I’ve been getting my period for 36 years. I remember the exact day when it first came because it was April 17th, my friend Kathy S’s birthday, and I was twelve. It was after school, when shafts of late afternoon sunlight streamed across the 6th green of the Evanston golf course and into our front hall.  I’d just come home from school and had run upstairs to use the bathroom. I remember noticing just a few dots of blood, not much, but it didn’t seem like it could have been anything else. I checked as best I could, because I was really hoping it might not be what I suspected. I sat there, stunned, unable to move for a minute as a profound reality descended on my my bright, girl world. Perhaps I felt some excitement, that I don’t remember, but I do remember disappointment. It was over. My childhood, my innocence. Technically, I was old enough to have a baby. Culturally, I was on the hook now. Still not one hundred percent sure, I dabbed some blood onto a piece of toilet paper and ran downstairs to show my mom.

The kitchen, on the east side of the house, was in shadow that time of day. I remember pausing as I entered the room. I remember showing her the spot, I remember her smiling, then laughing in excitement for us both. I however, at her confirmation, began to weep. There we were, in the dark kitchen, she laughing, me crying. It was over, I told her. Everything was going to change now. I would have to make plans around my period, cancel plans because of my period, begin to live a new, furtive existence all because of this unwelcome change. I thought of the exotic-seeming college girls who used to babysit us when we were young. They’d seemed so grown-up, so womanly. It occurred to me that I was somehow entering their mysterious world. Tears wouldn’t stop my period from coming. I couldn’t fight it. I would simply have to buck up and figure out how to lessen its restrictive claim on me.

Skip ahead nearly four decades – past the eighth grade trip to Washington, D.C. where the class went swimming and girls tried to instruct me how to use a tampon from the other side of the bathroom door (with no success) so that I could join them in the pool – past the rainy nights boyfriends made tampon runs to the 24 hour grocery on my behalf – past all the near misses and the accidents and the timely assistance from anonymous and helpful women everywhere who dug around the bottoms of their purses, saying they ‘thought they might have something’ when I found myself stranded – past that merciless period caring not a whit that the toilet paper dispenser was empty – skip ahead to September, 2011. To the day before last, when it occurred to me, that based on the plans I’d hoped would come to pass these next few days, this would be my last period, ever.

After my initially tearful reception of my menstruation (btw – I cannot fathom how people still insist on pronouncing that silly ‘u’ after the ‘r’ – reminds me of vintage health videos and stuffy health professionals who seem completely clueless, especially in matters of sexual relations) I had come to actually welcome it each month. For me, perhaps because of a tilted uterus, perhaps for other unknown and unimportant reasons, I would begin to feel it coming on in my lower back. The other night I lay in bed and tried to concentrate on that feeling, to memorize it. It had been with me for most of my life, and in the not too distant future it would be just a memory. I have only found one or two women who feel as I do about their periods. Most just complain and enjoy the camaraderie of their shared pains. When I began to feel that low-grade, dull ache, something of a mix of intestinal distress but not, muscle pain but not, I actually welcomed it. Before the back ache though, I’d know my period was coming because something would set me off. Something – which in the moment really seemed to matter – would send me into an explosion of tears; a good, physical, sobbing jag. Fareed, my near ex, might ask me if I expected my period soon (as my cycle was a steady 28 days for decades) and when he was right, it would cause me to start laughing hysterically before the tears were dry on my face. Sheesh. It never ceased to entertain me. When you’re in it, you’re in it – you can’t see that the tears don’t match the offense – but thankfully, when pulled out of it, I was able to marvel at this crazy hormonal reaction, and I always found it amusing. I even enjoyed the dull, burning ache in my lower back. There were times it required some pain relief, but never much. I’m well aware that for many women this is a really painful and dreaded time of the month – a real waste of precious time – but thankfully it wasn’t that for me. I was free to enjoy it to some degree. Each month I enjoyed the feeling of connectedness it gave me; I saw it as proof that I was linked to the earth, nature, the women I shared my world with. I saw it as evidence that I too was equipped for the job of becoming a mother one day. And when I actually got pregnant in July of 2002 – precisely when I’d planned – once again I was in awe of how it all worked. Amazing. How lucky was I to be a woman, to experience this myself? Lucky.

A couple of years ago my periods began to appear every 24 days, instead of every 28. Again, they were like clockwork, but something had begun to change in my body. Each month, when I’d feel the tug of one ovary or the other – I’d secretly think to myself , ‘Wow, I could still have a baby. I could still get pregnant’. But the gap is too wide for Elihu to enjoy a playmate in any baby born now, my financial situation couldn’t handle it, and besides, insane as it sounds, if I were to ever have had another child, I would have wanted it to be with my son’s father, my husband. On principal, that is. In some crazy, twisted way. I would never consider it, but the irrational thought lingers. Therein I am conflicted about this upcoming change of menopause. I’ve had my child – my body works – what’s the problem? I can’t answer this. I’m just a little sentimental. I guess it’s because a familiar part of my life is coming to an end. There are women who will leap for joy when they no longer have to buy tampons and pads, for whom the new freedom won’t have them looking back for a second. Maybe I’ll join them one day, but for the moment I have a little letting go to do.

At the same time my cycle shortened, my period changed. (For those of you who may find any of this post on the verge of poor taste, I bid you look away now.) I began to have what I have called ‘mini-miscarriages’. I would lose so much blood that I wondered if I shouldn’t worry. Might I become anemic? And if I were, how would I know, anyway? I find myself canceling students, moving appointments, staying home. I can’t leave for more than fifteen minutes at a time as the flow is non-stop. Clots come too, it just doesn’t stop. And after a few inconvenient years of this, just a few months ago, another change. My period comes every two weeks. Seriously? It’s as if mother nature herself is slapping me in the face to snap me out of it: don’t be such an emotional pansy – your body is changing, get over it! Unable to continue the loss of income – the huge expense of pads and tampons and just the overall annoyance of the situation – I began to search for a solution. Then it came, in the form of a casual comment made to me by a gradeschool classmate who is now herself an OB/GYN doc. “Get a Mirena” she said. “Your period will probably stop.” Just like that. “Just make sure that whoever puts it in has done hundreds of em.” I must not have looked convinced. “I’ll take it out if you don’t like it”. Well then. My next move, as a still-married, still-insured woman, was to look into coverage, and damned if that piece of over-priced, hormone-infused plastic wasn’t covered. Green light.

One of my friends here in town, and the mother of a former piano student, is herself a doc who does just such IUD ‘installations’ by the hundreds. And so, as if decreed by the speedy hand of destiny, she is inserting mine today. I pay $100 after the insurance. Heck, I’ll make up that loss soon enough. As with any endeavor in life one seems to pick up so much more information on the subject when it’s spinning around in your consciousness – I’ve heard lots of anecdotal advice in the few weeks that have passed since I made the decision to do this. I may spot for months. Many months. I may cramp. It might seem I’ve made a mistake – but no, wait it out. And I will. This IUD will remain inside me for the next five years. By the time I have it taken out, I should be on ‘the other side’ of this transition. Today I have my natural period, tomorrow I spot on account of medical manipulation. When I am fifty-three (seriously, I’ll be fifty-three??) and the device is removed, I will be a woman in her menopausal years.

I’ve never been a fan of change, and adjusting is tricky for me. Thankfully, I’ll have five years to make the transition. See you on the other side…

Been up an hour or more. Elihu awoke feeling a little sick, but I cajoled him into going to school. I reassured him that I was just a phone call away if he felt it was too much. I offered a little Mr. Creosote on You Tube to get him chuckling. His mood was light and his brow didn’t feel hot, so I saw him off on the bus.

I myself have had a summer cold the past few days and today am tired even after a good night’s sleep. I had a very welcome dream this morning, and in my sort of sick, lowered state of energy I buzz through the light of day still very much in the mood of my dream. I dreamt of a boy that I had pined for as an adolescent girl. He, as an adult, along with a boy whom I took to be his son, joined Elihu and me at Christmastime inside a fine home with lovely mill work, darkly lit and with a large, stately Christmas tree in the living room The feeling was gentle, it was one of long-lost friends meeting for the first time as adults, as people. It was surprising; I hadn’t thought but a handful of times of this man in the decades since he exited my life, yet from this darkly lit dream, his quiet and smiling presence carried into my waking day. I am compelled to look him up once more on Facebook and see his face, so that I might confirm the image in my mind. I notice that his children are grown. Are we so old? Ahh, it’s just that I started so late….

I’m a little whistful. I miss having a crush. I miss that feeling of hope, of longing. In my very routine day – a day that will see me doing laundry, paying bills and catching up on the dishes – I will float through these everyday tasks my spirit lifted ever so softly by the happy, hopeful feeling that still lingers from my dream.

So far, so good. No longer just a rainy day; the wind bends the trees on the horizon and I begin to think I won’t have to pay anyone to take down that huge white pine that blocks my view of the mountains… Several trees on my property have fallen and snapped in less wind. As I stand in my screen porch and take in the action outside I begin to entertain thoughts of my powerlessness against nature. I realize the value of a roof. While my certainty that all will be just fine begins to erode I am calmed a bit by the sight of tiny songbirds who continue to swoop between the apple tree and the kitchen window feeder. Really? How are they able? Guess it’s not much worse than your run of the mill summer storm for now. Ok. It’s not that bad. Or is it? Will it be? As I write the lights dim and flicker. Power outages in Greenfield happen routinely, even through fairly uneventful thunderstorms. Hmm. Another flicker. I’m ok. I consider the things I might want to do now that require power. Flush? Make coffee? Ok. I’ll make some coffee. Another flicker. I won’t have wi fi. But my mac is charged, I can still write. Hell, there’s a lot I could do, a lot I really should do, but I’m mesmerized. I sit and listen. I almost wish the power would go out – then I’d be motivated to sort through the crap that sits in the living room awaiting replacement in Elihu’s bedroom. But I can’t move. I sit in my chair, computer on my lap, waiting. So much for a cozy day just reading on the couch, my focus is on the action outside.

Ok. The clocks are flashing 12:04. Must’ve lost it for a second. But the power’s still holding. Let’s see, what else? The chickens are in and safe. The rooster isn’t even crowing. Thankful I have a real coop now. Hmm. How about downstairs? I make a quick check of my basement. The usual puddles for a rainshower. I lift the floats in the sump pump wells and force the standing water out to make room for more. My vintage suitcase Rhodes sits on the floor. I consider moving it, as I’ve seen it in water before, but it’s just so big. I pass. I check the heavy outdoor metal doors to the cellar and a scene from the Wizard of Oz passes through my head. The doors are secure. What else? Upstairs, looking out of the kitchen window I notice that the pond form – a huge, 10 foot long thing that I got for free through Craigslist – has been upturned and threatens to sail away. How is that possible? My heart sinks – I’ve spent upwards of ten hours hand digging and getting it just so – it had been perfectly level with the ground and I’d already filled in around it. Now it has been hoisted up and out of its hole and sits, half filled with water like a small boat ready to drift off down the creek and over the hillside. Damn. That was a huge, heavy and difficult job. It’s all for naught now. Before I descend into a gloomy episode of self pity I consider how much worse others no doubt have it. I’ll fix it. Just won’t happen for a while. I decide to throw on my parka and go out to see about making sure it doesn’t fly away.  The rain isn’t so bad, but the wind is loud and once again it reminds me of my human vulnerability. I lean over and try moving the pond. It’s heavy. Probably ok. Then I place a large rock inside it to keep it there. I laugh at myself. Yeah, right. That aint gonna keep it down if a huge gust comes along. I give it up and go in. Not a thing to do but wait, watch and listen.

The lights continue to flicker. I charge up my cell phone. Oops. The lights dim, go off and come on again. That one lasted longer. I hear the pumps in the cellar rumbling on and off. My coffee’s probably brewed by now, glad I did that. I’m going to pour a cup and sit on the couch. Don’t think I can tear myself away from the show. The wind is loud now. I think I hear a truck straining up the steep hill road, but realize that was the wind. Ok. I’m getting my money’s worth now. I’m glad that my son is safe in Chicago.

Hello Irene, nice to meet you, but I hope you don’t stay long.

The rain has just begun. What a wonderful sound. Living so close to the edge of the woods and so far from the road, the rain seems to feel more alive here, more exciting, more real. At midnight I opened my window to listen for the coming storm, and shortly thereafter the first drops began to fall. It’s starting slowly. With all the talk on the media I admit I’m listening with peaked interest. How does a really big storm evolve? How long will it take to reach its fury? Will the winds really be 65 mph here? It still sounds innocent enough. In fact now the drops are slowing.

I’m slowing too – it’s time to crawl into bed with a book and just listen…

Folks are gettin ready for the big storm that’s coming. I almost wonder if all the preparation will eclipse the event itself. I met a friend today who worked for an insurance company; she’d just spent a long day at work getting ready for it and faced an even longer day on Monday, the morning after the weather is due to hit. Really? I find myself thinking, is this really going to be such a big deal? It was advised on the radio to stash all outdoor furniture. To batten down the hatches and hunker down. Yesterday Walmart was sold out of batteries and camp lanterns. Really? Wow. Lots of activity, yet outside the crickets sing as usual, the air is still, the weather quite nice.

This week has been a busy one for me. I’ve been sanding furniture, painting walls, drilling holes and hanging shelves. My son’s bedroom has been evacuated of all its contents. Artifacts from the last three years of his life, much of it having been forgotten under the bed and in the closet, now sit in piles around my living room. It looks like my own house has been visited by a hurricane. I have secured my outdoor chairs, fed and watered my chickens and closed them safely in, filled my larder, set aside extra water, located the candles and matches. For the moment my storm is over.

The wind and rain may come, I’m ready. I have a few books to read, a piano to play and a couch to cozy up on. Come tomorrow I’ll be in the peaceful eye of the storm…

You know that feeling that lingers in your gut when a piece of correspondence sits far too long without a reply? That’s the feeling I’ve been living with since I arrived back home after my recent trip to Chicago. Elihu is again back in the Midwest with his father for two long weeks, and it seems I should have ample time to respond to friends, to return calls, to make at least a brief post on my blog. Yet somehow, life adds up, and the cracks and crevices fill with unforeseen events.  I apologize for my long absence, and hope to make up for it with something of an update.

The night before I’d left for Chicago we held the final concert of my father’s 52 year-old  Festival of Baroque Music. (The day before we’d just concluded our first run of kid’s art classes at the Studio.) That Sunday Dad had been honored by fans and friends for his esteemed career as a harpsichordist and supporter of early music. Some of the concert goers had even been in attendance for Dad’s very first concert back in 1959! It was the lovliest of evenings. The weather showed mercy and for the first time in many summers it wasn’t too hot. The musicians played so beautifully, and the room was simply filled with love. I couldn’t have hoped for a more wondrous way in which to conclude my parents’ half century of hosting musicians and holding concerts. And afterward at the house the food was fresh, delicious and abundant as usual, and dear friends stayed with us into the night enjoying it all.

The next day Elihu and I were off to visit Chicago. In just a few hours it seemed we were standing on the Howard el platform with our bags, marveling at the sights of a real city. While our visit was mostly relaxed and free-form, it did at times become rather hectic and jam packed. We made few structured plans in order to accommodate the serendipitous nature of life. Catching up after three years’ absence was a daunting task, yet I did see many old and dear friends. I even managed to sit in with a big band I sang with years ago as well as do a night with my beloved Prohibition Orchestra of Chicago. (With a mother’s great pride, I report that young master Elihu stood beside me and confidently belted out a couple of songs as well.) We enjoyed the beach as I introduced my son to what I will probably always regard as the most enjoyable bathing experience to be had anywhere on the globe. Smooth, sandy bottom, clear water with the awe-inspiring expanse of sea and sky before us, the skyline of downtown reminding us (or at least me, as Elihu could not see it for himself) exactly where we were.

I had a personal revelation upon my return to upstate New York. When I got on the plane I felt relief to be going home. My heart looked to this place as its destination. And that was new to me. For the three years I’ve been here I’ve not quite felt I lived here. I’ve kept Chicago in my heart as my home. I’ve yearned for it, compared Saratoga unfairly to it, expressed my disdain at all my current location’s inadequacies. Yet after having revisited many familiar places, I had come to feel that my old life there had been played out. Satisfied, fully lived, completed. As I stood in these places that I knew so well, I could feel with certainty that my purpose there had been fully expressed and there was simply nothing left for me to do. My work there was done. Looking out of my window on the plane, down onto the very neighborhood in which I grew up – the Baha’i temple clearly visible, and my own childhood home just houses away from it – I didn’t feel the sorrow I’d expected. Instead I felt a warm sense of gratitude for all that it had meant to me in my life. I blew a kiss to my beloved old home, and then a new feeling began to well inside of me; the urgent desire to get home and get to work.

As with any wave of inspiration or revelation, its energy often diminishes with time. I suppose that lifting of my heart, that resolve to hit the New York soil with renewed purpose and vigor has waned a little in the days that have followed my homecoming. Once home, life hit with the force of a huge, breaking wave and I was carried away in the current of to-do lists and new situations to attend to. For the next week I’m working to complete all the unfinished projects on the farm and garden front so that come school time I can put my household concerns behind me and concentrate on creating this arts center. For now I’m tending to matters of the home.

And I’m happy to report I now know where that is.

Kid’s asleep and I’ve snuck out to check my email and get some coffee. Bad mom? I’ll be back before ten minutes have passed… Been without internet for a week. Like camping. Singing tonite with my beloved Prohibition Orchestra of Chicago. Feels like a dream – as if I’d never left, as if I’d been gone a hundred years. Like home, and yet not. I sit at the cafe window watching the good people of Evanston pass by. Shortly I’ll be back in the country, the hills of Vermont on the horizon, chickens at my feet. And I’m surprised to find myself relieved at the thought.

Evanston was a fine place to live, and it’s a fine place to visit, but I’m just about ready to go home.