musings

A message as essential as air

I can only add my voice to the chorus – the more eloquent and beautifully-expressed chorus – celebrating Karen Maezen Miller and her Mother’s Plunge in Boston on Saturday.  It was a lovely day, one that I know will continue to seep into my spirit over time.  I won’t forget Karen’s animated face, her contagious bursts of laughter, and the simple but powerful message that she conveyed with her words and, even more compellingly, with her very spirit.

I struggle, actually, to really put into words what Karen shared.  Her message is as essential as air and as ineffable as the meaning of life.  How is it that something so very simple – how to exist peacefully in the world, how to love others and ourselves – is so complicated?  This paradox is at the heart of everything I wrestle with.  And, I suspect, that’s true of all of us.

So, what did I learn from Karen?  In fact, I think what Karen does is to remind us – lovingly, inescapably, life-changingly – of those fundamental truths we already know.

What we pay attention to flourishes.  Attention is love.  It is, after all, the only true thing of value we have.  This is, in my opinion, another way to say that the way we spend our hours is how we spend our lives.  Instinctively, we turn the radiance of our attention, the laser beam of our gaze, both spiritual and literal, onto that which we love.

Love = compassion = non-judgment.  The moment we start judging, or investing our energies into what we expect or want from a situation or a person is the moment we stop loving.  And yet we all do this – at least I do – a hundred times a day.  A critical task of our lives is to truly see those we love for who they are, even when that means accepting that there are mysteries inside of them that we will never understand.  To release them from the cage of what we so desperately want them to be, so that they may flourish into who they are.

Karen herself is a joy – somehow calm and enthusiastic at the same time, radiating both an infectious joy at the basic fact of life and a palpable calm.  She set an atmosphere of acceptance and warmth, and I felt hugely relaxed in the room and in the sunlight at the Charlestown seaport.  Surely the attendance of so many kindred spirits helped – I was honored and thrilled to meet such kindred spirits as Jena and Katrina, and to see again new-but-feel-like-old friends like Denise, Corinne, and Tracy.  The biggest disappointment of the day?  That I did not realize that Meg – whose words I adore, quote often, and hear in my own head – was in the room.  I’m sure her presence contributed to what a marvelous day it was for me, but I wish I’d met her face to face and hugged her in person.

We were all immensely fortunate to have Katrina Kenison with us too.  Katrina sat in front of us, in a space that felt nothing short of holy, and read from her most recent writing about sharing her dear friend’s journey towards the end of life (the quote that inspired yesterday’s post was from this reading).  Katrina’s presence is a balm and she has already become a very important person in my life.  Having her there was a gift.

Thank you, Karen, for such a moving and thought-provoking day.  I can feel your words and your example sinking into some deep place inside me.  Your words had already had a profound effect on me, and meeting you in person was even more than I imagined it would be.

Truth as bright as phosphorescence

My heart is full today. A beloved friend is nearing the end of a long, exceedingly courageous journey with cancer.  Moment by moment, she is being called upon to let go of this physical world and to open to mysteries beyond our human understanding.  Watching the sunrise at 6:30 this morning, walking in the woods, touching my husband’s arm, I tried to live and love and pay attention enough for both of us, for a friend who is not ready to leave this earth and for myself, so fully occupied upon it.  I wondered whether — if I could only be grateful enough, notice enough, feel deeply enough — I might somehow occupy both realms at once, material and spiritual.  “Write me the mundane details of your life,” she e-mailed the other night, from her hospital bed.  I try to do that.  And each time I pause, and look, and gather up some small bouquet of mundane details, what I see is not ordinariness but evidence:  this world in which we are blessed to live is full of meaning, beauty, and holiness.

Katrina Kenison wrote this on her blog recently, and moved me (as she almost always does, to be honest) to tears.  I thought, again, about the gossamer veil that separates us from the next world, about the almost-inconceivably abstract idea of death.  What does it mean, really, to die?  I honestly don’t comprehend that entirely.

Again, I thought about the tragic truth that it is only when we are aware of our time being limited (as Katrina’s friend) that we really appreciate it.  Somehow, death or illness brushing up against us is the only guaranteed way of showing us how sacred our ordinary lives are.

One of my very best and oldest friends was diagnosed with breast cancer at 28 (we are the exact same age).  She is in remission, and is doing extremely well, but that experience forever altered her previously-blithe assumption of how her life would unfold.  My mother’s best friend (and my second mother) died at 49 after a difficult battle with pancreatic cancer.  My father-in-law received a life-saving heart transplant on Grace’s one-month birthday (and his 36th wedding anniversary) and is still thriving.

In short, I’ve felt the chill of illness, witnessed the death of those I cherish and feared those of others.  And still, still, I cannot find it in myself to appreciate more fully the details of this one magic life I get. Why?  Katrina’s message reminded me, again, of the paucity of my gratitude, of the total insufficiency of my praise for this immense, extraordinary gift.

Sometimes this truth – the grandeur of my everyday life and the critical importance of honoring it – flashes in front of me, as bright as phosopherescence and as fleeting.  Like those unexpected, bright swirls of glowing light in a night sea, the realization leaves an imprint on the back of my eyelids, a tangible reminder of something witnessed, something important from a place beyond rational thought.

I owe it to Jessica, to Susie, to John, I think often, to be more grateful, more aware, more present.  And so today I recommit, as I have done so many times, to cultivating true awareness.  To realizing the beauty in the bouquets of mundane details that Katrina cites.  To not wait for calamity to realize that my days here are not long.

As it so often does, my monkey mind springs to another quotation, more words.  And I can’t get Adlai Stevenson’s famous words out of my head now.  I believe this was from a Princeton graduation address (and of course that makes it ever dearer to me) but it could easily be to any of us, at any time, inhabitants of this lovely place, this earth, where our days are short.

Your days are short here; this is the last of your springs. And now in the serenity and quiet of this lovely place, touch the depths of truth, feel the hem of Heaven. You will go away with old, good friends. And don’t forget when you leave why you came.

Questions & answers

Thank you for all the well wishes and thoughtful questions!  I really appreciate both.  A lot.

Glenda: After four years “in community” through your blog, do you feel reflecting and exploring themes for the blog have helped you better navigate and enjoy the daily moments of your days? Enhanced living in any way?

I definitely feel that daily writing has helped me zero in on the central questions that matter to me.  And the act of reflecting on my life and sharing stories here – and the thoughtful reactions that I often get – definitely has made me more aware of the joy that hides in the most ordinary moments of my life.  Absolutely this has enhanced my life.

Chris: When did you first admit to yourself that you were not leading the life you wanted? I’m sure there was a general uneasiness for some time. I’m talking about the crossing the Rubicon moment when you realized you had to make a change.

I wish there was a pivotal moment – not only because it’s a good story but because it would act as a fulcrum between then and now.  But there hasn’t been, really – it’s more a gradual realization, which escalated from a vague sense of unease in my chest into a howling roar and a propensity to burst into tears at the slightest thing (which, still, frankly, happens). 

Gale: As for questions, I was intruiged by your comments about BlogHer when you thought people were disappointed when they met you in person. You have a distinct online personality (thoughtful, introspective, honest, intense), but I get the sense that perhaps you seem different in real life. How would people who know you in person (but don’t read your blog) describe you?

This is something I struggle with, because I don’t know that I have a good sense of it.  I’d welcome anyone who DOES know me in real life to chime in here!  (Bouff?) I hope that people who describe me as empathetic and warm, interested in them (I’ve been told I deflect questions about myself), and occasionally funny in spite of myself.  Things I’ve heard before: that I’m much smaller than someone expected (short) once, that I’m goofy, also that I’m much quieter, shyer, less of a leader than someone else had assumed.    

Corinne: What do you order at Starbucks?
Are you a beach or lake person?
Favorite thing about blogging?
Did you ever expect to be where you are now ten years ago?

Venti nonfat latte.  Always!
Beach all the way.
That it makes me write, and has reconnected me with my passion for words.
My life is both exactly as I planned it ten years ago and nothing like I expected. (and that is as good a summary of the book I’m writing as any I can provide)

Christa: What do you want to be when you grow up?

A writer.  This is the easiest question of all.

Sere: I’m wondering if blogging helped you find your voice. Were you writing long before you began blogging? And do you write other things as well? Fiction? Any works in progress?

Absolutely blogging has helped me find my voice.  I had written a lot as a child, in high school, and college, but had drifted away from it.  I do write other things: articles, essays, a memoir in progress, and I have 160 pages of a novel that nobody has ever read a single word of.

Leslie: You mentioned once that you wanted to be a doctor when you were younger (hopefully i’m not mistaken). just curious, how did you diverge into business instead?

I did.  I always thought I’d be a doctor and still nurture dreams of going back to school to become a midwife.  I have tremendous passion for womens’ healthcare, for the crisis that is maternal mortality in the world, and the quest for all women to have positive and supported experiences of pregnancy and birth. 

My road away from that dream was gradual and circuitous.  When I lived in London I had selected my subjects for A-Level (the English educational system requires focus on 3 or 4 subjects for 11th and 12th grade).  Mine were Physics, Biology, Chemistry, and Math.  Instead of pursing that I came back to boarding school and college.  In college I took a lot of science but fell in love with English and majored in that.  (my father would describe the transition from hard sciences to English as “sliding downhill”) How I got from contemplating a PhD in English to a degree in business is a story I’m still untangling.

Ramona: What is your fondest piece of fiction?  What music are listening to right now?

So difficult to pick one piece of fiction!  I can pick a few authors who consistently move me: Elizabeth Strout.  Dani Shapiro.  Louise Erdrich.  Laurie Colwin.

I rarely listen to music other than when I’m driving, but my favorites right now are Brandi Carlile, the Weepies, Eddie Vedder, Ray Lamontagne.

Sarah:  What would you tell your younger self of four years ago if you could?What is the best piece of parenting advice you have received?  What advice would you give to a new parent?  What does it mean to you to be a writer?

I would tell myself to relax and to trust.  I still tell myself that.  I would tell myself that in four years I wouldn’t have anything resembling babies – or even toddlers – anymore, and not to rush it. 

To a new parent I would say, and I do, to forgive yourself if you don’t love every second of it right away.  To know that things go by fast.  It is so easy to turn into cliches here and I try not to do that, but the truth is that message is salient and, for me, the most important one.

I don’t think of myself as a writer, so it’s hard to answer this.  It remains my most cherished and deeply-held dream.

Bruce: If you could ask the cosmos one question and get an unequivocal answer, what might your question be?

Will my children be okay?  I can’t stop thinking of a sentence I read in Brene Brown’s book: “We can’t give our children what we don’t have.”  Here I am so trying to instill confidence, peace, and calm into my children … all the while not having those things myself.  This keeps me up at night.  I want to know that Grace and Whit will grow up happy, healthy, and confident, and that having had me as their mother won’t bring them too much pain and grief.

Alana: What has been your biggest gift from blogging? Your biggest challenge?

The gift has been that I have realized my deep passion for and commitment to writing.  Blogging has reawakened that part of me and for that I am very, very grateful.  The challenge is, I guess, wondering where the border of helpfully candid and far too personal is, as well as starting to feel like I’m hopelessly mired and repeating myself over and over again.

Heather: If you had the chance to change yourself into someone who doesn’t think so much, would you do it? I think about this a lot for myself–so I had to ask!

I think about this all the time too.  I don’t know.  Right now, I’d answer yes, but I intellectually know that I would at other times have said no.

Navigating by the stars

“Besides realizing that two glasses of wine can make you drunk, I have had this revelation: that you can look at something, close your eyes, and see it again and still know nothing – like staring at the sky to figure out the distances between stars.”

– Ann Beattie, Jacklighting

Sometimes when I look at the night sky I find myself breathless, and dazzled, and then, quickly, dizzy. I look around, trying to focus on the stars, but the sky gets blurry and I feel disoriented. This is what Ann Beattie’s words always makes me think of, and it’s how I feel right now.

The days fold into each other, collapsing into a series of moments both transcendent and mundane. Each evening I have a bittersweet taste on my tongue and a vague sense of deja vu – this again? These same demons, these same questions, these same stars blinking in the black sky, inspiring and elusive at the same time?

I consider myself deeply fortunate to have bumped into Bruce from the Privilege of Parenting out in these wild cosmos. His steady, thoughtful support and insightful comments and emails are nothing short of sustaining.

Today he emailed me with some thoughts, the last of which was this:

You are making your soul. It takes a long time and it’s damn hard work, so hang in there.

I love this image. I haven’t thought about the struggle and the joy that I write about so often this way before. Frankly, I’d always assumed the soul is something we’re born with. Maybe, actually, our soul is something we construct. This makes such sense to me, suddenly. My thirties so far have been a journey of letting go of the assumptions – about right and wrong, desire and duty, direction and velocity – that so strictly guided my first thirty years. The single biggest thing I’ve let go of is my belief in the critical importance of movement, the primacy of having a destination.

The map by which I so surely navigated for thirty years somehow broke as I made my way into the summer of adulthood. This was terrifying. Unmoored and lost at sea, I spent several years in the fog. And, if I’m honest, I am still there. I think, ultimately, that being lost is the fundamental state of life, and that my work is learning to be comfortable with that. What I know now is that the landmarks and lighthouses that marked my way were all evanescent anyway.

Maybe, returning to Ann Beattie’s quote, I’m navigating by the stars now. I’m in the territory of the soul, and it often feels perilous and lonely. It’s slow work, soul-making. I think of something I wrote in January, about the ways that life is both linear and cyclical; it strikes me that the making of a soul is a fundamentally non-linear enterprise. For me, who for so long was such a strictly linear person, this is deeply uncomfortable. In the discomfort lies the way forward, of that I’m sure. So on I go, circling and circling, staring at the stars, blinking, trying not to panic at how dark it is and how unsure I am about where I am.

Real life both hems us in and keeps us intact

I’ve written before, years ago, about my conflicted feelings about “the mundane quotidian routines[that] are both safety net and cage.”

Today I was thinking about how real life, in its banal detail, both hems us in and keeps us intact. There are times when I truly think that if it were not for the demands and rhythms of my regular life, I might actually fly into a million pieces, exploding and disintegrating as the particles of me scattered like mica into the air. Life is a collage of the prosaic and the transcendent: Pour the cereal. Pack the lunches. What is our place in the universe? Pair the socks. Wipe the placemats. Notice, stunned, the stark blackness of a crow against the suddenly-fall gray September sky. Make the doctor’s appointment. Remember the birthday card. What does it mean to really love another?

And on. And on.

Some days my interior life is so intense and, often, painful, that I can think of nothing else. Whatever is bothering me spreads quickly through the interstices of my consciousness, like a black ink blot taking over a white page, obliterating everything else. And then something happens: a child cries or there is a meeting that can’t be skipped and I am tugged back to the day to day, away from the perilous blackness that just moments earlier threatened to swamp me.

In this way my life often saves me from myself. Equally, though, it frustrates me, distracting me, rendering me unable to really plumb whatever it is that is on my mind. Reality and its demands are a frame that simultaneously contains and restricts my experience.

Every single day of this life contains drudgery and divinity. They swirl together, and could so easily become mud, the clotted brown of wasabi stirred into soy sauce. Instead they seem to sharpen each others’ vividness, sometimes to a degree that pierces me. Most of the time, I wouldn’t have it any other way.