sea salt

Three years ago today, on my laptop in a one-bedroom apartment near the beach, I started this blog . I had no idea what I would say, or why I needed a blog, but I felt compelled to write consistently, and write with the courage to share my writing with the world. Along the way I had a few bumps: months of fear when I felt I had nothing to write, days of self-doubt when I wondered if I shouldn't be writing so honestly, moments of panic when I thought nobody was reading. So much has changed since that first post. Someone else lives in that one-bedroom apartment near the beach. I lost a few people I loved, and I married my best friend. I got published again, and then again, and I started new blogs. I moved away, and I moved back, and I discovered more and more about who I really am and what I hope to do in the time I have on this earth. But one thing hasn't changed: the reason I write. In that first post I wrote: As I write, submit, teach, connect, and change, I hope I lear...

At my college graduation in 2005, I was showered with cards and wishes of "Congratulations!" I smiled, thanked everyone, and scratched my head. Why was I being congratulated? I went to college, did my work, and finished in four years. To me, it didn't seem that remarkable. My aunt tried to explain that it was a big deal, that I should see it as an accomplishment. But I wasn't convinced. To me it felt like being congratulated for going to work every day. I signed up to do it, I did it, and now it was done. What was the big deal? The same thing happened when we got married. Everyone was happy, and came with more wishes of congratulations. Again, I didn't get it. I knew it was a happy occasion, but where was the achievement in saying "I do" and marrying someone I loved? I didn't feel like we'd necessarily accomplished anything--we'd just committed to share a life together, something we really wanted to do. It didn't seem like a great feat...

Last week our marriage certificate finally arrived, which means that I could begin the process of legally changing my name.  To me, the issue of whether or not a woman takes her husband's name is far too interesting to far too many people, and I have found myself annoyed at the explanations, considerations, and opinions of people who feel very strongly one way or another. I honestly never cared much, but the final decision was to take my husband's name legally while continuing to write, submit and (hopefully) publish under my given name, the name I've been for 27 years, the name that I have spelled out infinite times because it is how the world recognizes me: Dianna Calareso.  On the way to the office I called my sister and complained.  I didn't want to fill out forms, didn't want to change my written identity as if I am no longer the same person, didn't want to wait in line at the mercy of federal employees.  Of course, I am thrilled to be married to a p...

The past few days have been overcast. Boston has been gloomy, rainy, and grey. It is May, but there is a little bit of winter in every month in New England, and this month I am having a rough time. I have just completed five weeks’ worth of training for two different part-time online jobs, crammed for and taken the GRE, and adopted a dog for nine days while my friend and her husband are out of town. The dog and my two cats tolerated each other, but all three animals were on edge in my small apartment. I was stressed about their stress, guilty about leaving the dog in his pen at night so he wouldn’t scuffle with the cats, and overwhelmed by the major tasks still to complete: the wedding, the move, and the job(s) I’ll need to support us while my fiancé is in graduate school. Usually upbeat, my attitude was floating in a puddle of rainwater. I arrived home last night after spending some time with my fiancé, most of which I spent coughing and complaining about the new dog allergy I t...

< Photo courtesy of Kristine Kainer Art > We walked the beach on Saturday.  Spring was tangible as the sun beat down, warming our skin, and we smiled at the other Bostonians who had crawled out of their winter caves.  For the first time in many months, the city was cheerful, and the people happily shed their coats for new layers of sweat, t-shirts, and sunscreen.  We were our real selves again, ready to grow and adapt to the coming season. * We picked up shells.  Each shell had to be considered carefully; we didn't want any that were broken, or stained, or had any traces of the organism that had lived in the shell.  We compared them side by side, left most on the sand, and held onto the ones that were smooth, white, and clean.  One we threw back into the ocean, a broken shell with the organism spilling out, covered in flies.  We felt it should die in the ocean; the empty shell would wash back onto the beach in its own time. * Pity...

 (published in word~river literary review) "What I love about our students is that there is so much to mine out of them.  They're not used to valuing education, or thinking that they have intelligent things to say, but it's in there..." This is my answer to the question I hear a lot these days: "What do you like about teaching?" It's true.  Our students are at a wonderful crossroads in their education, where they can decide to complete an associate's degree and begin careers, or they can transfer to a 4-year college and earn a bachelor's degree.  No matter what they choose, they are very often accomplishing more than they, their parents, and many of their teachers thought possible.  I'm not sure when I first compared teaching to mining, but I can't think of a more apt way to describe it.  What makes mining unique is that it's not a guaranteed success - you can fail.  This doesn't mean the precious metals or diamonds ...

At the Lily Pad in Cambridge last Saturday, I was confronted with the power of music.  Three groups played; all three featured the deep, haunting voice of the cello.  I arrived at the show in good spirits - I hadn't been to the venue since it re-opened (Boston-based readers may remember the Zeitgeist, which previously occupied the space), my boyfriend was playing for the first time with a new band, and it had reached fifty degrees that day.  All was well in my world. And then the first cello played.  The cellist played with her eyes closed, moved by every note; I was on the verge of tears.  My heart tensed up, taut as the strings on the cello as the bow was pulled across.  I felt my body relax when the bow was lifted; the cellist closed her eyes again and I could barely breathe.  What was happening?  I kept reminding myself, Nothing is wrong!  You have no reason to cry!   And I believed it, and I kept my...

I. I've often considered how lucky I am to be a woman today, and not thirty, sixty, two hundred years ago.  I have never had to fight for my right to vote.  I was expected, not forbidden, to receive a quality education.  I'm praised for my job and my independence and for living on my own.  I only cook when I want to, and there is no earl, knight, or lord who can demand my body on the night of my wedding.  I'm a free woman. Next week I begin my second semester as an adjunct professor, teaching English Composition and World Literature.  Preparing for these courses has allowed me to dive back into the literature I studied as an undergrad, and has also introduced me to some wonderful literature from around the world.  I am teaching two stories by Sandra Cisneros - "Girl Hollering Creek" and "There Was a Man, There Was a Woman."  Cisneros is the American-born daughter of a Mexican family, and the Latino and Chicano woman'...

When I was a sophomore in college, Pat Conroy ( Prince of Tides, The Great Santini ) spoke to my fiction writing class. Though he writes novels, it is no secret that many of his characters are members of his family. At the time I was writing nonfiction stories with changed names that I tried to pass off as fiction ("The One About the Old Man" was my attempt to fictionalize what later became my memoir about my grandfather, At Ease ). After the talk we were allowed to ask questions. I raised my hand. "I write a lot about my family, too. How do you write honestly about your life and family without damaging your relationship with them?" Pat Conroy looked at me and said with a straight face, "Fuck your family." I was shocked. I was (and still am) squeamish about the f-word - but more importantly, I have never considered putting my writing before my family. Conroy went on to describe how he had family members who hadn't spoken to him in years, how...

I've had a song in my head all day - actually, one line of a song: "Ooooooh, I keep crawling back to you..." This is the chorus of "Crawling Back to You" by Tom Petty (Wildflowers album).* He repeats this line twice between the verses of the song, and it's enough. The line is simple, the music is subdued, and the message is clear: I'm coming back. The idea of crawling back to someone is desperate, ashamed, and exhausted. We say it with embarassment - "I went crawling back to my old boss," or with satisfaction, "He came crawling back to me," or with anger, "Don't come crawling back here when you need something!” The action of crawling in adult relationships carries such tension, such weight, so much shame that we forget it's the only way to learn how to walk. We see it as regression, a place of weakness, humility, and powerlessness. A place so low we can only look up, but somehow seem able to move forward - beca...

I am currently reading Brunelleschi's Dome by Ross King, an historical narrative about the building of the dome of Santa Maria del Fiore (known as the Duomo) in Florence, Italy.  It tells the complicated, inventive, and seemingly impossible story of how Filippo Brunelleschi designed, engineered, and created one of the most significant architectural wonders of the world. Throughout construction of the dome, Brunelleschi was forced to invent new machinery for hoisting, placing, and transporting massive amounts of brick, sandstone, marble, and mortar.  It was the 15th century, and by today's standards, these inventions seem primitive (for an example, conduct a Google image search for "ox-hoist").  Most of Brunelleschi's inventions worked perfectly, and he continued to astound the people of Florence with his ingenuity.  However, one invention failed.  It functioned like a 15th-century duck boat, designed to transport marble across land, ...

This morning I made a very conscious decision not to help someone.  This is, I'm proud to say, fairly out of character for me, as I really try to keep an eye out for people who need a hand with the door, people with one too many bags in their arms, parents trying to maneuver their strollers on and off the train.  This kind of active helping and awareness has been modeled for me my entire life, and is now almost an instinctual reaction - someone needs help, so let it be me. This morning, I did not help.  I looked at him long and hard, lingered for a moment, and kept going. I didn't see him right away.  I exited the blue line train at Government Center, where I transfer to the green line.  There was a crowd of people backed up on one side of the staircase, and the clog seemed to be halfway up the stairs.  Slowly the people moved to the left and weaved between the people coming down the stairs to make their way up.  I followed them until I sa...

This morning the beach was gone.  High tide and a weekend of storms in New England forced giant slaps of ocean to the shore, covering the sand and splashing over the height of the seawall.  One wetsuit-clad surfer paddled around in the violent waves, but the rest of us walked along the sidewalk, sometimes shielded by the seawall, sometimes getting sprayed or doused as stories-high waves leapt over, bringing rocks, seaweed, and sand to the street.  Rocks collected between the cars parked along the seawall, and we shivered in our coats and hats as we picked up a few stones, to remember the day the ocean spoke. It said, "Stop condescending me.  I'm not just beautiful, calming, and picturesque - I'm alive, and I am restless." To prove its life, and power, and force, and choice, it threw things back on the beach that had once been thrown in: a sneaker, a child's shoe, dozens of pieces of Styrofoam, and several mangled lobster traps.  It didn't ...

I spent the weekend at a lake house on Belleau Lake in Wakefield, New Hampshire.  Saturday was beautiful, and the fish were biting.  My brother-in-law caught 3 largemouth bass; his brother caught a pickerel.  We drank Long Trail, we wore coats (temperature on Saturday was high 40s), we pointed out trees that had begun to change color for the fall.*  Saturday night we sat by the fireplace and watched National Lampoon's Vacation while playing a game called "Things."  The point of the game is to answer the prompt on each card and then go around the room and try to guess who said what.  One card's prompt read: "Things you would line up to see..."  One person wrote, "A Golden Girls reunion show;" another wrote, "Criminals;" another, "Oprah."  As we went around the room to guess how each of us had answered, we recited the responses to help remember what was left.  When were down to the final three, the mantra be...