorway, a scramble to see rock formations called Baby Bell and Cathedral Rock, and a visit at sunset to the Airport Vortex where fifty or so people gathered to watch a giant orange sun lower in a gray-streaked sky. Friends are another kind of poem, especially the kind of friends I haven’t seen for months but it feels as if no time has lapsed when we again get together. These friends have always been easy to travel with and this time was no different, though now we live thousands of miles apart.

Waiting for the train to get to the Denver Airport, I met C, an 88 year-old woman. She was with a couple that we assumed were family. She used a cane but was otherwise lively. Sitting in back of her on the train, I came to find out that the couple were strangers who helped her navigate which train to board. I also found out that she was en route to the airport to go to a literacy convention in Texas the next day. This led to a discussion about her life’s work in literacy and a recommendation of books. We agreed to help her to her airport hotel where she invited us in and we learned more—her long marriage and the death of her husband a little over a year ago, her nonprofit devoted to literacy, her travel and residency in places like the Sudan, South Korea, Turkey, and Guam, her eventual college degree that included a Master’s after an early dislike of higher education. As she put in, her husband helped her to become a scholar. C was traveling alone, depending on the generosity of strangers but also capable enough to use services to help her navigate a world designed for the able-bodied. She had a smartphone and with help had downloaded the train ticket on an app. To say meeting C was a highlight of an otherwise uneventful trip home would be an understatement. She was the best part of the drudge of travel—crowded terminals, frenzied people, and the ugliness of shops all offering the same selection of magazines and snacks. The flight was turbulent and the pilot announced that the unstable air would last for 20 minutes (half of the flight) but it calmed down after 10, thankfully. I am a nervous flier. Losing a friend in a plane crash at age 12 shaped me. I didn’t fly until age 23 and most every flight after that was a challenge until my father died in 2005, and we flew regularly to handle my mother’s needs and later her subsequent move. I fly often—for book launches and writing events, for travel to places I long to see. I never like the process of getting there but I always love disembarking in a new place, a poem or narrative awaiting me in the architecture, the weather, people I will briefly meet.

In South America in 2019, we met a couple who had spent years traveling the world. They bought a world ticket and planned out destinations and a daily budget. In March, we met up with them again in Seattle where I was attending a writing conference. They had just spent four months in New Zealand and after a brief stop home, they were headed to Europe. We have talked about this way to approach life, realizing that we have neither the budget nor the inclination to travel constantly. Part of the lifestyle intrigues me. What would it be like to awaken in a new place every day? Could I step out of daily routines? I read an article last week about routines and writing. Prolific writers have a routine. I know that a daily writing habit leads to better writing yet a part of me shuns routine. I can be convinced to take a spontaneous trip or an afternoon picnic in the mountains. I resolve to give my early mornings up to writing. This is a resolution I’ve made and broken and will try again. Writing is portable and I long to awaken in new places, seeing cliffs and the wild sea, tasting a cuisine I can’t yet imagine.

It is National Poetry Month and some writers are pledging to write a poem a day. I’ve already lost two days and since I also write fiction, I’m thinking of stories I want to write or the novel I wrote but never published. I will not be writing a poem a day but I will vow to make each day a kind of homage to poetry by living consciously. That has become overused so I’ll explain. Conscious living is, to me, a pause. Right now I’m looking out my window at the early morning sun over the mountains. The sky is gray with tatters of clouds, and a few cars make their way down one visible road. It is quiet. Most are sleeping or on their way to work, a job they love or a job they hate. I have loved many of my jobs though I hated some. An ambulance with flashing lights just went by though it’s far enough away that I cannot hear the siren. My worse jobs were drudgery–counting spark plugs in a hardware department, serving ice cream and burgers, filing records at a hospital. The best jobs allowed reinvention which is why I enjoy teaching. I have an online poetry class beginning this week. Each student will bring a story and each will be from a different geography. I will learn from them even as I guide them through readings and writing ideas.

Here is my wish for you for National Poetry Month: go outside every day. Find something you don’t usually notice, a tuft of dry grass, a puddle, a shoot pushing its way through the dirt, a shy animal. Take a different route to work or to the store or go on a hike to a place you don’t yet know. Talk to a stranger and learn their story as I did with C. Renew old friendships and make new ones. There are people with stories you need to hear. We are all here so briefly. The impression we make on others is a kind of poem. The struggling sun is a poem. Your hand holding a coffee cup is a poem. Today, I brewed my perfect coffee and drank it in a cup given to me by a writers organization in Northampton, Massachusetts where I offered a workshop some years ago. The cup reminds me of friends who live there. The coffee reminds me of my family who gifted me a wonderful espresso maker and grinder last June. And these simple moments are stanzas in the poem of my life. Go find yours.

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Snow and more snow. The wind howls and the mounds of snow grow higher. It is my third winter here but in a sense, it is the first real winter. Snow means water and in this high, dry place, that is always welcomed. I’ve always liked winter: the introspection, the gathering in. It is harder here because I do not have as much community as I left behind. What I do have is a view of mountains, startlingly blue skies, and a pristine covering over dirt and leaves. I live in moments. Yesterday I wrote a book review for New York Journal of Books. I was lucky enough to review an amazing anthology of poetry: “100 Poems to Break Your Heart” compiled and commented upon by Edward Hirsch. https://www.nyjournalofbooks.com/book-review/100-poems-break-your-heart I would highly recommend this collection, newly out in paperback and worth every penny.

The Associated Writing Program Conference is in Seattle this year and I’ll be both attending and reading. I don’t know how I feel about such a large gathering after two years of avoiding such things. Crowds bring out my introverted side and I’m inclined to avoid them but I will make an attempt to connect with writers and peruse the massive book fair. Another reason to attend is to get the word out about the new Mesa Verde Writers Conference July 13-16. that I’m helping to organize. http://www.mesaverdewritersconference.org. It will be in this gorgeous place and we are pretty much guaranteed a lush and fertile spring after all this snow. There will be workshops in fiction, poetry, and hybrid writing. We are planning bonfires, outdoor readings, music, and stargazing. Come and join us!

National Poetry Month is coming up in April and I’m looking forward to a few local readings with other poets. April is usually a busy month for poetry but the last two years have kept most of us home. Read poetry. Buy poetry. Savor the words.

May all of us appreciate whatever season we are in and the people who share our lives. Don’t forget to look at the moon, talk to a child, cook a dinner for someone, and make art.

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I return to the sea because it sustains me. There are landscapes that remind me of how small I am in this vast world. Some people prefer mountains and their towering presence, snow-capped, or dotted with green. For me, the sea has a language. It speaks of our origins in salt and water, powerlessness against the elements. It tells the story of an entire ecosystem thriving below the surface–aquatic life both vast and microscopic. To me, the ocean is a living, breathing world. I’ve never been deep-sea diving but I’ve snorkeled through schools of rainbow-colored fish and otherworldly organisms, some spiky and foreboding, others asymmetrical and elusive. What I learn is the universality of life–whether a blob of color or the vastness of a killer whale. I’ve seen giant mammals breach with a grace unparalleled by a ballerina. I have watched seals cavort in the waves, sometimes in tandem. I’ve offered a beached starfish a second chance at life.

In the winter, the beaches are deserted. A beach walk has the kind of silence hard to find except in wild places. I leave footprints in the damp sand, watch seagulls scavenge for scraps, usually carcasses of fish. There are no tourists, no hamburger wrappers or water bottles littering the sand. I imagine beaches were once this way–pristine and lonely. The cacophony of the surf is a symphony, heavy on percussion. I never tire of its rhythm as it recedes and gathers strength for a crescendo. The air is cold and there is always wind. Wind batters, blusters, and stirs up a landscape. I respect its power.

When I go inland, land barriers close around me. It’s as if I’m in a canyon or cave, no matter how undeveloped or gorgeous the landscape. Although I’ve only piloted kayaks, canoes, rowboats, and small outboard vessels, I feel as if I could escape by boat. I do not know what I’d be escaping from or where I would go, only that the sea is an open hand and a promise.

When I leave the sea, a part of me always remains. Like separated lovers, I pledge my loyalty. I leave a strand of hair, a shell, footprints that the tide obliterates, stones and glass buffeted by brine and churn. There is a yearning to return. I need that odor of salt and decay, moody skies that mimic the variable colors below, and the noisy marriage of foam and energy.

I do not know why I’m called to this landscape. As animals, we cannot always articulate our desires or instincts. I’m drawn to wild inlets and coastal towns, the crystalline gleam of sand when sun breaks through. In my dreams, I’m always walking barefoot at the edge of the water.

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This morning I arose early to make espresso with my gift espresso machine. Strange how this simple morning ritual gives me so much pleasure—the aroma of roasted beans, the roar of the grinder, whir of the machine as it miraculously creates two streams of the best possible morning beverage. I order my special oat milk creamer by mail but it is worth it. There is much I cannot control in the world, but this simple ritual reminds me that a low note of cardamom and cinnamon in an inky beverage can be enough for the moment.

Outside my window, the mountain peaks are sharp with early snow. The sky is nearly always blue here, an adjustment for this newcomer from the moody Northeast. I’ve always loved variable weather, sudden storms, gusty wind, a whole day of rain. The relentless sunshine feels a bit like the glare of house lights in an auditorium after a play where I was invited into another reality. I never feel quite ready to leave the world of imagination just as I rarely want to see life fully illuminated.

It has been five years since I’ve written a blog. During that time, I’ve published two more books and a chapbook, plus numerous magazine and anthology publications. I’ve finished the fifth draft of my novel (one of two I’ve struggled with for years) and I’ve moved over two thousand miles away from both people and landscape I treasure. I’ve also deleted my Twitter account. Change can be sustaining or crippling. I’m in the process of embracing where I am now as I try to learn this landscape and culture. It is not an easy process for a person in love with coastal landscapes and 30+ year friendships. In an inexplicable way, I have always felt the sea saved me. As I said in my title short story,” Impossibly Small Spaces”, “Water has an enormous capacity for listening”. 

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