Treasure! The collection of Anton Checkov's works, bought at a library sale in Stowe, Vermont.

This book was an incredible find, yet there is something sad about seeing such a treasure stamped with the word, DISCARDED. This edition of Checkov's works was published in 1929.

Checkov, a graduate of medical school, wanted to write stories that looked at people and situations somewhat objectively. His lack of personal commentary (and judgment) combined with his keen insights into the human psyche made him a great storyteller.

My favorite of his stories so far is "La Gigale." It is about an artistic, although flighty, young woman named Olga who marries a man of science, Dymov. At first Olga sees beyond Dymov's meek demeanor and recognizes his greatness: his dedication, intelligence, and compassion. Later, she tires of him and has an affair with one of her artist friends. Dymov knows of the affair but wants to keep the marriage together. In this pivotal scene, Olga has the opportunity to make things right, but she fails to recognize the potential for transformation:

One evening when [Olga] was preparing to go to the theater, she was standing before the pier-glass when Dymov, clad in a dress-coat and a white tie, came into her bedroom; he smiled meekly and as formerly he looked his wife joyfully straight in the eyes. His face beamed.

"I have just been defending my thesis," he said, sitting down and stroking his knees.

"Defending?" Olga Ivonovna asked.

"Ogo!" he laughed, and he stretched his neck in order to see his wife's face in the mirror, as she was still standing before it with her back towards him arranging her hair. "Ogo!" he repeated. "Do you know it is very probable I shall be offered the post of professor's substitute on general pathology. It looks very like it."

It was evident by his delight and his beaming face that if Olga Ivanovna had shared his happiness and triumph he would have forgiven her everything, the present and the future, and he would have forgotten everything, but she did not understand what the post of professor's substitute or general pathology meant; besides, she was afraid of being late for the theatre and said nothing.

He sat for two minutes, smiled culpably and then left the room.
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He sat for TWO MINUTES! That's a long time to sit silently, waiting for someone to respond favorably to a grace extended. He has been direct, looking her staight in the eyes and expressing his intimate joy. But she keeps her back to him, experiencing his presence obliquely, through the mirror. I love the detail of his stroking his knees, the part of the body that most strongly, I think, suggests humility (as we get on our knees when we pray or give homage to another). Also the detail, "...he left the room," a physical and psychological distancing.

I look forward to reading all of Checkov's works. How strange that I had to go all the way to Vermont to discover him.

The library in Stowe, Vermont where I found my fantastic collection of works by Checkov, as well as Anne Morrow Lindburgh's Diaries and letters. Looking through Lindburgh's writings later that day, I was saddened at how she accepted that being a woman was something less substantial than being a man. This was particularly evident in an entry about a discussion she had with the author of The Little Prince while waiting for her husband to arrive: "I am feeding the dogs when C. finally appears--it is almost 10. I drop back in relief, I am so glad he is there. We (St. -Ex. and I) both leap at him with the relief of thirsty travelers needing water. C. blows in like a sea breeze. But he is tired, driving all day in traffic. However, he takes his supper on a tray and over the tray carries on the torch of conversation, which immediately goes up a level, takes on a higher, less feminine tone." I sometimes wonder if what she thought of as "feminine" was really her more quiet, introspective nature as opposed to her husband's more extroverted personality. I know that often I feel inadequate during conversations because my thoughts are vague, diffused, like looking through a glass darkly. I've often wished I was more lively and able to carry the torch, like Charles Lindburgh.

Sterling Pond, at the top of a steep mountain trail, near Stowe, Vermont. A tough climb, but worth it.

In the lean-to at our campsite, near Stowe, Vermont.

Home

Photo: This is Buddha and me in the town of Stowe, Vermont. I'd just finished rummaging around at the library book sale where I bought a great collection of works by Checkov and also a volume of Anne Morrow Lindburgh's diaries and letters, War Within and Without.

The excuse to go to Vermont was to take our son Brian to the "Long Trail." He is walking this trail for a month. Originally, I was going to let Allen take Brian and I was going to stay home and write. But then I thought about what the Dali Lama said, that you should go somewhere you've never been at least once a year. I'd always wanted to see Vermont.

I'm not a lover of travel. Moving vehicles scare me. I become a complete wreck psychologically while traveling on roads. I have a hermit's temperament. I like a familiar place and I like to dig in and create my own rhythm for the days. I am in my glory when I can get up whenever I want, feed and pet my cats, tend to my little chickens, and work on various artistic projects at will.

I know there have been many writers who have been stay-at-homes who have written perfectly gorgeous and important works without venturing much past their front porches. But lurking in the back of my mind is always the suspicion that I need to get out and DO something, at least once in a while, to know life better, to FEEL life, to move beyond my self-made days. I'm married to a man who loves to GO and to DO, so this helps.

We took Brian to the Long Trail and stayed in our tent near the trail head. It was pouring rain. The wind whipped our old tent around and knocked it loose from its moorings. The floor filled with water and the wet walls slapped against my back. I stared into the darkness, wondering when the night would end. Once, I noticed I could see my own hands and told Allen I thought day might be breaking. He told me daylight was a long way off. Such events teach patience.

We snapped lots of photos of Brian as he set out on the trail and then drove to a camping area near Stowe. We got a site with a "Lean-to," which is a 3-sided structure built off the ground. Ours was a walk-in site, so it was quite private. Surprisingly, we were able to sleep inside the lean-to without the tent: a few mosquitos but not bad. It was great not to have to set up the wet tent, great to be able to look out at the trees and listen to the frogs, smell the sweet mountain air. The rain had stopped and we had nothing but a few sprinkles here and there the rest of the time we were there.

On the first day we went to Stowe and I checked out a library book sale. I couldn't resist! What a great sourvenir of Vermont: A collection of works by Anton Checkov published in 1929 with the Vermont Library stamps on several pages. Think of it: this book is nearly eighty years old. Checkov's works were not translated and therefore not widely known until after WWI, so this must have been one of the first collections of his published in the United States. Reading a few of the stories back at the lean-to I understood for the first time why Checkov is considered a master writer. The psychological depth of his characters is amazing. This understanding of human nature and motivation is something I just now feel I'm getting a handle on, if even just a little bit. Sometimes I wonder if it was easier in Checkov's time to understand humanity. Was there more time for studying fellow human beings and for self-reflection then? Somehow I think there was, but I don't want to take away from Checkov's accomplishments or make excuses for my lack of artistic output. The writer's way requires self-determination and a certain amount of faith in the process, a willingness to free fall through the imagination and create works that may never be read by anyone, no matter when the writer was born.

On the second day we walked a trail up to Sterling Pond. I thought several times I wouldn't make it. It was steep and took a lot of climbing. Someone had told us how beautiful it was up there, and I was determined to make it. Adding to the difficulty was the hot and humid weather. It was too bad we ended up going to Vermont at the beginning of a heat wave. I was happy later to hear younger, fitter people say that is a particularly difficult trail because I found the going excessively tough. I'm hard headed, though, so I made it. The pond is so clean and is a favorite swimming hole for locals and campers. It was late by the time Allen and I (and Buddha!) arrived, and we were the only ones there. Buddha had no trouble going up or down the mountain.

On the third day we walked a few more trails and on the fourth day we rested. Our last night there was the most lovely. We made a campfire and looked for a long time at millions of stars.

To Vermont

O you who have set out on the pilgrimage
Where are you going? --Rumi
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Setting off in a few hours for Northern Vermont. I've never been there. Plan to camp out a few days and hike a few trails. There's something hopeful about such a journey. I always think of Basho, setting out in the damp, cold spring for his foot journey. There are several translations of the title of that collection of prose and poetry, but I like Journey to the Interior best.

I'll take my iPod--it's packed with lots of good songs and good poems. Some books. A journal. A camera.

Here I go!