family

Seven years

Kirtland Chase Mead

6/9/34-11/26/24

Seven years without you, Dad. I’ve missed you every one of those days, but mostly what I feel now is what I felt literally the day you died: deep gratitude that you were my father. I remember being stunned by how immediately and viscerally I felt that. I’ll never be able to fully express all the things you taught me, as my first and most important teacher. You showed me the world. You taught me not to be afraid of adventure. You demonstrated the importance of hard work. You showed me the transformational power of art – music, painting, architecture, poetry. You preferred to be alone, with a book, above most things and I definitely inherited that. You were a true believer in meritocracy and listened carefully to most speakers. You loved working with others in a professional context – the number of people who spoke of you as a mentor and a teacher after your death was astonishing. You believed in the value of taking the hard road (that Chris Stapleton line will make me think of you every single time I hear it). You will forever be the smartest person I’ve ever known, with the widest range (PhD in engineering from MIT and published poet just scratches the surface) You had an extremely finely honed bullshit detector. You were the king of the one liner (“I’m sorry, you must be mistaking this for a democracy” and “two words separate us from the animals, and those words are may and well.”) you did not suffer fools but once someone impressed you, oh were you loyal. You believed I could do and be anything and I still feel your faith in me and I still am not sure you were right. Being Kirt Mead’s daughter is one of the identities I cherish the most fiercely (I can name the others I equally esteem: Matt’s wife, Grace and Whit’s mother, and co-founder of the firm where I work and that I adore). You’ve crossed the bar, Dad, and as you always wanted we read that Tennyson poem at your funeral (and then Whit surprised me by memorizing it for a poetry contest at school). I’ll never stop trying to make you proud. Thank you, thank you, thank you. I love you.

My father’s eulogy is here.

On Being 50

Wow.

To say I honestly can’t believe I’m turning 50 on Friday is an understatement.  I suspect very few people actually feel the age they are but … I really feel abject disbelief that I am here.  I am bewildered, awestruck, amazed.  To be 50 and, I’ll be honest, at life in general.  I texted a couple of close friends a week or two ago:

“Btw guys I am just absolutely overwhelmed with gratitude lately.  Tearful thinking of Grace and Whit.  Matt.  You guys and other friends.  Intensely thankful.  Is this what 50 is?”

Truthfully I have always inclined towards sensitivity and, often (though not always) towards gratitude.

I think often of a comment I made on Rachel Levy Lesser’s wonderful Life’s Accessories podcast (listen to my episode here –  then listen to them all!).  She recalled a moment in the intro to the book I edited, On Being 40(ish), where I referred to a friend saying her 40s were her favorite decade so far.  How did I expect the 50s to stack up, was Rachel’s question.

I expect them to be even better, was my answer.  More striated with loss, for sure.  I reflected on my father’s funeral, where 5 college friends attended and 5/6 of us had lost their father somewhat recently.  That will speed up in our 50s, I imagine, both parents and others close to us – loss is an inevitable part of life, always, but even more as we get older.  But I also think that is inextricably wound together with our growing awareness of life’s beauty and majesty.  Aren’t they two sides of the same thing, after all?  This life is a glorious, incandescent gift, and it’s not forever.  Both are true.  Unavoidably so.

That’s the overarching theme of 50 for me.  Gratitude and grief, marbled together in every minute.  Gratitude for what is, grief for what is no longer. 50 is also a lot else.

50 is

Young adult children.  Laughing hard.  Worrying about different, bigger things.  Intense pride at watching them become who they are.  Realizing how grateful I am that these three people are genuinely my three favorite people to spend time with, full stop.  Shock and awe at how fast it’s flown.

Reading glasses and sunglasses, sometimes at the same time.  The biggest physical manifestation of aging, for me, has been my decaying eyesight.  It’s frustrating all the time and disorienting, often.

Deep thankfulness to my young self for choosing such incredible friends.  As I get older I feel closer to the women I met and chose as beloved when I was becoming who I am.  It’s amazing how deep these bonds are, how enduring, and I’m more grateful than I can express.  Native speakers, you know who you are.  Thank you. (a subset of these dearly beloved people are below, taken as another of us turned 50 a couple of weeks ago)

I toasted my work partners when we had dinner recently in New York, and told them that there’s a strong case to be made that they are the most important people in my life beside my family.  Their partnership is one of my life’s great joys, and what we’re building together is something I’ll never stop feeling both awe and gratitude about.

My FOO (family of origin).  I miss my Dad every day, but I feel so fortunate to be sailing wing and wing with these two.  It will never cease to amaze me that we have no redheaded children, but HWM thank you for all the laughing, grammatical jokes, and wisdom.  I’m so lucky.  And Mum, where it all began. Alpha and omega.  Thank you.

Speaking of thankfulness and younger me, how did I know how great this guy would turn out to be?  We met when I was 23.  I am turning 50.  We’ve lived many lifetimes together and it isn’t always easy but it’s also never dull.  I could not do any of this without him, and I am very lucky and I know it.  Thank you, MTR.

50 is also waking up at 4 something most mornings.  It’s unapologetically preferring to get into bed at 9 with my book most nights.  It’s realizing I just don’t need to be liked by everyone.  It’s being discriminating about who I want to be close to.  It’s telling people I love how I feel because I know that opportunity may not come again.  It’s more sunrises than sunsets, which is ironic as I’m moving into the afternoon of life.  It’s getting our first pet at 46 and learning how profoundly I love dogs.

I’m not accustomed to being speechless, but that’s how I feel right now.  At least full of an inchoate, incandescent emotion I can’t even begin to express.  To say it is both thankfulness and sorrow at the same time just begins to scratch the surface.  For those of you still reading as I near the 18th anniversary of this blog, thank you.  For those I adore and who make my life what it is, thank you.

Closing with a quote I love.  I sure hope it’s right.

“If the only prayer you ever say in your entire life is thank you, it will be enough.” -Meister Eckhart

Solstice

“We are moving towards the solstice, and there is still so much here I do not understand.” – Adrienne Rich

This is the holiest day of the year for me.  I’ve written ad nauseum about it.  For many many years my parents co-hosted a Winter Solstice black tie dance on this night.  It’s the darkest day of the year yet it also holds the promise that tomorrow we begin to move towards the light.  Deep darkness that holds the promise of light.  That’s what this day means to me.  I am thinking of Adrienne Rich’s words which are in my head most days.  The more I know, the less I understand.  Darkness.  Light.  Memory.  Movement.  Life.

From Instagram on 12/21/23.  Photos below from a family wedding on 12/20/23.  And below, some links to previous thoughts on the solstice.

The Huffington Post: Darkness and Light

Solstice: Light and Shadow

Thoughts on Darkness

A Darkness Full of Light

 

 

Kilimanjaro was nothing to this

A couple of sappy Instagram posts for Matt seem to be worth sharing here.  We are newly empty nesters and just celebrated 23 years.  Wow!  FWIW I do most of my writing on Instagram these days. I’d love to come back here.  Maybe someday.

I’ve shared this picture before and I likely will again. It was taken 25 years ago, in August 1998, by my father in Marion Massachusetts, in the exact spot we would take our wedding photos two years later. It’s framed in our house. Matt just sent it to me and I am struck by how much has changed and how much has not since this photo. The last 25 years have been full of adventure and both ups and downs, challenges, heartbreak, surprises and joys. Most of all welcoming and watching grow our two beloved children, both of whom are now in college and off on their own paths. And so we are full circle and back to these two people again. Circle Game. May we remember this joy as we move forward to this next phase, Matt.  I love you and I have for a very long time. Onward.

23 years. Wow. Craig, the visiting minister who married us, was right. Kilimanjaro was nothing to this. And we find ourselves at a new camp now, in a new season. Back to where we began: just the two of us. I found 8 selfies of just the two of us taken since June. This is our new reality. It’s different and it’s quiet and we really miss G and W but wow I’m lucky that all those years ago you chose this difficult redhead. Thanks for walking this path with me – challenging and surprising often, stunningly beautiful sometimes, interesting always. I love you MTR. Here’s to the next 23

the Sunday of summer

I’ve written before about the word “liminal” and about how it speaks to me.  Now we enter the most liminal of times, at least as far as I’m concerned: August.  We turn towards the fall, towards new school years and new beginnings, time marks another year past.  I have often thought it is not an accident that I’m born during this time, which I often experience with tears in my eyes, a faint sense of dread in my heart, and time’s drumbeat in my ears.

That’s truer than ever this year.  For some reason, summer’s impending close is hitting me harder than usual this year.  I think that’s probably because this is likely the last summer both kids will live with us, and we’ll luxuriate in slow mornings and dinners on the porch.  These days are painfully numbered.  I have been writing about – obsessing about, let’s be honest – time’s irrevocable forward march since Grace and Whit were small.  But this obsession has roared back into my mind in the last few days and weeks.

All of this is at it should be.  I love my young adult children.  I honestly adore them more with every passing year, and thus far there hasn’t been a year of parenthood that hasn’t been better than the last.  That said, it’s undeniable that something is ending, that the period of family life where we’re all together draws to a close.

My previous post was called “the ache and the beauty,” and if there’s one thing I know for sure it’s that those two things are inextricable from each other.  But all the knowing in the world doesn’t insulate me from the pain of that ache, from the echoing sorrow it brings.  Ahhhh … I know.  I’m so upbeat, on this summer August morning when it’s hot as hell on the Massachusetts coast, where I got Dunkin Donuts with Grace and can hear Whit’s alarm going off down the hall.

Be here now.

I got temporary tattoos that say that, and I look at those words on my wrist now, daily.  I’ve always said that if I get a real tattoo, ever, it will be those three words on the inside of my wrist.

Onward.  As the days grow shorter – I can definitely sense a different texture in the light, a sense of something gathering to its end – and the approach of Real Life grows more clamoring.  I don’t know how to handle the sadness that these developments bring, but I’m old enough now that I recognize its coming.  I try every year not to let my preemptive sadness about what’s ending occlude my last days inside its joy.  I will try, again, anew.