everyday life

Dear Grace and Whit

Dear Grace and Whit,

For the last week or two I’ve been thinking about the things I hope you’ll remember from this time.  About what I hope you’ve learned, or had reinforced, during these surprising and disorienting months at home.

Family is everything.  Your roots are deep.  We have sat down for family dinner for 60 plus days in a row.  Without fail.  We ordered in once, but have cooked every single other night.  Family dinner is sacrosanct to us now.  We laugh, we talk, we give each other “compliments,” sometimes we’re snippy.  I have never been unclear about the fact that the three of you, you and your father, are my absolute priority in this world.  There’s something holy about the four of us being together, just us, and that’s always been how I feel.  In a very real way this time has been a tremendous gift to me, found time together, and I hope you have been reminded of how strong our bonds are and of how firmly you are supported here.  I know we are all sick of each other.  But we’re also so outrageously fortunate to have each other, and I hope that rises to the top of your memories from this time.

Do the right thing.  It hasn’t been easy, staying at home, but here we are.  Putting the greater good ahead of our individual needs is without question the right move (frankly, always) and in this case that’s what we’ve done.  I know it’s sometimes frustrating particularly because you see other people making different choices.  But that’s our family’s priority.  As things shift, so will our willingness to tolerate risk – that’s already beginning.  I know you’re excited. But it’s important to note that for the duration of the Stay at Home order that’s what we did.  Period. We aren’t above the rules, and neither are you.

As I’ve said a million times, how you act is more important than what you say.  That’s been clear in this pandemic.

Find something to laugh about.  The humor that has come up during this time has saved me, honestly.  I love the memes, the videos, the skits.  It is possible to find humor even in a dark situation, and to do it in a respectful way.  I firmly believe that.

Keep your loved ones close.  I think you’ve seen me connecting in a renewed way with those I love most. It has been very clarifying, actually, to see who I’m drawn to in this time.  It is possible to be in close touch with people even when you don’t see them every day. Make the effort. It’s worth it.

Pay attention. The world is so beautiful. I know you get sick of my rhapsodizing about the spring blossoms and the bird song, but I swear, there’s something so uplifting about going outside and witnessing it for yourself.  And yes, you can pull your mask down to smell the lilacs.

Do your work.  Dad and I are both still working.  Hard.  So are you both.  I’m proud to see how you have both engaged in this new model of education.  I know it’s not always comfortable, and it’s far from ideal, but you’ve both impressed me with your resilience and willingness to leap in.  Thank you.

I adore you both.  I hope you knew that before, and I really hope you know it now.

 

Friday, week 9

How is everyone doing?  I think this is week 9.  Though honestly, time has kind of ceased to have any meaning to me and I’m not sure.  If someone had told us in mid March that we were going into our homes for a minimum of 2 months I don’t think we’d have believed it.  I was walking near my house this morning and saw a sports bar with a sign out front about St. Patty’s Day and their specials.  It was eerie, like the world frozen in time.

We are doing ok.  I’m aware what a huge privilege it is to have the primary difficulty right now being frustrated and kind of sick of my family.  We are all fine.  I am in general enormously impressed by my childrens’ resilience and good humor during this time.  They keep me laughing.  Grace is in the middle of her four AP exams, which are now at-home and taken on the computer.  Whit has a big paper due Monday and then is mostly done.  Both of them are finished with school next Friday the 22nd.  Matt has a BIG birthday on Saturday the 23rd.  Time ticks on.  I cannot believe it’s almost Memorial Day.

I’ve been doing So Much Cooking.  I like cooking, always have, but still, this is a lot.  Everyone fends for themselves around here for breakfast and lunch, but we sit down religiously for dinner at 6:30 or 7:00. What has it been, 65 or 70 family dinners in a row?  We’ve been doing a lot of vegetarian curries, both red and green, some with tofu and some without.  I’ve made Dinner a Love Story’s back pocket tacos several times, as well as fish tacos and enchiladas.  Baking bread has been a joy: focaccia and regular round (no knead bread) loaves.  I wish I’d started writing down what we were eating every night at the beginning, as I’ve already forgotten a lot of it.  But I know we are eating well and we’re lucky.

We watched the final season of Homeland and loved it.  I also watched Season 40 of Survivor and it was awesome.  I’m literally sad it’s over.  I’m a huge Survivor fan, and have been watching on and off for 20 years.  The kids make brutal fun of me about that.  I’ve been reading a lot.  Since I switched to kindle books on my ipad about 4-6 weeks ago (when my big stack of library books ran out) I’ve been working my way through John Grisham, David Baldacci, and Brad Meltzer’s back lists.  I m not the only person taking ebooks out of the library and there is a LONG wiat for many titles, so I’ve had to get creative with not-recently-published books.  I also read two books by John Boyne, whose novel The Heart’s Invisible Furies, is one of my all-time favorites.  I really liked both A Ladder to the Sky and History of Loneliness.  I enjoyed Susan Rieger’s The Heirs and Anna Quindlen’s Every Last One riveted and tore me apart.

I listened to Cheryl Strayed’s Sugar Calling podcast with Billy Collins, “There’s a Quiet All Over the World,” and it really made me think about the lines of poetry and song that exist within us, that we’ve memorized in some cases without knowing we had.  I will write more about that a later date, but I just love the image.

I have been walking with my mother most days, keeping to being outside, and she’s well.  The bird song astonishes me every time. I’m noticing things like never before, and I think I am someone who noticed things pretty carefully before.  The world’s in spectacular bloom. Grace, Whit, and Matt are good company.  We are all fine, grateful, and cranky.

How are you doing?  I am genuinely asking.  Steady on, world.

Sound

I can hear so many birds.  Can you?  I know it’s because the world is so quiet.  Which is a fact I keep thinking about.  It’s scary, eerie, feels like the entire planet is holding their breath.

But mostly I’m struck by the birdsong.  Matt said he can hear crows calling in a way that reminds him of childhood in Vermont.  I just feel like there are so many birds out, the calls so different.  I remember my father and his later-in-life interest in birds, and wish he was here to talk about the various bird sounds.  When we walk with Mum to Mount Auburn Cemetery we go see what birds have been observed (there’s a chalkboard where people can note what they saw).

The sounds of right now are so particular.  I am outside only to run (early) and to walk (with my family or with a friend on the phone – my version of a social distancing walk).  I feel like I can hear others breathing when they walk by me.  That may be in my head.  I can definitely hear birds.  I can hear a lot of sirens, it feels like.  That sound is jarring, makes me nervous.  I don’t know if there are actually more sirens (though their probably are) or I’m just more aware of them.

I’m going to write about what the five senses feel like in this time-out-of-time.  And right now I’m struck by silence and by birds singing.  Both.  The former is unnerving, though in its own way beautiful, and the latter is reassuring.

What are you hearing?

Lamentation and hope

I am still here.  I hope you are too.  This is a strange, echoing, eerie time, one of lamentation and hope, one of fear and frustration, one that is, for me, about most of all a profound confrontation with the unknown.  I really don’t have anything to say.  But I want to be here.  I’m hungrily devouring anything anyone’s sharing about their experience of this time out of time. I’m curious about what you’re feeling, thinking, reading, eating.  We are all at home, and I am certain that in the future one of the themes of writing about this time will be empty nesters suddenly finding themselves with full nests again.

That is surely the silver lining of this, if there is one: prodigious amounts of family time.  Both Grace and Whit have classes most days (but not all) and they are doing a good job managing their schedules.  I am adamantly not a homeschooler and I feel grateful that they are old enough to handle this themselves.  Both Matt and I are working at home.  I quipped in the first week that I must be one of the only people experiencing this quarantine as MORE people in their office.  I have three other people in my office all day, every day.  It’s noisier and messier than I’m used to.  We are going through food and laundry at a record pace.

And we are so replete with blessings, I know that.  There are more ways than I can possibly count that this could be worse.  So far the four of us, and my mother, who lives nearby and with whom we are practicing social distancing but still in close touch, are all safe.  We are able to work from here.  I am so, so lucky.  We all know it.  I even had a moment last week of knowledge that there will come a time when I miss these days.  I told Matt and about it and he laughed at me because it was such a classic thing to say.  That’s just how I live in this world: shadowed always by the anticipation of loss and of missing.  But I tried to channel that into being here now.

It’s not easy.  I feel a huge amount of fear.  What does this mean, in every way?  What will the world look like “after”?  Will there even BE an after?  I am buoyed by my close friends and family and actually feel MORE in touch with a lot of people than I have in a long time.  But every day, multiple times a day, the questions start to come.  They wake me up in the middle of the night.  There is so much that is unknown, and that’s always been the hardest thing for me.

So I don’t have a neat message here.  I don’t have anything specific I want to say.  I would love to hear what’s on your mind, your kindle, your TV, your heart, your table.  I really would.  Stay safe.  Stay home.

After the rain

A couple of Fridays ago, Matt and I had something to do in the evening.  I know!  Unusual in and of itself.  But that’s not my point.  It was the end of a week of rain (after seemingly months of rain in Boston).  It had been cold and rainy all day long, and I knew the evening’s celebration (for the retirement of one of Whit’s favorite teachers) was under a tent.  I felt not a little bit of dread.

Then, around 5, it began to clear.  It actually turned into a spectacular evening.  As we were driving Whit to a friend’s house on the way to the school, I marveled to Whit that it had turned to so lovely.

“And it is that way even though everything is wet, and despite having been such a yucky day,” Whit observed from the back seat.

I laughed to myself, realizing something for the first time.

“See, I actually think it’s more beautiful because everything is wet, and because it was so ugly earlier.”

I glanced back to see that he was looking at the window.

Maybe this is what midlife is.  Realizing that the rain and the storms make the clear skies that much more beautiful?  Knowing you can’t have one without the other. The glory and the grit, the sunshine and the rain, the love and the loss.  Flips of the same coin.  And, truthfully, each enriching the other in ways I have only begun to understand.

I like this definition of life in the middle: knowing that the light is beautiful because of the dark, not in spite of it.

Photo is from later that evening.  Grandeur all the more lovely because of the nasty day that preceded it.