family

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.

Summer 2014

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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.

Niagara Falls

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It’s touristy and Grace didn’t like her hot dog and Whit got a blister from walking, but oh, the falls are majestic. Their power, noise, and beauty are frankly as awe-inspiring as I had imagined.   Plus Grace and Whit got a third stamp in their passports, which was a thrill.  This summer is flying by, a fact made more bitter by how sweet the days are.

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Tradition and adaptability

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first trip to Storyland, June 2010

As I’ve written many times before, traditions are important to me.  The family rituals that dot our calendar year function as a kind of scaffolding for our family life.  They are that important to me.  To us.  I’m convinced that traditions and ritual provide comfort and stability Grace and Whit as well as marking a reassuring rhythm to the months of the year.

The challenge is how this belief in tradition can coexist with my equally firm yet somewhat opposed desire that my children have new experiences.  I want them to see the world, and making this happen is something that by definition takes away from adherence to tradition. We have limited vacation time and means, and we have to make choices.  Time is, after all, our only true zero sum resource.  This year, for example, we aren’t going to Legoland.  Letting go of that ritual was hard, but it was time, and the time it opened up allowed for a visit to another new place.  Whit has told me a few times that he feels really sad that we aren’t going, but I explained that we are doing something else this year, and he is looking forward to that.

Another thing we do every year is go to Storyland at the end of the school year.  This year, we went ziplining in the New Hampshire woods.  We maintained our tradition while changing its shape.  We stayed at the same hotel that we always do.  We went to the same restaurant for dinner.  We visited the same water park.  The energy of celebration and rejoicing in simply being together was absolutely the same.  We were all reassured, I’m certain of it, that our ritual could shift but still have tremendous meaning.

Can you spin it so you have it both ways, in that each calendar year we have a new adventure, that that’s the tradition?  Maybe so.  These don’t have to be big expensive trips, by the way.  We went to Jerusalem and to the Galapagos, yes, but I would also put our family trip to Washington up alongside those international forays.  What I’m after for Grace and Whit are new experiences which show them this broad, beautiful world as well as remind them how small they are within it.  There’s something both daunting and reassuring about realizing how small we are in the enormous swath of time and geography, and I personally think we all realize it eventually.  I just want them to do so earlier rather than later.

So now, I think about places I want to go, consider how to mold the rituals we still have so that they allow for these experiences, try to balance familiarity with new adventure.  Just as with everything else in this life, the only thing we can count on is change.  I know our traditions provide a comforting handhold in the slipstream of time for Grace and Whit (and for me), but I also need to make sure they change as necessary.

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ziplining in New Hampshire, June 2014

The Space Between

Dad’s abiding faith in the life of the rational mind is matched by his profound wonder at the power of the ineffable, the territory of religious belief, that which is beyond the intellect. I grew up in the space between these two seemingly opposite poles, and instinctively understood the ways in which their paradox could be understood as both opposite and utterly meshed.

Dad introduced me — never explicitly, but through the example of his passions — to the fact that something can be true and its opposite can also be true. Dad was the one who taught me about life’s ability to hold two poles in one hand. Even more, he taught me that often life insisted on that.

I’m delighted to share my first piece on Medium, The Space Between.  I’d love if you would click over to read but also to explore the site, which seems jammed with wonderful writing.  Thank you to Allison for teaching me about it.  I fell in love after I read this piece by Kelly Corrigan, which includes her trademark mix of humor and wisdom.