10 of 2010

So I look up above my computer screen and see my 2010 calendar. There are less than three days before this book of Irish days is obsolete and will be folded in half to go into the recycle bin. How casually I will fold away this year and pass nonchalantly into the next. And maybe that’s the way it should be. January 3 shall be just as ordinary a day as this, apart from the fact it will be a Monday of a full week and not a seeming Friday of a partial one.

But here we are. Year’s end. 2010 is worth a few moments of reflection before taking it off the wall and putting out of sight. And to be completely unoriginal, I will echo the sentiments I captured similarly last year at this time and post my top ten of 2010.

1. The Supper Club. I made a promise to myself that I would take socializing out of the virtual world and put it around a dining room table. Indeed, I actually made my dining room into a dining room after being a neglected second sitting room for three years. And now it has the imprint of various menu themes (Roman Empire, food on a stick, pumpkin), laughter, conversations that burned the tapers down to halves, empty wine bottles, and the warmth of friends. Aside from some yummy food and sangria, the BEST result of this experiment is… I’m actually a happier person. I like people more. Funny that. 

2. Cooking with my grandmother. I started the education of cooking Rose Alba’s French Canadian meat dressing last year. But this year it cemented itself in my memory. The fact you have to use a specific cast iron pan to fry the bacon to get the grease for the onions. And the bread has to be crumbled in a meat grinder, the likes of which is on display in the Beauport kitchen. The process is fun, but the best is lingering in the kitchen at Mt. Pleasant Ave. I see my grandmother on her feet and listen to her conversation of the Moreaus and Brennans who cooked and partied before I was born, of my mother and her siblings as children, of her romance with my grandfather… so easily dropped into conversation and things on which I hope to hold forever.

3. Visiting Rochester, NY. I loved the triumph of my Kermit to make it from one end of Massachusetts to the other end of New York on one tank of gas (hybrids rule). But, more importantly, I got to visit with two good friends whom I haven’t seen in too long. It goes with the other items on this list. Seeing people and talking to them and remembering why you love them… there is nothing better. Oh – and Bully Hill was pretty spectacular, too.

4. Hamlet. This is kind of dorky. But I got to see a few new interpretations of Hamlet this year. Live. Filmed. Live filmed. And, well, here’s some disclosure if I haven’t already talked your ear off. I want to direct it. Soonish.

5. Running. I actually dragged my silly self out of bed before dawn this summer. To run. It didn’t yield the physical transformation I was hoping. But, really, in the end, it’s about the mental. It proved to me, as so many things this year did, that excuses are stupid. There is no such thing as can’t. There is simply won’t. It may be difficult. And it probably doesn’t get easier. But, quite often, there is a yield that pays off for the seeming misery of getting out of bed at 5:30. Indeed, there is more misery staying asleep.

6. The Vagina Monologues. In February, I went out to Sturbridge and reminded myself why I like theater. Specifically, community theater. Because when it’s good, there really is… community. From that week of (inevitably freezing rain soaked) drives to and from rehearsals and performances, I gained new friends… and the ability to forgive myself for letting my assessment of theater get so darkened with anger and hurt. But aside from that petty inconsequential, I had many laughs with many women from all sorts of backgrounds. And supported a good cause, too.

7. Beauport. The eclectic labyrinth of rooms on Eastern Point is always a highlight of my summer. This year was no different. Saturdays passed with such ease and the words retelling the stories fell out of my mouth without effort. I love that house. I love the spooky echoes of summers past. I love that we embrace Sleeper’s identity now. I love the hours in the gate house with so many fabulous women (and Ed) who teach me as much as that house does. I love that the mystery never ends. I love the white armed mists of the ocean… and I love the curried chicken salad from The Last Stop. 

8. My job. It is the ordinary of this year. The routine I follow mindlessly more days than any other. I come to sit at this desk and stare at this computer screen, registering students, thanking generous donors, writing emails to parents. There is a lot of boring minutiae to my day… but then I go to the programs. I see the kids try on theater for the first time in one of our troupes. Or I see a kid who has gone through the workshops singing the songs from happy memory. Or I go to Banned in Boston, drink my free wine and watch the mayor in a crazy outfit. This is a very cool organization. There is so much love here. It makes the minutiae essential. It gives me hope.

9. Writing. I got in that Candy Land spot – you know the one you have to wait for a certain card to move forward? Well, that’s what I told myself after several casual unfeeling rejections. Intellectually I understand that is a rite of passage through which most decent writers grow. But I got stuck and made some of those wretched excuses. Then I wrote another novel… sort of. Well, I wrote a draft. We’ll see where it goes. But I know that writing is essential to my being. It makes me happier than anything. It shifts my mind’s eye into focus and lets me see.

10. Worcester. So weird. I wanted to escape that town so very much. I thought of it as my Bedford Falls in my own George Bailey existence. I went away, came back, and had to run away again. So I did for seven years. But then I looked at my dinner guests. I see how the city has grown… or maybe, just, I’ve grown enough now to see it differently. In any case, I’ve spent more time there. I intend to spend more time there in the next year. And, hm, we’ll see what I’m writing about with regards to Massachusetts’ second city in 2011.

All told, it’s been a good year. The things that stay with me as Friday’s midnight approaches aren’t regret. They give me pause - to smile, to look forward, and believe that there is more of the good to come.