everyday life

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It’s hard to believe that I wrote these words about turning 35 four whole years ago.  And that in a year I’ll be writing about crossing over into my 40s.  While mid-August is the height of summer’s dog days, fall is also undeniably whispering around the edges of these hot hours.  I have noticed some red leaves in trees, can tell that it’s getting dark earlier, and sense the new season that is arriving.  It was on this hinge between seasons that I arrived (three weeks early, of course!), and I’ve been drawn to borders and transitions ever since.

Another year, here we go.  Towards the radiance.

Solstice

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It’s well established that I love the solstice.  In some fundamental way, my spirit feels the ebb and flow of light and dark, and the way that they dance with each other from one end of the year to the other mean something to me that I can’t quite entirely express.  Last Friday was the summer solstice.  I’d been feeling it coming for weeks.  A gradually-building awareness thrummed inside me that we were reaching the pinnacle of the year’s light.

To mark the day, Grace, Whit, and I went for a notice things walk after dinner.  It was a spectacular evening.  When we set out, the sun still quite high in the sky, and the light turned golden as we walked.  For some reason, it had been a long week; Grace and Whit were bickering and I felt tired.  Still, we walked.  We noticed things.  A spray of small pink flowers in a yard, the fact that the years-long construction at a house near ours seemed to be over, the almost-imperceptible hum of a dragon fly that accompanied us for a block.

In between the noticing, there was arguing.  Everything Grace did aggravated Whit.  He kept snapping at her, exasperated.  Everything Whit did annoyed Grace.  She kept scoffing, rolling her eyes, and walking ahead of him.  I finally stopped them and looked them in the eye, one at a time.  Stop it, I barked.  Enough.  This day is important to me.  Pull it together, I said in a raised voice.

Chastised, they kept walking.  I trailed them, taking this picture.  I felt a surge of that agitation, that restlessness that feels like an itch inside my head, that I now understand to be my brain and heart trying desperately not to be present.  Giving in to it, I looked down at my phone, scrolling through recent emails.  I glanced up to see that Grace had turned and was watching me.  She glared at me, and I looked back, raising my eyebrows questioningly.  “What?”

“Put down your phone,” she said and turned away from me.  To punctuate her dissatisfaction, she reached over and took Whit’s hand.  He let her, and they walked off, away from me.  My cheeks burned as I slipped my phone into my pocket and hurried to catch up to them.  All I could think was: don’t waste this, Lindsey.  We waited to cross a street and I leaned down and whispered in Grace’s ear, “I’m sorry.”  She smiled at me and we walked together, the three of us, into the large grass quad near our house.

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I sat and watched them run.  They did cartwheels and raced, and Whit climbed a tree.  Then we walked on.  A calm settled gently over us.  Nobody argued.  My restlessness eased.  It was as though we’d slid quietly into a slipstream, suddenly stopping our splashing against the current and instead letting ourselves be carried.  Relief washed over me as I grabbed hold of the shimmering ribbon that is being open to and aware of my experience.  I remembered, yet again, that it is a practice, this noticing, this being here now, this breathing, this watching with glittering eyes the immense holiness of life itself.

I trip, I fall, I yell, I snap, I fail.  And I start again.  I train my eyes right here, on what is in front of my feet.

We noticed the print of a leaf in the sidewalk, talked about how it must have happened, how a leaf must have fallen into the wet concrete.  We fell into step in silence.  We noticed a slew of heart-shaped leaves.  Under our feet, the earth tilted, shifting infinitesimally towards the darkness, commencing its gradual movement down from this apex of light.  And we walked on.

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This beautiful world, and the power of traditions

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Last week, on our fourth annual trip to Storyland to celebrate the end of school, I learned several things.

I learned that my children are as smitten with tradition as I am.  I had told them weeks ago that I knew they were getting old for Storyland, and this might be our last trip.  Halfway through our day at the park, Grace turned to me, eyes filled with tears, and asked, “Do you think this is our last trip, really?” I hugged her to me and said of course not, it was up to her, as long as they wanted to come, I wanted to take them.

Every aspect of this trip has ossified into ritual.  We stay at the same hotel, we go to the same water park, we eat dinner at one restaurant and breakfast at another, we start and end our day on Bamboo Shoots. I love our breakfast spot for many reasons, including that it’s called Priscilla’s, which was my grandmother’s name.  There was an unexpected wait (the place was jammed with Harley Davidson bikers, one of whose shirts resulted in a long conversation on why you’d have a shirt with b&^%@ on the back) and so we sat on the porch, deciding what to do.  “Let’s just go somewhere else, guys,” I said, glancing at my watch.

Whit looked at me, absolutely scandalized.  “But that would mess up our tradition.”  He folded his arms and sat down.  And so we waited.

I learned, again, that our family’s traditions form a scaffolding on which our life is draped.  I need to write more about this, but the older the children get, the more important some of our rituals, both big and small, seem to be to them.  They provide a reassuring rhythm to life, I think, as well as a space for them to still be children in a world that seems to be pushing them to young adulthood faster than they might want to go.

I learned that Grace is the voice of reason in my life.  As we drove home we talked about what would happen when we got home.  Maybe we can skip showers, I mused.  “Mummy, I think we need showers,” Grace chimed in from the backseat.  “I mean, after a full day at an amusement park?  Don’t you think?”  Good point, I admitted.  Showers it was.

I learned that Caramel Bugles are troublesomely good.

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I learned yet again of the wisdom in Storyland.  I take a picture of this sign every single year.  And it just gets increasingly true.

I learned that every year the edge of time’s passage cuts me more sharply.  My favorite part of the (long!) drive up involves 14 hilly and twisty miles through the woods with glimpses of Crystal Lake on the right.  It’s absolutely beautiful.  As we passed the landmarks we know so well (the raft in the lake!  the archery targets!  the stilled ski lift!) I felt a pang of grieving this trip, even as we set out on it.  As I watched Grace and Whit barrel down the water slides, their laughter echoing off the cavernous roof, I felt the familiar prickling up and down my arms that I’ve come to think of as the physical sensation of total presence, as well as the somatization of my distress about time passing.  Even as I lived the moment I’d so anticipated, I was already mourning it.

As we walked through the doors of Storyland, leaving on Friday afternoon, I felt a tightness in my chest.  I looked back over my shoulder and the park’s bright colors blurred because my eyes were full of tears.  I blinked quickly but could not hide my emotion.  The sting of sorrow at the end of something we had looked forward to took my breath away.  I feel this way every year, but it keeps getting stronger.  Surely the day is coming when I’ll sit down outside the gates of some activity or place and simply refuse to leave.  Life’s endings bring me to my knees, face to face with all that is transient.  It’s not an exaggeration to say that my heart regularly breaks open at the constant reminders that these moments I so thoroughly love are flying by.  They will be over soon, and I am not ready.

I learned that I do still remember some college Chemistry.  Whit brought one book on our trip, an introduction to the periodic table.  As we drove up he talked about different elements, and more often than not I remembered the abbreviations, or their color, or their basic state.  He was impressed and I was proud (fun fact: if I hadn’t majored in English at college, I would have chosen Chemistry).  One thing is true, for sure: the conversations with these two just get more and more interesting.

I learned that my children are aware of this life’s poignant beauty in a way I never used to be.  As we drove home through the outrageously glorious dusk light, I said several times, “Oh, guys, look: what a beautiful world this is.”  I pointed out smudges of clouds at the horizon or the way that the dark green trees flared against the hydrangea blue of the gloaming sky.  Not one single time did they shush me, or ask me to turn up Katy Perry.  They always looked, and noticed.  At one point, unprompted by me, Whit sighed from the backseat, “It is so beautiful, Mummy.”  And yes.  It is.

It is an astonishingly beautiful world.  How grateful I am that Grace and Whit can see it.

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Happy birthday

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Happy birthday to Matt, the man who many people who read my blog aren’t sure exists.  He does, I promise.  I just don’t write about him.  I have to draw the line somewhere …

On past birthdays I have extolled Matt’s well-known and lesser-known good qualities, listed things he is to me, and written a plain say of thanks and celebration.

Today, to mark another birthday, the 16th we have shared, I wanted to remember a few particular moments when my husband has distinguished himself.  To be married to me is not easy, I assure you.  It’s also not always fun.  Interesting, always.  And while the list of memories we’ve shared would fill several hundred pages, there are a few that make me chuckle whenever I think of them.  They also demonstrate Matt’s fortitude, patience, gentle humor, and keen intelligence.

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When we had known each other 2 months, we planned a 6 week trip to Africa.  In retrospect this seems like an act of wild faith, a reckless demonstration of certainty that we had no business having.  After climbing Kilimanjaro (among the least traditionally romantic, but most powerful experiences we have ever shared) we spent a week on safari in various parts of Kenya.

On day one, we piled into the beaten up Land Rover that came out of Safari Central Casting.  Off we headed into the Masai Mara.  Within 30 minutes I was green with nausea.  “Matt,” I whispered, “I need him to stop the car.”  He looked at me, alarmed, but he made our driver stop.  I ran to the back of the Land Rover and threw up.  This was repeated multiple times a day for a week.  And Matt, my brand-new boyfriend, who does not himself get carsick, never once complained.  Not once.

When you consider a safari – which you should, because our week was spectacular – I urge you to just think about whether you get carsick.  Maybe Dramamine is a good idea.

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As I’ve mentioned, Grace’s labor was a long one.  39 hours of labor, she was posterior, over 2 hours of pushing.  I will always be thankful for how fully onboard Matt got with my commitment to a medication-free delivery.  While his nature probably did not lean in the Ina May Gaskin direction, he saw how important it was to me, and he fully supported me for the weeks leading up to the delivery and for the endless, brutal, howlingly-painful hours.

There was some humor laced in among the screaming, though.

At about 36 hours, I was sitting on a birthing ball, bouncing, delirious with pain and exhaustion. Suddenly I looked up, locked my eyes onto Matt’s.  I saw fear in his face.  I’m sure he was wondering: what now.  Through gritted teeth, I said, panic-stricken, “Matt.  We cannot do this.  We can’t afford a baby.  We aren’t ready.”

For the rest of my life I’ll never forget the bewildered expression on his face when he answered me.  Lifting an arm and gesturing, as if to indicate the delivery room, the hospital gown, the enormous beach ball stomach.  “What exactly is your plan?”

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Every single year, Matt has a favorite birthday present.  A month or so before his birthday every year he starts talking about it, eagerly awaiting its arrival.  This favorite gift is from my sister and brother-in-law, who give him both an Amazon gift certificate but, far more importantly, a thoughtful list of book suggestions.  Matt says this list has over the years provided his favorite books, and I personally think this fact says a lot about both my husband and my sister and hers.

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I have mentioned that I am a casual cook.  When we were first married, we lived in a small apartment with a commensurately tiny galley kitchen.  I was occasionally overcome with fits of culinary ambition, and there were more than a few grand flame-outs.

In particular, there was the chicken and caper dish for which I purchased, by mistake, green peppercorns.  Matt gamely crunched through several bites before throwing in the towel.  Then there was the time I made something that called for 2 canned chipotle peppers, but I instead included 2 full cans of chipotle peppers.  In this case Matt made it through two bites.  After two, his eyes streaming, having downed three full glasses of water, he apologized and choked out, “Linds, I’m sorry, I just can’t.”

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Happy birthday, MTR.  I love you.  Please join me in wishing a happy day to this second twin, this Gemini, and this MIT graduate (my father is also all three of those) with whom I share my life.

 

Huge hands

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I grew up in the embrace of several extended families.  One of these was my godfamily.  And one of these godsisters, who lives nearby, had a baby this winter.  One February afternoon after school Grace, Whit and I stopped by.  I parked too far away so we walked several blocks in the cold, our shadows already growing long in the golden, quick-to-fall February light.  Impatient, Grace and Whit galloped away in front of me.

We tiptoed into the living room and took off our shoes.  My godmother handed the baby to me and I instinctively cradled her and looked down at her closed eyes, wrinkly skin, rosy, pouty lips.  She wore a pink knit cap, and my mind immediately pinwheeled to the cream cotton cap with curls of ribbon tied around the top that a nurse at the hospital had given Grace to wear home .

“May I hold her, Mummy?”  Out of the corner of my eye I could see Grace bouncing up and down on her toes next to me.  I remembered a Saturday walk a year ago during which I carried my friend’s two year old most of the way.  That night Grace had fallen apart, weeping inconsolably that “she wanted to be my little girl.”  Grace explained that she was sad about a time in her life that she couldn’t get back, as well as a little jealous.  I worried, as I do so often, about the sensitivity my children have inherited from me.  Whit has this tendency too.  It is perilous having a mother who is more shadow than sun.

“Sure.  Sit down here on the couch.” my godmother sat next to Grace, helped position her arms, and I slowly lowered baby C into Grace’s lap.  I stood back and looked at them, Grace and the two-day-old baby of a woman I met when she was two days old.  I took pictures of both Grace and Whit holding the newest addition to our godfamily, and then, anxious not to overstay during what I know first-hand is a raw, precious time, we left.

That night, I uploaded the three pictures I’d taken of the afternoon.  I couldn’t stop staring at the picture above.  Look at Grace’s hands: they are enormous.  They engulf the baby; she is closer to the size of an adult now than to the baby I still sometimes think of her as.  I remember our pediatrician’s words that adolescence’s growth spurts often start with feet getting rapidly bigger.  Is this true of hands, too?  Has Grace stepped into the tunnel that will spirit her, faster than I can blink, to young womanhood?

When I look at her holding the brand-new member of our godfamily, I can’t deny that the answer must be yes.