Altogether a lovely day. The children slept until 8, which means I did too (I don’t care for this holiday, Mothers Day, but if I did that would be the only gift I’d want anyway!). Then we went to the Church of the Redeemer for Emma’s christening. Shockingly Whit and Grace sat in the pew (with coloring books and goldfish, of course) until communion when I snuck them out. Whit appeared totally spellbound by the music, and also pointed out all the various colors in the stained glass windows to me.
Then we rushed home to have lunch with Whit’s godmother, Gloria, and her mother. Everyone sat outside in the back yard and ate Hi Rise sandwiches – very nice. At the risk of making Whit seem too angelic, he ran around and ate only potato chips (perhaps full from the half pound of goldfish he inhaled in church). Then naps and I went for a great run – did just over 13 (I think – my sensor was acting up) and it was just the most wonderful run in a long time. Maybe ever! And I feel a lot more confident heading into the half marathon now knowing I can do that. Goal is to come in under 2 hours.
That’s the super boring report from my life on this gorgeous full-fledged spring day.

“From the first he loved Princeton – its lazy beauty, its half-grasped significance, the wild moonlight revel of the rushes, the handsome, prosperous big-game crowds …” – Fitzgerald, This Side of Paradise

Tomorrow is Pops’ 90th birthday celebration. Wow! What an icon this man is. I know there will be Princeton talk, possibly some handing down of orange paraphenalia, and tears. From the first time I saw Princeton, Labor Day 1991, with Dad, I have loved it too. And the whole time, from day one until now, my love affair with Princeton has been intertwined with Pops’ legacy. His experience and mine were radically different, and yet we both came away with intense commitment to and affection for the place. In my mind this is central to Princeton’s allure: it is a single campus that can be various but fundamentally singular.

I’m struggling right now to write a birthday card to Pops, to put into words what he means to me. This man, blisteringly intellectual, stubborn and passionate about his hobbies and interests, more brave and curious at 90 than I am at 33. Who got onto a steamer ship in his mid teens to come to the Hill School as a boarder from his home in China. Who to this day remains fluent in Mandarin, who uses email and makes ship models from tiny pieces of balsa wood. Who reads and travels voraciously, who is a consummate adventurer. His Christmas card last year was a photograph of himself hanging from a zip line, high in the trees, in Costa Rica. Who never misses a Princeton reunions. I am grateful that I was there in 2006 to walk with him in his first P-Rade as an official member of the Old Guard.
Notably, Pops’ old age has softened him – a man that I recall as being intimidating and slightly aloof has become one who chokes back tears at toasts and who drove long distances to meet my children as soon as they were born. I remember the spring of my freshman year I made him a collage frame with several photographs of campus, and a handwritten rendering of the quotation above. It was for his birthday, then, 1993 – must have been his 75th, I realize how. I remember still the short personal note I wrote, and it remains true now: “It is an honor and a privilege to share the legacy of Princeton with you.”

The only wisdom we can hope to acquire
Is the wisdom of humility; humility is endless

– TS Eliot, Four Quartets

Somewhere, something incredible is waiting to be known.

-Carl Sagan

(I know, I know, you think that quotes are a cop-out. Sorry, they are speaking to me today. And inspiration is not.)

Photo from the last leg of a long (but fast) trip this week. I read several books and a bunch of magazines on the trip, and found this exquisite poem by Mary Oliver (who has always been one of my favorites). I am so glad to be back, my return last night was positively lovely.

Mornings at Blackwater (Mary Oliver)

For years, every morning, I drank
from Blackwater Pond.
It was flavored with oak leaves and also, no doubt,
the feet of ducks.

And always it assuaged me
from the dry bowl of the very far past.

What I want to say is
that the past is the past,
and the present is what your life is,
and you are capable
of choosing what that will be,
darling citizen.

So come to the pond,
or the river of your imagination,
or the harbor of your longing,

and put your lips to the world.
And live
your life.

Am in Venice. Counting hours until I get home! Even with two lousy nights of sleep behind me, an ambien onboard, earplugs, an eyeshade, and a very reclined seat in business class, I did not sleep. I’m a resolute stomach sleeper and in that position I felt disconcertingly like I was sliding downhill. So I rolled onto my side and within minutes my hip hurt. Flipping back and forth all across the atlantic, I think I probably slept a total of a couple of hours, all intermittent. Not feeling so hot now. And the day yawns ahead.

On the Paris-Venice flight I read a book called Comfort by Ann Hood. I had read reviews of this memoir and was interested – turns out it was way too close to home. A beautifully written meditation on grief, the book’s true story focuses on the sudden death of the author’s five and a half year old daughter, Grace. Her son is named Sam (Whit’s first name) and she lives in Providence, Rhode Island (the familiarity of the references there comes from the years of visiting Nana and Ba Eldredge, not from my occasional ride up to the 18th floor of 50 Kennedy Plaza). I flew the whole hour and ten minute flight with tears coursing down my cheeks. I don’t want to take away from the book’s achingly honest writing, the lovely way Ann describes swimming through grief, but it was a poor choice for me right now. I was already tired and emotional before opening it, and I’m more so now.

Well, it seems likely that 4 hours in a conference room this afternoon will turn me from weepy to catatonic.