Sylvia's Journal

Calm has returned. I am by myself. Axel has his weekly ‘lads’ get together, sort of a men’s group that occasionally allows women – when they drop their men off or some festivity, like a harvest moon or an abundant mussel and oyster harvest. I am glad he has this – men are not naturally good at deep friendships in that phase of their lives when their women do – because of children and juggling professional and domestic careers. Now appears to be the time to catch up.

I have a thousand things to write about, because for the first time in a week there is this stillness around the house. It’s a precious stillness that returned after Tessa’s 30 hour party where some 50 (60? 100?) young people invade Lobster Cove for a 30 hour birthday bash, Tessa’s 28th.

Everything was taken over by food, drink, tents, ashtrays (this generation smokes like there is no tomorrow), and the headphones that come along with the silent disco. This year I never made it the start of the silent disco. I retreated into the only room that was invasion-proof, our bedroom.

I think I was asleep before 9 only to be woken up by the fireworks. In hindsight we didn’t think mixing vodka and fireworks was such a good idea, nor did one of our neighbors think so. This may be on constraint we may put on next years’ festivities.

Unfortunately I also did not see the dozens of large (2 feet tall) paper lanterns that are propelled by a flame and drift off into the atmosphere or far out to sea. One neighbor who monitors the police scanner told us that several Manchester citizens reported seeing UFOs. He showed me the pictures he took from the roof. I would have believed in UFOs myself.

When I woke up at 6 AM on the morning after the party the last people had just gone to sleep. Some sprawled on our large Afghan pillows in my office, some in half a dozen tents perched along the perimeter of our land, some intertwined on quilts on the grass, some on sitting places in our living room not meant for sleeping, one in a hammock that wasn’t his own, leaving its owner to seek out our couch. There were two young men sleeping in regular lawn chairs, looking much like economy class travelers, awkward but too tired to mind.

And everywhere the debris of partying – paper plates and plastic utensils, half eaten food, warm watermelon, fruit mixed with ashes and limp potato chips, Hershey bars left over from the s’mores prepared over the campfire at the beach, already melted in the early morning heat; and then there were the empty kegs, the empty bottles, the empty plastic cups and other substances that are not really good for young minds.

And then, one by one, stirrings left and right, tent zippers opening, couches being evacuated. The revelers woke up (around midday and some mid afternoon), wanting coffee but too tired to drive to Dunkin Donuts to get some. So they helped themselves to bloody Mary’s instead, accompanied by stale bagels and cream cheese from small containers. Some left because they have jobs or other social obligations, other stayed until a hastily ordered pizza delivery at the end of the day, making it a 24 hour party for some of them, a 30 hour party for others. Tessa stayed one more night to put the final touches on the clean up on Monday. One year from now everything starts all over again. Our trampled lawn has a year to recover. We know it will.

The festivities are ratcheting up. After Tessa’s birthday there is the Fourth of July, Faro’s first, that is, his first ‘aware’ Fourth. We stood on the steps of one of his grandparental homes which is conveniently located on the parade route. He didn’t seem to be disturbed by the noise of the trucks and musketeers shooting their ancient guns. He was entirely enthralled by the parade passing before him. I am glad he is still too young to get excited about the candy being thrown from floats.

We did our usual route of social calls – as the fourth in a small town is very much a social event – and returned home, blistered and exhausted from the 90s degree heat. We found Tessa and friends lounging by the water, the only sensible place to be on a hot day like that.

The lobster traps were hailed in with only two lobsters, one under measure who was returned to the sea and the other a cull (a one-clawed lobster). Young Graeme who did the heavy lifting was given the cull for a lobster bisque his mom was making. He lives in an ambassadorial residence in Delhi, far from the ocean. The catch made his day.

Friday was a full workday for me, while there was much toddling and visiting going on outside: friends, cousins, in-laws, aunts and uncles – being at the best possible place one could be on another 90 degree day. Halfway through the day we went to the appliance store and bought another, our third, air-conditioner. It is funny how we lived through two Hivernages in Senegal and at least 15 years in Lobster Cove using only fans. It is either getting hotter every year or our ability to withstand heat is going down. I am very thankful that we can simply go to the store and buy these things. That is what workdays are for.

Faro toddled around in a T-shirt that showed the face of (now past) President Abdou Diouf from Senegal (Fidelite et Reconnaissance). In the Senegalese summer, surely hotter than 90 degrees, of 1981, Sita had worn the same T-shirt during a trip to the Casamance. She was 9 months at the time. We tried to re-create the stance, with some degree of success: mother and son – some 30 years apart.

I spent the 6th of June in Easthampton, marveling at Faro who, at one year has moved into another phase: he is walking, albeit it very hesitantly and only when he is not in a hurry. That is very sensible of course. early on Friday morning I headed partway home, to Marlborough, to attend the 2nd of our 3 required face to face trainings.

Since our first intensive training, four months ago, and countless hours of coaching, my confidence has gone up a few notches. But then, when I compare my level of proficiency to that of our coaching trainer it feels like I have light years to go. And so we move forward to the next (and last) retreat in September and another 50 hours of practice coaching!

During the weekend I had one major insight, triggered by one of the (33) coaching principles that inform our education: “There are no mistakes.” Although my brain was willing to go with that statement, my gut was not, until I understood at a more cellular level what the implication is of this principle. That understanding all by itself made the 30 hours of instruction worth it: when there are no mistakes there is no blame (of self and others) – what a liberating thought!

I returned home and the end of Sunday, with just enough daylight left to squeeze about 25 asparagus beetles, some in the act of procreating, between my fingers. But the damage is done: many shriveled up spears, prematurely ending the asparagus season that started so auspiciously. We are learning that having left the dried out stalks over the winter is partially responsible for this invasion (not a mistake but something we didn’t know any better at the time). I also harvested the radishes, all with tiny teeth marks indicating that they are (somewhat) attractive to other critters. The abundant harvest of arugula and pakchoi was mostly clean, we tolerate tiny holes in the leaves, and immediately consumed.