dear friends

Susie’s courage

Courage. I’ve been thinking about this word, this concept, this idea, all weekend. Trying to figure out what to share for this inaugural Five for Ten post. Certainly I don’t feel I have much, so that was easy to dismiss. I kept coming back, over and over again, to Susie. Susie was like a mother to me, and I mean that literally. My sister and I grew up in the loose net of extended family known as the “Four Families,” something that to this day I am immensely grateful for. Susie was an integral part of this community, one of the four mothers who formed the corners of the tent under which we all sheltered.

Susie died at 49 of pancreatic cancer, and the way she faced her death is the most human and intimate experience of courage I’ve ever seen. I am still unfolding the immense wisdom she passed on to me – and everyone around her – in those last months. As her body withered, her face grew as luminous as it did bony. I see now that her physical body was just reflecting her passage towards the spiritual world.

I will never forget the months leading up to Susie’s death in the fall of 1997. For one thing, my grandmother died of the same kind of cancer in June. Pancreatic cancer suffused those months. My mother, even more surrounded by illness and death than I was, was intimately involved in Susie’s caretaking. There were a group of women who circled around her, supporting both her and her sons, in a way that I think of often now.

“Women do not leave situations like this; we push up our sleeves, lean in closer, and say, “What do you need? Tell me what you need and by God I will do it.” I believe that the souls of women flatten and anchor themselves in times of adversity, lay in for the stay.” – Elizabeth Berg

This quotation, which I invoked recently to friends involved in similar caretaking, really captures what those months were like. I was nowhere near as intensely involved as my mother was, but I was still a part of the experience. Ethan, Susie, Mum and I had countless dinners on Susie’s sun porch. We sewed square for quilts. We attended caretakers meetings.

Experiencing Susie’s death was an exquisite, once-in a lifetime privilege. I learned more about death and, perhaps paradoxically (but maybe not), about life from her in those months than I can express. Susie faced death with extraordinary grace. Somehow she was able to say to those of us near to her: Yes, I am dying. But see, I am not afraid. And so we were not afraid. And though the crushing sadness remained, without fear, it was more manageable.

Susie was able to rise above her own emotions to provide solace and strength to those around her. She spoke honestly about her fears, her experience, her pain. But she also honored the great good fortune of her life and was able, somehow, to put her own need away so that she could reassure those close to her, take care of her boys, until the end. I can neither imagine nor fathom the strength it took for her to do that, to put her own need for reassurance behind her desire to comfort those around her. We were supposed to be taking care of her, but in fact it was the other way around. Hers was an amazing act of generosity; to this day I am humbled when I remember it.

Hilary shared with me a prayer that was said at one caretaker meeting that I did not attend. The closing line was: I believe all of our paths are perfect. I think of this often. If a woman who died before 50, leaving two young sons with everything in front of them, can find a way to feel at peace with that, I owe it to her memory to recognize the perfection – or at least the beauty in the imperfection – of my own path. To look at our lives, baldly and without pretense, to see the beauty even in the barrenness: this is courage.

Then and now

The first two children of the 402-403 Forbes family, summer 2003 and spring 2010.  Grace and Tate, age 1 and age 7.  Long may they – and we all – be friends.  I love you, Court.

Magnolias, a stubbed toe, and Sister Golden Hair

During my run yesterday I was aware of the wild abandon with which the trees in my neighborhood have burst into bloom. The magnolias in particular always remind me, with visceral power, of spring in Princeton. Magnolias, their smell, their color, their silhouette against a blue sky, are as inextricably linked with my four springs at Princeton as anything else. After a week or so of ravishing prettiness, the gorgeousness of the petals seems too heavy for the branches and they fall, snowflake-like, into puddles around the tree. Magnolias are an apt metaphor for my college experience itself: stunning beauty, bursting into near-flame seemingly overnight, which fades just as suddenly. The bloom of those four years was more beautiful than I ever could have imagined, and when they ended, they left me with a memory of the smell of intensely sweet blossoms and innumerable moments etched into my mind.

One whose etching is particularly detailed, and deep, is of an early May day in 1993. It was houseparties, and none of my freshman friends and I had been invited to attend the Friday and Saturday festivities. Sunday’s lawn parties were, however, open to everyone, and we eagerly made our way down Prospect Street in the blazing sunshine. I was wearing jean shorts, an Indian-print tank top, and I had tucked a yellow dandelion flower behind one ear. My hair fell down to my lower back and like many of my friends I had that oh-so-becoming puffy look from drinking too much beer, (that I only recognized years later) and 20 pounds on myself now.

We spent most of the afternoon dancing at Ivy. A beloved band, the Dean Dollar Band, was playing on the club’s back porch. Drunk on sunshine, flat beer pumped from kegs on the lawn, and the twined-together close of our first year and promise of three more, we danced like fools. We were barefoot: we had piled our flip-flops on the slightly uneven brick stairs that came down from the back porch to the sloping lawn. I remember feeling very aware of the attention we were calling to ourselves. Dancing right up front by the band felt like an audacious act, a claiming of space, and I felt a little uncomfortable with it. I distinctly recall having the feeling I often had, even back then, of being both inside my body and my life and outside of it, hovering, watching. Privately, I suspected then as I do now that there is a part of me that simply never participates.

As I hung slightly back, I recall looking at my friends, feeling incredulous that women that wowed me so utterly were actually my friends. The embrace that I felt at Princeton was absolute, and it was tremendously healing after a couple of difficult years in New Hampshire. Sure, freshman year had had hiccups, and challenges, but I had finally, by May, relaxed into a group of friends and I felt relieved and grateful every day for them.

While that moment is crystalline in my memory, I’m not sure where in the afternoon’s timeline it occurred. At some point mid-afternoon, while the sun was still high in the sky but before we jumped into the fountain, I stubbed my toe. I know I was dancing with one of my roommates, and I remember her loose brown hair flying around as she bobbed her head. As I looked down to see that I was bleeding rather badly, I felt a hand on my shoulder. Startled, I spun around to look into the deep brown eyes of a vaguely familiar looking upperclassman. “Do you need a band-aid?” he asked me. The very first words he spoke to me. I promise you, as unlikely as they are, they are remembered as romantic! I nodded mutely, still very surprised, and followed him into the cool, darkened interior of Ivy’s kitchen.

We talked idly as he looked through drawers for a band-aid. I don’t remember what we talked about, but I do remember a frankly shocking and yet surpassing feeling of complete comfort. He was easy to talk to, to be around. We went back outside and sat on the porch steps, talking in the breaks between the band’s loud songs. I felt acutely the rough and sun-warmed bricks against the backs of my legs, bare in my cutoffs. Dean Dollar burst into a song I sort of recognized and he turned to me. “Do you know this song?” I shook my head. “Sister Golden Hair. It reminds me of you.” My face flushed and I stared at my band-aided big toe.

I did not know then that this man would be one of the most formative relationships of my life. I know that now, though. Seeing the magnolias yesterday, I was completely flooded by that moment in the sunshine, and reminded yet again of Ann Beattie’s line that “people forget years and remember moments.” This memory is one of the enduring, glittering ones for me. I forget about it for months but when it resurfaces it is always vivid, its contours familiar, its emotions heady. I write so often about these memories, the ones that my subconcious has curated into enduring, sturdy parts of my self. Memories whose power we can’t always anticipate when we live them, that shape who we are and how we see the world. When one rose up in my mind I decided to describe it.

Imperfect Birds

I was fortunate to hear Anne Lamott talk and read last night. I went with my dear friend from college, Kathryn (check out her blog!) and we both sat, mesmerized (though a bit distracted by the aggressive curry soup that the guy on my left cracked open) as Anne made the audience laugh, sigh, laugh again, and shake their heads in expressions of oh-yes-me-too. Anne announced that she is a grandmother now, and her joy at this development was palpable. She was quite wise, in fact, as she described that this happened about 10 years earlier than she imagined (Sam was 19 when his son was born). She lamented, mostly joking, that nobody has asked her, but went on to make it very clear that she had wholly embraced her son’s news and this new life.

A couple of her points particularly stuck with me. She spoke about how in the 70s she was never described as having a wide open heart, or of being immensely warm and generous with her spirit. Instead, she felt maligned, even mocked, over and over again, for being so damned sensitive. This generated laughter in the audience and a swell of intense identification in me. I am not at the point where I feel like my extreme sensitivity is a good thing, at all, so I’m still in the chagrined/embarassed/this-is-a-weakness phase that Anne mentioned from her younger years. But she gives me hope.

(An aside: I was talking to someone this week about what I’ve always called my OCD traits of being almost unable to bear strong smells, loud noises, distinctive tastes, or being touched very much, and the person said, “Well, you are a very sensitive person.” Call me a moron, but it had never occured to me that this was linked. I’m emotionally sensitive – porous, I’ve called it – and so are my senses. Duh. Lightbulb.)

Anne Lamott then went on to say that “If you are like me, you will find yourself very lost. And then you will find yourself very found, in fiction.” This made complete sense to me, though I would add that I have also been very found in non-fiction, most notably Anne’s own writing. I am so sensitive that I often feel skin-less, open in a boundary-less way to influence and input, both emotional and otherwise. Easily bruised or overwhelmed by this input, I often seek refuge in the pages of a book. And here is my idol, saying she herself feels the same way; what’s more reassuring than that?

The other thing that Anne said that I’ve been thinking about since is the Rumi quotation from which the book’s title is taken (and she charmingly spaced out on her own book’s title, which made everybody laugh and instantly humanized her). The quotation is:

Each has to enter the nest made by the other imperfect birds. – Rumi

And Anne went on to talk about how all of life is about the nests we make, with family and by ourselves, our nests made up of the twigs and sticks of our life experience, our particular failures and accomplishments and feelings and relationships. She spoke of how when someone you know is encountering true despair or tragedy, you can feel helpless, and all you can offer is your attention, a cup of tea, yourself. All you can offer is the warmth of your nest, for a little while. It always seems so futile, she said, and yet it is always enough. It is always enough.

I have been thinking all day of those dear people whose nests have cradled me when I needed it. Of those friends who call just to check in, who remember important dates and who are there even in the non-important moments (which wind up being, of course, the most important memories of all). Of those who have revealed to me the underpinnings of their nests, in all of their messy, stuck-together, raw and honest grandeur. Thank you.

Dreaming of paragliding in a winter wood.

I haven’t been sleeping super well lately. On Monday night, though, I had a vivid dream. A dream that was interrupted by Whit whining at the top of the stairs, but it was so powerful (and I almost never remember my dreams) that after putting Whit back to bed, I scribbled some notes on my palm in pen in the dark. In the morning, of course, I had forgotten the dream, until I saw the chicken scratch on my hand and it all came flooding back.

I was in the woods in winter with a group of people. All was bleached, muted, with those beautiful pale colors that I associate with the dormant landscape. Everything was crunchy, leafless, dry, dead. I don’t know who I was with, other than one old friend, Ann Moss. She is one of my sister-friends from growing up, one of the Four Families who flanked me as a child. I know I felt a surpassing sense of peace and comfort in this group of people, and Ann’s presence is hint that they were old, constant, trustworthy friends.

Somehow, the group of us held hands and closed our eyes and said some kind of chant, and suddenly we were paragliding. I have never done this before. My father’s younger brother, who died years ago, was a glider pilot and this imagery has always captivated me. Perhaps it is on my mind lately because of Kelly Corrigan’s assertion in Lift that to stay aloft we have to steer straight into the turbulence. I don’t know. But I was gliding through the sky, one of my oldest and truest friends at my side, and it was marvelous. I felt both free and safe, a combination I have felt so incredibly rarely in my life.

I’m still unpacking the meaning of this dream, trying to just hold it in my mind and let it soak in, but I’m certain the messages are both about taking risks and about seeking the safe, steady comfort of friends I can really trust. I have so much fear of flying. Dreaming about it makes me wonder if it is time to stare into the discomfort of the endless questions, to trust that flying can feel like falling, and to let myself fly.