Month: September 2014

Fourteen years

wedding

Tomorrow we will have been married 14 years.  This picture, taken on the dock in front of our wedding reception after the thunderstorm had cleared, feels like both moments and a lifetime ago.

When Matt and I got married, a hundred years ago, I didn’t overly obsess about most of the wedding details (as you can see, I wore a ponytail and my dress was a sundress, notable only for the fact that it had a scalloped hem).  The only things I really cared about were the songs and the readings.  I cared a lot – agonized, even – about choosing readings for the service and also about our first dance song.  Our readings were two: Cavafy’s Ithaka, and an excerpt from The Book of Qualities.  Our first dance was to Maybe I’m Amazed by Paul McCartney and the last song we danced to before we left, on a small boat into the dark harbor, was Van Morrison’s Into the Mystic.

I thought of this yesterday when I was driving and Maybe I’m Amazed came on the radio.  This doesn’t happen much – the song that Paul McCartney wrote for his wife Linda, while lovely, isn’t exactly on constant repeat on Kiss 108.  I chose it, as is often the case when it comes to my musical attachments, for the lyrics.  But really, when I read the lyrics now, I think I chose it for the title.

Maybe I’m amazed.

I couldn’t help thinking, as I drove, the setting sun chasing me home along the Mass Pike, that some part of the 25 year old me knew this would be, in many ways, the anthem of my life.  It’s definitely no understatement to say that I have been startled, and continue to be, by how much flat-out amazement my experience contains.  This life amazes me every single day, with its surprising beauty, with its stunning pain, with its lingering grief, with its enduring sturdiness.  Of course I was thinking of my marriage, and my soon-to-be-husband when I chose Paul McCartney’s somewhat random song, but I think I also knew I was thinking of my life.

Of course Into the Mystic hits the same note, too.  That’s what this life, is after all, isn’t it?  A journey into the mystic, into a dark harbor, into a world lit by sputtering sparklers who consume themselves as they burn brightly, by fireworks whose flare leaves an imprint in the sky even after it fades.  I am so often hard on my younger self, focus so resolutely on all the poor choices I made and things I did not do well enough.  It is a welcome change to recognize that even in that young, impressionable bride there was a flicker of the future, an awareness of the themes that would come to define both my marriage and, most of all, my life.

– See more at: https://adesignsovast.com/2012/03/maybe-im-amazed-into-the-mystic-and-the-future-glinting-in-the-present/#sthash.yTf75xKe.dpuf

When Matt and I got married, a hundred years ago, I didn’t overly obsess about most of the wedding details (as you can see, I wore a ponytail and my dress was a sundress, notable only for the fact that it had a scalloped hem).  The only things I really cared about were the songs and the readings.  I cared a lot – agonized, even – about choosing readings for the service and also about our first dance song.  Our readings were two: Cavafy’s Ithaka, and an excerpt from The Book of Qualities.  Our first dance was to Maybe I’m Amazed by Paul McCartney and the last song we danced to before we left, on a small boat into the dark harbor, was Van Morrison’s Into the Mystic.

I thought of this yesterday when I was driving and Maybe I’m Amazed came on the radio.  This doesn’t happen much – the song that Paul McCartney wrote for his wife Linda, while lovely, isn’t exactly on constant repeat on Kiss 108.  I chose it, as is often the case when it comes to my musical attachments, for the lyrics.  But really, when I read the lyrics now, I think I chose it for the title.

Maybe I’m amazed.

I couldn’t help thinking, as I drove, the setting sun chasing me home along the Mass Pike, that some part of the 25 year old me knew this would be, in many ways, the anthem of my life.  It’s definitely no understatement to say that I have been startled, and continue to be, by how much flat-out amazement my experience contains.  This life amazes me every single day, with its surprising beauty, with its stunning pain, with its lingering grief, with its enduring sturdiness.  Of course I was thinking of my marriage, and my soon-to-be-husband when I chose Paul McCartney’s somewhat random song, but I think I also knew I was thinking of my life.

Of course Into the Mystic hits the same note, too.  That’s what this life, is after all, isn’t it?  A journey into the mystic, into a dark harbor, into a world lit by sputtering sparklers who consume themselves as they burn brightly, by fireworks whose flare leaves an imprint in the sky even after it fades.  I am so often hard on my younger self, focus so resolutely on all the poor choices I made and things I did not do well enough.  It is a welcome change to recognize that even in that young, impressionable bride there was a flicker of the future, an awareness of the themes that would come to define both my marriage and, most of all, my life.

– See more at: https://adesignsovast.com/2012/03/maybe-im-amazed-into-the-mystic-and-the-future-glinting-in-the-present/#sthash.yTf75xKe.dpuf

I wasn’t particularly focused on a lot of the wedding details (as you can see, I wore a ponytail and my dress was a sundress, notable only because I designed it myself).  I am grateful that I got married before social media, particularly before Pinterest, which seems to teem with small details to obsess over while planning your wedding.  I wanted blue and yellow flowers.  The minister who married us came from Rhode Island, where he had been close to my grandmother, who had recently died.  We had a buffet of slightly random foods chosen because we love them. I sewed blue ribbons into the hem of my dress on which my bridesmaids and close friends wrote messages.  We had a guest book on a small table on which also stood pictures of both of our parents on their wedding days.  We figured out midway through the reception that all seven of my mother’s bridesmaids were there: how remarkable is that?  If you wonder where I get my commitment to long-standing female friendship, there’s a clue.

I was guided, as I so often am, by my own sentimentality.

One thing I cared a lot  about was choosing readings for the service and also the song for our first dance. We had two readings: Cavafy’s Ithaka, and an excerpt from The Book of Qualities.  Our first dance was to Maybe I’m Amazed by Paul McCartney and the last song we danced to before we left, on a small boat into the dark harbor, was Van Morrison’s Into the Mystic.

I chose it Maybe I’m Amazed, as is often the case when it comes to my musical attachments, for the lyrics.  But really, most of all, I think I chose it for the title.

Maybe I’m amazed.

I can’t help thinking that some part of the 25 year old me knew this would be, in many ways, the anthem of my life.  It’s definitely no understatement to say that I have been startled, and continue to be, by how much flat-out amazement my experience on this earth contains.  This life amazes me every single day, with its surprising beauty, with its stunning pain, with its lingering grief, with its enduring sturdiness.  Of course I was thinking of my marriage, and my soon-to-be-husband when I chose Paul McCartney’s song, but I think I also knew I was thinking of my life.

Into the Mystic hits the same note, too.  That’s what this life, is after all, isn’t it?  A journey into the mystic, into a dark harbor, into a world lit by sputtering sparklers who consume themselves as they burn brightly, by fireworks whose flare leaves an imprint in the sky even after it fades.  I am so often hard on my younger self, focus so resolutely on all the poor choices I made and things I did not do well enough.  It is a welcome change to recognize that even in that young, impressionable bride there was a flicker of the future, an awareness of the themes that would come to define both my marriage and, most of all, my life.

So, Matt, as we celebrate 14 years, thank you for walking beside me on this adventure into the mystic.  I admit, I honor, and I declare: I am still amazed.

For the last few years, I have written one of my biannual posts about Matt on this day.  The others are here: 2013, 2012, 2011.

Parts of this post were originally written in early 2012.

This is 40: the thick, hot heart of life’s grand pageant

photo

The last night of my 30s, at the summer camp I went to for many years and which both Grace and Whit now attend and love.

I turned 40 a couple of weeks ago.  On the actual day I woke up early at my parents’ house on the Massachusetts shore and drove with Matt an hour to the camp where I spent 9 happy, sunny years as a child and teenager.  We picked up Grace and Whit, who had been away for 3.5 weeks.  And we drove home.  I get carsick, so this was perhaps more time than I would have optimally spent in the car, but who cares.  When we got home we unloaded their trunks and I commenced what would eventually be 5 loads of laundry.  I actually love doing laundry (the smell, the creating-order-out-of-chaos thing), and though this was maybe a bit more than I would have chosen to do, I didn’t mind.  Grace, Whit and I visited one of our favorite places, the tower in Mount Auburn Cemetery and the fairy stream.  Then we had a simple family dinner at our dining room table and I listened to the children regale us with stories from camp.

As is often the case, my birthday wound up to be a perfect reflection of where I am right now.

So 40 was all about my real life.

A couple of weeks before my birthday, I shared a photograph of what I was reading on Instagram.  The pile included magazines, Reviving Ophelia, and Can’t We Talk about Something More Pleasant?  A friend commented that those two books revealed that I was in the “panini years” (a great expression – pressed between the generations).

And oh yes, I am.  These are the in between years, the thick, hot heart of life’s grand pageant, busy and rich and exhausting, overflowing with demands, responsibilities, and love.

Life is very far from perfect – there are work stresses and health questions and far too many logistics to coordinate – but it is wonderful.  I was ambivalent about turning 40, I’ll be honest.  Some of that had to do with vain and not vain health reasons, but most of it was about my deep discomfort and unease with time’s relentless forward motion.  Reminders of time passing do not make me happy.  But here I am, on the other side, and I am so glad to be here.  Life has never been more dense with feeling, more full of magic.

40 is a time of contradiction and complexity.  It realizing in a deep way that these really are the days of miracle and wonder.  It is knowing this season is finite.  40 is solemn about what is coming and grateful for what is, while for the work and stress I normally just use CBD hemp flower products to feel better.

40 is toggling between John Denver and Katy Perry on the car stereo, knowing the words to both Cat Stevens and Taylor Swift songs, having strong memories associated with both CSNY and One Direction.

40 is overseeing homework and driving to sports practices and games.  It is recognizing the wisdom in the comment someone made years ago that some of the best conversations with adolescent children happen in the car.

40 has answered many – most? – of the big questions that haunted my young adulthood. 40 is about embracing the reality that those answers have built.

40 is being glad that my children still want still good night hugs and the sweet dream head rub before bed. And on the off chance they ask to sleep in my bed when Matt is traveling, it’s always saying yes.  Because this may be the last time they ask that.

40 is more emails about sad, scary illness news or chemo than emails with baby announcements.

40 is being absolutely fine that hockey practice is every single Friday night.  Which means no Friday night adult plans, ever.  40 is spending (a lot) more time with the parents of the kids my children play sports with any other adults.  And 40 is loving that.

40 is female friendship, and knowing how essential the few women who are truly walking through life by my side are.  It is taking time to nourish those friendships, to ask questions, to listen, to remember birthdays, and doctor’s appointments, and important dates.

40 is knowing that the ferris wheel of life is ticking ever forward, and that this is probably the tippy-top.  It is watching the decline of some in the generation ahead of us and the blooming of those in the generation behind us.  It is taking a breath and looking around at this spectacular view, and loving it, and knowing that it is changing even as I admire it.

40 is seeing my mother’s hands when I look at my own, and realizing that my daughter is much, much closer to being a college freshman than I am, and accepting that what I see in the mirror – a middle-aged woman – is who I am.

40 is recognizing that more years lie behind us as a family all living together than lie ahead, and existing every day in the shadow of the goodbyes and departures that loom.  40 is thinking parenting just keeps getting better, but also knowing that one day – sooner than I would like – this season will come to an abrupt end.

40 is having missed the window to start wearing red lipstick.  I always felt like it was too sophisticated and I would learn how to pull that off “later.”  Oops.  And now it’s too late.  40 is often trying on dresses to find them too short.  40 is still wearing a bikini, but not for long.

40 is learning to dance with the limp, as Anne Lamott says.  I have had a hip that’s bothering me all summer and abdominal pain (yes I am seeing a doctor and no, we have no answers yet) that shifts between absent and excruciating.  But I’m still running, and I’m still living my life.  I refuse to let this pain, and these questions, keep me from doing so.

40 is realizing that a birthday of chores and errands and a candlelit family dinner is exactly what I wanted.  It is understanding in a new, visceral way, that all I want is more of this.

Summer 2014

photo

I’m starting to realize that the reason cliches are cliches is because they’re often true.  Maybe not all, but certainly some.  And the adage that summer goes faster every year?  Oh, yes.  My, that one is true.  And it’s just so bittersweet; so bitter because it IS so sweet.

I’ve been reflecting on what this summer contained and on what it was.

Right after school ended, the four of us spent a weekend in New Hampshire.  This was a very successful example of taking an important family tradition and morphing it to adapt to our growing children.  Instead of going to Story Land during the week with just Grace and Whit, the four of us went ziplining over a weekend.  We stayed at the same hotel, ate at the same restaurant that we loved, visited the same water park.  The weekend was both familiar and new, and it was absolutely marvelous.  The kids loved the adventure and I was so happy to mark the end of a school year with a joyful celebration.

We spent a long weekend with my sister and her family at my parent’s house on the Massachusetts shore.  As always, there was noise and tumult and many, many special memories.  It poured on the 4th of July.  And it cleared into a lovely weekend.  We saw fireworks, we swam in the rain, we went to the movies, we tried to take a Christmas card photo of the 4 grandchildren, we had family dinners around the large oval table, we watched my mother blow out birthday candles.  I love this tradition.

Our hydrangea bush had very few flowers.  We’re chalking it up to the long, cold winter in Boston.  As usual, I can’t stop seeing metaphors everywhere – with the hydrangeas and in general.  The bush is not flowering very much because it is bruised or wounded from a difficult winter.  Hopefully it will heal and burst into bloom next year.

This year our children were away from us more than ever before.  They spent 2 weeks at my parents’ house – a magical interlude with freedom to bike wherever they wanted, a happy and calm camp experience, new neighborhood friends, and lots of downtime with their grandparents – and then 3.5 weeks at camp.  I missed them like a howling ache.  But that’s not why I cried, after dropping them off and sporadically when they were gone.  I cried because at this point I realize the future is studded with more and more goodbyes.  The red cord that ties our hearts is going to keep stretching.  Yes, I trust it.  But I also find it difficult and sad.

Grace, Whit and I went to Niagara Falls for a few days.  I have never been there, and they were excited to see it.  It was just a little adventure and an opportunity to be away, together.  Niagara was home to some of the most staggeringly beautiful natural vistas I’ve ever seen and some of the the least attractive man-made ones.  Fascinating, paradoxical, enchanting.

I had a passionate love affair with peaches.  I can’t explain it.  I learned how to make jam (peach, of course).  I even made pickles.  Just call me Ma Ingalls.

Grace and Whit went away to camp for 3.5 weeks.  They went to the same camp that I went to as a child, a place that remains crucially important to me.  In a childhood of moving around, where I always felt like the new kid or the one about to leave, it was the only place I was just normal.  I treasure their camp, and to watch them love it is a remarkable thing.  I spent the last night of my 30s there, with them, celebrating the close of another wonderful summer.  It was truly magical.

We spent a week on Lake Champlain at the end of the summer.  This has become such an important marker in the summer for me: it’s a way to retain a connection to Vermont, the state where Matt grew up, and a way to reconnect as a family after the children have been away at camp.  They love it there and so do we.

I took August off from this blog for the first time, I read a lot of books, I felt particularly introspective, and I turned 40.

For the last several years I have written a post like this reflecting on the summer that was.  The others are here: 2013, 2012, 2011, 2010, 2009.