7 posts tagged “hope”
This weekend, my friends Jill and Jay, two of the most beautiful people I know, took the leap and tied the knot. A relatively small group of us gathered on a farm in Western MA to witness it all and celebrate with them. The weekend was glorious in more ways than one. I will need weeks to process what I felt there amidst old friends, great music and beautiful country. I will need weeks for it all to sink in.
For now I am just buzzing with the joy of it.
During my most lizard-like days over the last 3 years, Jill and Jay have been my sun. When I am cynical about love, relationships or silly notions of hope, I lie down on a rock next to them and just soak in the energy from their partnership, bask in the glow of the way they care for each other. Theirs is a simple, honest, modest true love which radiates out from their little inner world and makes us all feel warmer. But it also buzzes with tremendous passion, a hot white streak, a super nova.
It is something extraordinary to witness. It is simply light.
I am back from another magical romp in the woods.
The children self organized and made the campground their kingdom. While they ran about feral and free, we adults did the important work of cooking, tending the fire and napping. This morning after breakfast we sat around the campfire all of us, strumming guitars and singing. A pastoral Von Trapp family moment twisted only by the children's choice of songs. (I couldn't help but wonder what Child Protective Services would think about the fact that all of our children know this Johnny Cash tune by heart). No matter.
I am unpacking now. I carry the camp chairs in and put them away for the season. They smell like smoke, smoke from the glorious fire, tended by Eric, a blacksmith-wanna-be stoking a furnace fit for smelting. We sat around this fire as the night grew chilly, laughing, telling stories, nursing stout and tequila, sneaking brownies the children never knew were baked, sneaking cigarettes they never knew we smoked.
The little children have been tucked into bed in the Tent-Mahal, lulled to sleep in by the whispers of a father who's own children have grown too old now to be comforted by the cadence of his voice. Teenage fears are not easily chased away by fairy tales but here in this tent at this moment, he is a hero to seven wee ones, a hero with the power to keep the darkness at bay. Covered with children and sleeping bags he is able to relive a memory and to relieve those of us who are too weary of nightly stories, who just need a beer and some quiet. It takes a village...
The little ones are sleeping now. Soundly. The smoke blows in our face as the wind shifts direction and so do we, moving around the circle, shifting positons to talk, to pour a drink, to play. We laugh and sing to homemade music, two guitars, one harmonica. Red wine. Tequila. A few contraband cigarettes. Shake thoroughly. Instant bliss.
One by one sleepy people get up and drift away to our tiny tent city. They drift away until it is only three of us, the roaring fire turned to bright cooking coals now. My dear friend and I lay on our backs in the dirt and gaze at the seven sisters twinkling overhead. Another friend fingerpicking a guitar, Texas blues for the girl with boots, bending strings that connect right to a piece my soul.
And then it is just me, I sit at the fire, shifting the coals around, encouraging them to cool now. I breathe in the smoke, feel the soot settle on my face. I sit in the space of gratitude watching the embers. I am thankful for this trip, for the laughter, for the new people, for the joy my son felt when running free, for the easy hike, the communal dinner, for my dear friend and her family, for all the families together, for the music...for the sweet sweet music.
I lay back, the seven sisters on the other side of the sky now. I can't help but feel that everything is exactly as it should be at this moment. That I, sitting alone by the fire, am exactly where I need to be. That I can relax here in this space. That neither the past nor the future really matter all that much. That the now, these warm coals, this autumn wind, this feeling of rightness is what matters. I think this feeling is called grace. I touch it and wrap my fingers around it. I tuck it into my hair.
I hear my friends stir, shift in sleeping bags. I wish them deep sleep and sweet dreams while I stir the coals. Then, minutes or hours later, I pour water on them and watch the steam rise.
I am so gritty, so grimy from this trip. I have finished unpacking and slip into a warm shower, before I head out to pick up the take-out we will have for dinner tonight. Before I throw in the laundry. Before I check my email.
The smell of smoke wafts through the bathroom--it is washing out of my pores and running down the drain. I want to stop it and capture it. I do not want to let the smoke go. I want it to cling to my skin forever.
Tonight it rained. I sat in wonder and listened to the sound of the rain against my windows. I stood out on the front steps and let me feet get damp. It has been such a dry summer. The rain smelled miraculous and hopeful, the harbinger of good things. Life giving and cleansing. Just what we needed.
I have thought alot about my trip to Rio --the one I took two Octobers ago. We took this photo our first night there. Eddie's friend, an ex-pat who had settled in this magical city, had taken us for a walking tour and showed us his favorite spot, a park across a lake from the hustle and bustle of this city. A rainstorm rolled in suddenly, unexpectedly, catching us on the wrong side of the park. It fell in sheets soaking us all as we ran for cover under some trees, laughing. I laughed harder than I had in months. At that moment, laughter bubbled up unexpectedly, as unstoppable as the rain. It was so absurd and silly and joyful. We were dressed to the nines for a night out on the town, with water running down our noses, with my chic outfit dripping and misshapen, my "oh-so-Rio" sandals squishing and making ridiculous noises. It was the funniest thing ever to be in Rio in the warm rain. I jumped in a puddle and lost my shoe. Pretty soon we were all laughing because I couldn't stop laughing
I had felt so heavy and stressed when I got to Brazil. I was at the height of my financial panic and I had just started to wrap my heart around the idea that Juan was not coming back. I arrived at the airport after flying all night with only $20 American and a three day training to run in Spanish. I went to the cash machine at the airport to take out money for taxi fare and found my account was overdrawn. My cell phone was out of batteries. I had forgotten my credit card at home. I had no idea what I would do next. I went up to the money exchange counter and cashed in my $20. I hoped it would be enough to get me to the hotel where I could regroup and figure out my next move. I thought I had hit rock bottom. I felt so alone, like such a failure. To keep myself from breaking down in this strange city, I repeated a mantra "It is going to work out all right" and then I added a fervent "please" and threw in a prayer for good measure.
The taxi fare was exactly what I had in my wallet.
I got to the hotel and they told me my room was already paid for. I slept a heavy deep dreamless sleep. I woke up to find lunch. A a friend of a friend living in Sao Paolo who had come to meet me. A fully charged cell phone and a Dad on the other end able to wire some cash to get me through the week. And best of all when Eddie arrived that evening he had two airplane tickets to Rio.
Four days later I was standing in the rain in Rio, laughing as the water poured over my toes and ran down my fingers. I remember thinking that the rain washed some of my grief away that night, just let it slip right away and run into this lake, leaving me feeling a tiny bit lighter and ready to start healing.
The rhythm of our life is slowing down now. Its the way of autumn. With the birthday celebrations and the hullaballoo of the start of the new school year behind us, we are settling into the quiet of fall. Tonight I kissed Max goodnight and went through the rituals that he needs to let go of his fears and drift off to sleep. A book, a cuddle, an extra check of the doors. "Yes they are locked my dear. You can sleep now." He is frightened of being alone. I assure him that while I will get up I will be back soon and I will be here when morning comes. He holds my hand as he drifts into sleep.
I find that the days between the Fall Equinox and the Winter Solstice are a time of introspection for me. I find myself turning inward, pulling away into myself a bit. Its a time of reflection and soul repair. I actually feel myself slowing down, becoming less social. I call less, email less, talk less. I am still more. I sit and listen to the noise of the outside, to the house breathing.
And frankly, sometimes I am a bit uncomfortable in this place. I prefer the energy of loud dinner parties, of boisterous giggling, of passing the wine and sharing food. Because it is here in this quiet solitary place I hear my fears speaking to me. And nothing scares me more than fear.
But I am at peace knowing that I am not alone here. While spring seems to be the universal season of renewal, autumn seems to be the time to struggle with fear. As the darkness lengthens we face our demons at Halloween, mark our grief and mourning on el dia de los muertos or All Souls Day, look inward and repent on Yom Kippur. I take comfort in knowing that many souls before me have walked this path and created rituals that allow us to face our fears and then let them go. I am not out of sorts as I drift into myself, no I am just following the anciet rhythms of the season.
Two years ago late in October, I went to Rio de Janiero with my friend Eddie. We had spent the week running a training in Sao Paolo and he convinced me we deserved a trip to the beach. It rained the whole time we were there. One day we both felt the need for some alone time. He hiked along the mountains and the beach while I wandered down the streets of Ipanema, in and out of coffeehouses, bookstores and music shops along the stormy shore. After awhile I realized that my mind had grown completely quiet. I was alone, as alone as absolutely possible--wandering in a foreign country where I didn't speak the language on a rainy day in a city known for its beaches on the opposite side of the globe from almost everyone I loved. I had spent the whole season creating so much noise and activity around me, fearful of being alone, fearful of my fears. But when I sat with them quietly on the streets of Ipanema they became the consistency of mist, and I was able to let them go.
Jen Lemen recently posted about this beautiful ritual to let go of fear and things that weigh you down. I am dying to try it myself. It is all that I can do not to abandon my loved ones and work to drive to the countryside tomorrow. Short of returning to Rio, I think it is the perfect ritual to mark the inward turning season of fall and to face those fears that lurk in the shadows. Because I have a bunch I need to face and then I need to let them go I need to let them slip away like mist so I can rest peacefully in the quiet darkness of the winter.
We've got two lives
One we're given and the other one we make
And the world won't stop & actions speak louder
Listen to your heart and your heart might say
Everything we got we got the hard way...
--Mary Chapin Carpenter
Staring at my computer, in an office in downtown DC today I had an "A-ha" moment. Its one I have had before, but then I conveniently forget. Its so easy to forget it.
Life is hard.
Once upon a time, when I was just a youngster I truly believed it when my father said "The difference between a hard life and an easy one is all about choices." I interpreted this to mean that if only I made the right choice I would be rewarded with a life of bliss, ease and good times. I interpreted the struggle I faced as a young person in the world as a result of bad life choices.
And there was some truth to that. I made a lot of bad choices over my years. But I have also made some good ones too. But many times over I have been amazed to learn that good choices or bad, life has been no less hard. Good choices led me down some pretty difficult paths but ultimately took me in a direction I wanted to go. Bad choices sometimes were exhilerating but took me away from my true north. Both of those paths were filled with hard work and difficulty.
Sometimes, I get very grouchy when I am stuck in a hard-work kind of place. I want it all to be so SIMPLE so very clear cut and easy. I want to breeze through life the way I breezed through elementary school, without a care in the world and three steps ahead, and someone to solve it all for me when it got to sticky. I just want to do the one thing that will make it all fall into place. I revert to my childish notions that good choices lead to easy-peasy paths to joy all around. And then, when I realize that there is nothing that you can do to assure an easy journey I get mopey and disappointed,
Lately, I have made lots of good choices and I have to say the path I have taken has been laced with much joy. There are these moments I have, when life seems perfect. I am surrounded by a community I love, my job is exciting and we are healthy and well and then--BAM it hits me. My amazing and beautiful loved ones are human, imperfect people, just like me, and we sometimes struggle to see eye-to-eye. Or I make a mistake that needs to be fixed and fixing it takes everything I have got and more. Or sometimes life just throws a curve ball. And it takes hard work to set it all right. Or doing something fun turns into a ton of really tedious work and I want to give up.
Its hard to be a single mom and do it all alone. But I know its also really really hard to make a healthy relationship work and to keep it fresh, open and moving in the right direction. Doing a job I hate can be really hard. But as I am learning, sometimes, doing a job I love can be miserably hard too.
And sometimes when I realize all this I feel cheated. I am pissed off that there is no way around the difficult. But then, sometimes with a bit of grace,I have one of these aha moments.
LIFE IS HARD. Trying to avoid (or believing I can avoid) the difficult is what leads me to disappointment and sorrow. Picking up and slogging through the hard work with optimism, eyes on the lovely scenery and a sense of humor can make it all so much more pleasant--and joyful-- and fun.
Dad was right in some way. Life IS all about choices. Following your true north, making choices that ring true in your heart can lead to joy. But I have found I can also choose to rob myself of joy by mucking around disappointed and grouchy that I have to work through some hard stuff.
So, whats a girl who just had an aha moment to do? Crank up Mary Chapin Carpenter, slip on some boots, and dance dance dance...
Caught up in our little lives, there's not a lot left over
I see what's missing in your eyes; you're searching for that field of clover
So show a little inspiration, show a little spark
Show the world a little light when you show it your heart
We've got two lives, one we're given and the other one we make
And the world won't stop, & actions speak louder
Listen to your heart, and your heart might say
Everything we got, we got the hard way...
Last month, Karen over at Chookooloonks sponsored a postcard swap. The idea was simple but lovely. Sign up and get a list of 12 others who had also signed up. Make homemade postcards for each person on your list and then mail them all out on the same day. The theme of this swap was beginnings, a perfect theme considering that September is hailed by mothers, teachers, and students alike as the real start of the new year.
September has always been a month of beginnings for me. As we bid farewell to summer's last lazy days and buckle down anew at school or work its a time of renewal. Its also always been a time of symbolic rebirth for me. Earlier this week I turned 38. September is always the start of my new year.
September also marks for me the beginning of the inwards turning season. While spring and summer are flamboyant and extroverted, fall and winter are times for introspection, contraction, looking within. While spring and summer call for huge neighborhood picnics in the park, fall and winter call for intimate gatherings around a cozy table lit with candles.
I love the extroverted season--the explosions of green, the lengthening light, the spontaneous neighborhood get togethers. But usually about this time I start to crave some space and time for myself. I welcome the fall and the beginning of looking inward, of nesting and waiting for spring.
But to be honest, this week I have not been feeling it. Or rather I have been feeling it too much. I am mopey and sad. I have been focused on endings--the ending of a fabulous summer, the ending of my marriage, the fact that I am not where I imagined I would be at 38. And given that this is where I am currently standing, the thought of turning inward makes me edgey and nervous. The end of the social season makes me feel just a little bit lonely. The thought of this cool dark season gives me a case of the shivers.
I was feeling sorry for myself earlier today, sharing with a friend that Juan had handed me the signed papers of our separation the day before my birthday. She empathized with me, commenting that he had rained on my September "beginnings parade" with one hell of an endings thunderstorm.
But later it dawned on me that he gave me the best beginnings birthday present he could have. Because now at 38, I will NEVER have to ask him to sign these papers. I can get past at least this big hurdle and make this whole year not about getting to a conclusion but about beginning again. I turned 38 with one less burden to bear...one less package to slow me down on my new journey.
Silver lining thinking? Maybe so. But it works...at least right now. I am feeling like I can stop thinking about endings and turn my thoughts back.
So a few days late, I am proposing for myself a little birthday project. In her zine Beginnings, Jen Lemen presents a couple of fun exercises to help imagine and dream your way into launching new ventures. While I did them less than 7 months ago, I am going to pull them out and revisit them, perhaps make some art around them. If you yourself are at the same place, Beginnings is a good place to start.
Happy new school year! Happy Birthday to me! and Happy Beginnings to all of Us
I have been told that you know you are healing from a great loss, not by the absence of suffering but by the fact that the length of time between each episode of intense grief gets longer and longer still. Its been awhile now since I cried over the dissolution of my marriage with Juan, since I dwelt on the reality that all I had hoped for as a young bride turned out so differently. I know I am healing because it has been months since I felt so sad. It is this fact that I cling to tonight even as my tears keep me awake.
And its true that I have noticed that I no longer feel the need to go to the sub sub basement of despair. I am now content to rest on the stairs between the ground floor and the basement of my emotions. A softer sort of sad.
And it is also true that I no longer fight my grief. I no longer am afraid of the waves of emotion. I know that they will tumble over me and that they will go and happiness and joy will once again rule my day. Over the last few years I have learned that I can sit with Sadness. I know that if I don't ignore her she will eventually leave. I listen to what she tells me. She tells me I am capable of great great love and deep forgiveness. She tells me that once I dared to live a beautiful dream. She tells me that I gave of myself so completely, that I learned to trust, that I gave my all for something. She tells me I was one of the lucky ones to have known love. These are beautiful things to know. And so I cling to that too.
These signs, not the absence of grief, are what tell me I am healing.
I have been waiting for months for Juan to sign off on some very important papers. Today he handed them to me. It is not the end of our process but it is an important step. Yes it is a very positive turn of events, one that enables me to move on. But as it is a milestone it marks our way along a path I did not choose, and this fact, this is what makes me grieve. I long for the path I started out on--for the path I was so happily treading along until the day he told me he was leaving. This path I have been on has been strewn with lots of rocks and mud and icky flies but also great beauty and new sights I never would have known. And I cling to this too.
So all day today I have not been able to control the leaking of tears from my eyes. I have been sniffling uncontrollably, hoping that all those who see me attribute it to a bad cold or allergies. I don't mind the sadness but I do mind being so publicly sad. And I mind it when sadness robs me of precious sleep, of the comfort of my bed.
I know from past experience that eventually I will sleep. Sleep will help. So will tea and warm oatmeal with apples. I will be a different person tomorrow. If not tomorrow then the next day...or the next.
Joy will eventually return and I will know I am one step closer to healing.
