Memoirous

Flora Literary is running a small prose poem I wrote around the theme of regret. It starts as a list but then addresses certain people I feel I’ve wronged or short-shrifted—bringing on latent regrets. Afterthoughts. Self-examination. What-ifs and if onlys. Hindsight is 20-20, as they say. And, it is the heart that reminds us             To open up, and be more generous in spirit. Link here to Things I Regret: https://florafiction.com/literary-magazine/ open to expand video and scroll over table of contents, my piece is around page 24.

I’ve come to the end of the year, a busy year at that for publication acceptances. I’ve worked hard on revisions and submitting manuscripts to publishers, agents, and contests. I rode my bike up the Rhine River through Germany, France, and Switzerland. And, I’ve come to the end of new stuff to write about. So it feels like. Lately. Perhaps, I need to lower the bar or slow down. Part of my preparation for my talk at the Festival for Faith and Writing, Slow Looking, is about honing observation skills. Living in the moment. Creating a Zen-like attitude toward the world. Definitely not listening to the news. I never liked nature poetry. I relegated it to old ladies, to people who went to bed at 7 pm and asked for the senior discount at the donut shop. There was a 4 o’clock special at the Denny’s restaurant I worked at in Centerville, where we could count on the same retirees showing up with their potbellies and suspenders and pocketbooks full of half-used tissues and Hawaiian white g

Ever since I got back from my Rhine River Ride all I’ve wanted to do is eat. Ever since I got back from Europe all I want is a big salad. Everywhere I stayed I was eating salad, so that now it is a muscle memory. Ravenous. A kind of craving. Perhaps, it’s post-trip depression. Either way, I’m eating salad and dreaming of my next bike trip.

I’m in charge of the turkey—what does this mean?—It means do not kill the family with unsafe poultry. I’ve had too many experiences with unthawed turkey on cooking day. So I told my daughter I wanted at least a week for the bird to thaw in the downstairs mini-beer-fridge. Now 4 days to go and it is still crunchy-semi-frozen. I know we can put it in the sink for an hour or two for the final final, but it is unbelievable how frozen these frozen turkeys can get. Meanwhile, I’ll work on the pie and together we’ll do the cranberry relish. It’s been a while since we’ve cooked together and, with the new baby, it was decided that we wouldn’t travel, but stay home. I’ve drawn up graphs and charts and step-by-step to-dos. Yet, this hasn’t stopped me from worrying. Sheesh, I can ride my bike across the country solo and summit mountains, but cooking a meal has me petrified. We’re still days away and I can’t help imagining serving a botulated turkey.

I watched the Netflix release, NYAD, about the endurance swimmer Diana Nyad’s attempt(s) to swim from Cuba to Key West. I found the main character to be annoying, narcissistic, and one-dimensional. Like most exceptional professional athletes. If this were a man we’d think nothing of it— She was driven by internal, psychic forces to do this incredible feat not for any monetary reason, but only to prove to herself that she could. Of course, she had to bring others into her over-achievement orbit and hold them there in order to accomplish her goal. There is a certain tension in the film of how she viewed relationships. Yet, she was fully human; we saw her warts and all. I think what made me keep watching was that she and I (in the film) are close to the same age—and I, too, feel a sense of wanting to get things done, or at least attempt to. My Rhine River Ride (search here at blog for posts) portrayed this: Despite rain the first day, I had to do 100 km to Koblenz and 100 the next d

What a wakeup call—even though I’ve been awake. Yesterday I had an appointment and rode my bike. It was early, but didn’t feel so early with the time change—at least now most mornings I head out in light and not darkness. But on the way there, even with my thermal knit gloves, I couldn’t feel my fingers after five minutes. Nevertheless, I kept going. The story of my life. Such bone-biting cold reminded me of why I love warmth, made me grateful for my Tiny House, wish I were back in bed—while at the same time, let me know I was alive. I was super-aware of my surroundings: the near-bare trees, the carpet of leaves beneath my wheels, clear blue cloudless sky. And, in tune with my body: the frozen digits, my breath, at first sluggish, but then coming faster and hotter as I raced along, my legs, up and down with each stroke. Tingling, blood pumping, fully awake. When I got to the office I couldn’t unbuckle my helmet; my fingers just wouldn’t cooperate. I told the nurse, It must be nea

Last spring I submitted a proposal to the Festival of Faith and Writing for their upcoming 2024 conference—the first in about 6 years to be in-person—for a Festival Circle. My proposal was selected! Slow Looking: Freeing the Mind to Observe This Circle introduces participants to Corita Kent, an Immaculate Heart sister known as the "Pop Art Nun," who captured the imagination of the 60s and early 70s with her free-spirited designs (her iconic LOVE stamp is still sold by the U.S. post office). Sister Corita helped her students to see the world a new way—in small bite-size pieces. Her “finder,” a small cardboard frame, reshaped the everyday and brought minutia into perspective. Jane Hertenstein is the author of over 90 published stories both macro and micro: fiction, creative non-fiction, and blurred genre. She teaches a workshop on Flash Memoir and can be found blogging at http://memoirouswrite.blogspot.com/ Do I have a clue as to how I’m going to present? No—it’s slowly

A lot has happened this past week: I’m still getting caught up from my three-week cycling vacation along the Rhine River, plus immediately going back to work. Now, add—the new baby. Remy Winslow Garvey arrived 11/3 at 9:52 at 6 pounds 7 ounces. All at once he looks like his big brother Jack and all his own with dark hair and dark eyes. I’m still getting used to him. Then I had a birthday, supposedly a big one. Sixty-five. Again, I don’t know how to feel; it’s all happening around me and to me, but inside I’m an observer, trying to get a handle on the present and possibly the future. Yesterday was the first chance I had to take a step away from family since I got back. I ride my bike to a beautifully wooded area and walked the leaf-laden hills. The weather was gorgeous and there’s still some color in the trees. Overhead were birds. I crunch-crunched along, just thinking. Asking myself: Do you feel sixty-five? Not really. We’re never certain of anything—except death, and, I r

Wow—how did this happen?! I remember asking the same thing at 45. Now, here I stand, after so many changes, at another milestone. Milestones aren’t always the same. There’s the Imperial miles and the king’s mile, which I learned about in Sweden. No matter the name, it’s where one stands, the distance perceived, one’s attitude toward the long game. It’s all relative. Ground to cover from A to B. Having just gotten back from a bike tour, people always ask me: What kind of bike do I ride? I know, I know, I work at a bike shop and sell the dream, but I also tell my customers—it’s what you do with the bike that counts. So many times people tell me they have a barn full of bikes they don’t ride. They’re just looking for the perfect one. Excuse me while my head explodes. Nike had a point: Just do it. I also get a lot: Aren’t you scared? Or, You’re so brave. No. I credit this to being overwhelmed by so many emotions that fear sort of gets squeezed out or sidelined. This trip I might

After a restless sleep, and not enough of it, I awoke to having to buy toilet paper, restock the fridge and pantry shelf. The water tasted different, the slant of light. The trees were further along into their descent into winter. The whole world. While gone, there was Israel and Gaza and new wars. New perils. The garden had gone to seed. The peeling paint more distressed. I wish I were somewhere else. Is this the letdown after a trip? The low following the high? A reckoning? Not that the trip was paradise—more an interruption to real life. A fourth dimension, a slipstream that I folded into for a little over 3 weeks. That vaguely familiar routine of pedaling, a kind of Zen, where I feel at home within my body, my mind elsewhere, living in the moment. The moments of awestruck pleasure over the most sublime scenes. The hush, the color of the sky, a certain sense of well-being, of not being lost, of getting somewhere, that adventure awaits. The first few weeks were Indian Summe