On traveling light

It began a month ago with three large metal storage cubes...

We filled two of them and gave away or sold the rest rather than fill the third.

We packed a suitcase each and put three cats in the back seat and drove out of Georgia...

When all you keep with you is whatever you call family and a suitcase of clothes, you tend to be able to see more of life.

A month later and I'm still wearing the same five or six outfits I packed in the suitcase (washed, thankfully). A month later and we're still living with our brother and sister-in-law. We're sharing meals and taking turns cooking and cleaning.

Even though we will move into our own Seattle apartment this weekend, I'm reminded that the grandest experiences in life can occur when we are owned by fewer possessions. For this past month, we've had access to only a trunkful of our stuff, and I predict that when we open those metal storage cubes and move into our 800sqft apartment, we'll find ways to free ourselves of more stuff...

...So there's room for life to happen.

marriage thoughts from a short story

A marriage unraveled. Alix Ohlin's title story, "Signs and Wonders," follows a familiar middle-aged couple whose only son is grown and self-sufficient and they discover they've been unhappy for years. Kathleen and Terence are both tenured professors of English literature at the same university, where the only thing they have in common is their "desire to spite their colleagues."

What struck me about their early characterization was not only how selfish they are, but how much they feel like they own the other person. In departmental meetings, Kathleen believes she has to defend Terence's opinions; at home, she thinks he prefers her to be mute audience for his monologues: "Anything she said in response, even her agreement, was liable to piss him off, and he'd storm away from the table, never clearing or washing the dishes, to scour the cable channels."

And later, when they realize they both want out of the marriage, Ohlin reveals Kathleen's former sense of ownership: "Terence said he wanted to take early retirement and drive a motorcycle to Central America. What a cliché, Kathleen thought. Then, realizing his behavior no longer implicated her, that she didn't need to be concerned, she told him it sounded like a great idea."

Terence has a friend, Dave, whom Kathleen finds vulgar. "What Terence saw in him was a mystery, but she no longer—thank God—felt required to plumb its depths." Kathleen realizes with the relief of someone almost free from a miserable marriage, that she doesn't have to own Terence's silly behaviors or undignified friends.

Ohlin has hit upon the heart of a failed marriage with excellent marksmanship. She shows Kathleen and Terence's unhappiness in ways many married people can relate to. They are both deeply disappointed with the mundane ways in which their lives have diverged.

But reading about Kathleen and Terence got me thinking: the sense of ownership over one's spouse, which they both demonstrated, is antiquated and unfair.

I've felt it, though. It's all too easy to live this way. Person A feels person B's habits or hobbies or character quirks reflect badly on person A. Person B takes offense if person A expresses a different opinion. Why can't we let each other be our own people?

When two people marry, they are in love with a person + dreams, expectations, fictions they've told themselves about each other, yes. That's unavoidable. But at the start, they fall in love with another person. Someone who is interesting, refreshing, attractive to them precisely because they are not themselves. Why then do we try to shape the other person into our own image after marriage?

Once I realized this, somewhere in the last nine years, I became far less anxious and uptight. I realized that Andrew had the good sense to let me be my own person from the get-go. Sometimes now one or the other of us will look at the other person and say with fresh insight and a smile, "I just remembered that you're a different person from me."

It's been good to remember that as often as possible. And I think it might have helped Kathleen and Terence (I know they're fictional people). Ohlin's story is excellent; go out and find the book. Revel in the surprising way she explores the rest of Kathleen & Terence's marriage. Enjoy the fifteen other heart-breaking, hilarious, and perceptive stories in the book. And don't forget to let your loved ones be their own people.

Poiema

I have been thinking about this idea of poíēma (ποίηµα) for a few years. It’s one of my favorite Koine Greek words, meaning a work, something that has been made, crafted, fashioned. It appears in the New Testament twice, first referring to all of creation: “God’s eternal power and divine nature have been clearly observed in what God has made;” and also referring to humankind: “We are God’s masterpiece.” If you hadn’t guessed already, it’s the word from which we get our word poem.

My husband got me this Etsy bracelet, and if I ever get a tattoo, this is what I want stamped on my skin forever, as a reminder to myself about myself, other people, and everything around me: ποίηµα.

“So every day

I was surrounded by the beautiful crying forth 
of the ideas of God,

one of which was you.” 
― Mary Oliver

Yesterday I followed my nephew, with his wife and five-month-old daughter watching, as he ran the Boston Marathon. I tracked his bib number online, and I watched the livefeed of the elite runners, those men and women who ran 26.2 miles in just over two hours. Nate finished in 2:47:51, which amazes me. I'm so proud. poíēma

My heart was in Boston already, for many reasons.

Others have written beautiful words, like here and here, about yesterday’s marathon, about Boston, about the explosions and the human spirit. The glimpses of poíēma in spite of awful circumstances.

I think of Anne Lamott’s three prayers: Help, Thanks, Wow. I’d tuned in at 3:00 to find out about the Pulitzer Prize announcements but instead I saw the first few tweets about the explosions in Boston. Minutes passed and more tweets picked up the news, links posted, pictures, stories. I tried to get in touch with Nate’s wife. More minutes passed; friends who’d read my posts about him running checked in with me: “Have you heard from him yet?” HELP

My brother talked to Nate’s wife, they were fine. THANKS

And yet, HELP.

And yet, WOW. There were helpers, there was mercy. There is still help needed, still mercy needed.

ποίηµα poíēma

It is a constant struggle to keep my heart open. Some days easier than others. Yesterday, I wanted to be angry, yes, at the person who set explosives at the finish line. But even more at people who would conjecture, who would joke, who would cast blame, who would from their own pain and fear lash out unjustly.

Yesterday felt personal. Even if I hadn’t had a family member in the race. I’m a runner. I’ve been in a marathon and I know what the finish line is supposed to feel like. A celebration of life, of commitment, of family and community. For someone to intentionally ruin that… I have no words.

Yesterday felt personal. I’ve spent lots of time in Boston, most recently at a big writing conference (AWP). From the convention center one month ago, I watched people throng a snowy and beautiful Boylston Street, and I myself trudged across Boylston to a restaurant. Before that, I attended five 10-day residencies in Cambridge and fell in love with the neighborhoods of Boston. Watching the marathon made me feel nostalgic for one of my favorite cities. To have that city and that street that holds recent memories marred makes me sorrowful.

It makes me wonder whether the person or persons who inflicted this pain are actually poíēma. How could they possibly? Why would someone? Why? It is ugly and hateful and evil. Not poíēma, not ποίηµα.

Nine months ago, my husband’s cousin was killed defending his girlfriend in the Aurora theater shootings. For that tragedy we have a face, a guilty party, to throw our grief and anger upon. But somehow back then, I forced myself to see his hurt, to imagine what went wrong, went wrong, in his life to glaze him over. He is a marred poem; someone or something evil redacted what was supposed to be, creating evil instead of poíēma.

When the pain gets personal, it turns my thoughts and prayers to the people around the world who face the possibility of violence like this every day. It shouldn’t be like this. Yesterday shocks us because we aren’t inured to the danger and the risk of violence. Some are. It shouldn’t be.

HELP.

I want to close my heart off sometimes, to rail in anger against the people who offend me and the ones I love. Against people whose words are small and beliefs tear apart rather than heal. Against those who hurt through ignorance and pride. Against those who would set out with intent to kill.

It is a bitter fight not to be marred or to mar.

To remain a poíēma. To see the poíēma in everyone. To grieve lost poíēma. To keep my heart open and my mouth quiet. To keep looking. 

Keep looking.

thoughts on time and perspective

Write even a little bit, every day.

There. Done.

Only kind of kidding. There's been a lot going on. Last week I went on a writing retreat at a lake house belonging to a friend of a friend, which I wanted to write about sooner. I'm appreciative for how much I got done, and the chance to be quiet and not have to worry about going on to the next obligation. But I was surprised at how sort of paralyzed I felt by having all. that. time. Occasionally I actually wished there was something else I had to do. I think I got used to the time on the second day; I didn't feel so stifled by it. But it was odd to feel like the one thing I wanted more of... time... felt like such a burden at first.

On the morning of the last day I found out about the Colorado theater shootings and about the direct connection my husband's family has, and the weekend and this week so far have been full of helping make plans, getting ready, phone conversations, prayers. I didn't want to write about my retreat in the early days of that tragedy. Even though I'm not personally feeling the impact of grief, I love those who are, and I've lost patience with most anything that strikes me as petty. Andrew and I were talking about this yesterday, how things I would probably normally let slide provoke me to frustration and the urge to say something to bring perspective. Which feels like a different kind of burden. A meaningful one.

sometimes a quiet celebration is best

Why celebrate big when you can celebrate sweet?

Andrew and I had a small but significant reason to celebrate last night, so we made last-minute plans to meet after work at my favorite pizza place (I love their veggie pizza with vegan cheese!)

We both pulled in at the same time and circled till we found somewhere to park. The lot was crowded. As we neared the restaurant, we could already hear the loud music. At first I thought it was being piped to the patio area and that's why it was so loud, but when I opened the door, music and conditioned air blasted us in the face. Ubiquitous uptempo pop music. I saw a sign that read "Wednesday Night is Trivia Night: reservations recommended." Oh great.

photo © nbc

Neither of us introverts necessarily minds a restaurant with a loud ambiance. That's one thing. But it's another when the people around you are there with the common intention of playing a game together, some of them in big groups, and there are instructions being called out over the loudspeakers. And you're one of the few or only people not playing, just trying to have a normal conversation. I don't know why I even considered it, but to be sure, I asked if they were all full and yes. They were.

We walked back out and deliberated for a minute about what to do instead. On the other side of the building, which we had walked past when we first got there, lives a little family-owned Chinese place. Rather than get back in our two cars and go somewhere else, we decided to play musical restaurants.

We open the door of the Chinese restaurant and it's quiet, still with pop music on the speakers, but at least it's below the decibel level of a normal conversation. And the words are in Chinese. No one else is in the restaurant. We've eaten here before and know it's good, but most of their business is in take-out. People stop by to pick up food throughout our meal. The mom seats us while her teenage daughter helps a customer with their pick-up order. Later the dad comes out of the kitchen bringing ice cream drumsticks which the three of them eat together, laughing at each other trying not to drip out of the end of the cone.

We have a quiet meal with good food, fortune cookies, some hot tea and Chinese doughnuts, and good conversation that we don't have to strain to hear.

Is it a sense of adventure I suffer from, or rootlessness?

Growing up, I never really imagined myself living more than a six-hour drive from my hometown in central Illinois. Somewhere easy to get back home for the holidays. And I never imagined I'd marry someone whose family lived ten hours east in Pennsylvania. And I never imagined I'd live in Georgia.

But here we are. 

And now that the seed has been planted, I want to live so many other places: Colorado, Maine, Canada, Europe... That's right. I have loved/would love to visit those places on vacation, but somewhere inside me wants to really live all over the place. Become an insider in lots of communities, in lots of landscapes, in lots of cultures.

However, this sense of what I think is adventure or wanderlust conflicts with the part of me that believes in the soul's connection with the land of their birth. I love the flat cornfields of Illinois. I can't help it. I love the simple, friendly-farmer ways, even at the same time that I want to be in the midst of a progressive literary community and vibrant diversity. Most importantly, I love my family, and most of them live within a day's drive of our hometown. Except me and one brother. I hate that I can only see most of them once a year, and we have to pick a holiday instead of being able to enjoy them all, and birthdays and anniversaries and graduations. (I realize I should be thankful that I get to spend even one special time of year with my family--there are many who have lost family, or are estranged from family and don't even get the option.)

This year everybody--my immediate family and spouses--are getting together for Thanksgiving in Chicago. Even my brother in California and his wife will be there. And Andrew and I weren't going to be able to go. But then we reevaluated our schedules, Andrew arranged his work schedule and made last-minute sacrifices so that we could drive to IL for Thanksgiving. 

I'm, seriously, SO thankful. And really excited. Have I said yet that I love my family?

So that's what I'll be doing instead of blogging on Friday. Have a happy holiday everyone! Enjoy your roots this week, or maybe, enjoy doing something adventuresome.

Birthday!!

I spent yesterday wandering around the farm with a camera...

Then my parents took us out for dinner at Bombay Indian Grill...

S'wonderful

Mom

Senior portrait - late 50s

Mid-60s - most likely 2 little boys are just off camera getting into trouble

A couple years before I was born, early 80s

How did they cope with empty-nest syndrome?
They got Happy Dog and gave birth to me!

The whole gang

An early mother's day tribute, because who says we can only celebrate the women who nurtured us on the second Sunday of May? 

To my beautiful mom, the only person who genuinely cares about every single little detail of her kids' lives; who sewed us our clothes with her own two hands; who made us breakfast, lunch, and dinner every single day for eighteen years; who showed up to every single play, game, field trip, and spelling bee. 

She only has ever done and will ever do her very best to give us the very best.

Kindesalter

Lately in my free time I've gotten a kick out of looking through all the old family photos I happen to have and scanning them into the computer. I'm a little obsessed with looking at myself and my family back in the 80s and early 90s. Some pictures are hilarious and I have to wonder what's going through my mind. Some pictures recall sweet memories.

This one I have no memory of, but I love our hats and I love the way my dad is looking at me as I am clearly enjoying that candy cane. This was Christmas of '85, at my aunt's house. I didn't get candy very often. I still have that hat in my closet. Dad looks like an early incarnation of a hipster.

Next up is a little number I like to call "Why the --- did you get rid of that guitar? I would have gotten better eventually." I remember improvising my own songs. I was a child hippie.

Last but not least, puppy love. Or puppy and kitten love. Whatever. First pets. Happy dog and Pippi Longstockings. Happy existed before I was born, and Pippi came into my life around the summer after second grade.

Happy

Pippi--I had always wanted to do this when I got a cat

Oh, childhood.

I love everything Madeleine L'Engle writes, but this is particularly apropos:

The great thing about getting older is that you don't lose all the other ages you've been. ... I am still every age that I have been. Because I was once a child, I am always a child. Because I was once a searching adolescent, given to moods and ecstasies, these are still part of me, and always will be. ... This does not mean that I ought to be trapped or enclosed in any of these ages...the delayed adolescent, the childish adult, but that they are in me to be drawn on; to forget is a form of suicide. ... Far too many people misunderstand what "putting away childish things" means, and think that forgetting what it is like to think and feel and touch and smell and taste and see and hear like a three-year-old or a thirteen-year-old or a twenty-three-year-old means being grownup. When I'm with these people I, like the kids, feel that if this is what it means to be a grown-up, then I don't ever want to be one. Instead of which, if I can retain a child's awareness and joy, and "be" fifty-one, then I will really learn what it means to be grownup.

Eine kleine Nachtmusik:* 
Our next door neighbors have a girl, about age 4, who tags around after her brother all the time. Today he and some friends tossed wiffle balls off the side of their house, just outside our kitchen window. We were fixing dinner and laughed to hear them playing. "Do you think every generation of kids thinks they're the first to come up with that idea?" I asked Andrew. He had been one of those kids, too. We usually keep the kitchen blinds slanted closed but pulled up enough for the cats to sit in the windowsill and watch "kitty cable." Sally, our new foster cat, sneaked over to check out the ruckus, and the little girl saw her. She plopped down next to the window and smashed her nose right up against the screen. "Hi kitty cat," she said. She didn't see Andrew and I, even though we stood less than ten feet away frozen and silent, watching her talk to Sally. The girl pressed her whole mouth against the screen, "Hello, kitty cat." Soon Sally wandered off (ADD kitten) and Molly came to investigate. As soon as the little girl saw Molly (3x bigger than Sally), she jumped back, clambered up and ran off, apparently startled by the huge hairy beast that had appeared in place of the kitten. Too cute.

Sally

Molly--fluffy, not fat

*Apologies to Mozart. In fact, to all of you. Any German on this page has been figured out via Google Translator-bot.

Grandparents

Grandpa Warren and his "silly goose"

I was born to my parents a little later in their lives, and by the time I was 5 we had lost two of my grandparents. My mom's dad Warren and my dad's mom Fern both left us between '85 and '88, I think. My mom's mom and dad's dad lived until my middle school and high school years, so I knew them a little better.

Grandma Fern reading to me

I think about them a lot. They were all farmers in rural central Illinois. Corn, beans, horses, cows, pigs, chickens. Hard work, hard lives. My Grandma Gerda, before she married Warren in the early '30s, grew up in a small house on a dairy farm ("Leafy Lane Dairy") with her 10 siblings. My Grandpa Herb was one of nine kids, a Mennonite family. I don't know much about my other two grandparents, Grandma Fern (she went with Herb, naturally), and Grandpa Warren.

I could stare at pictures of them for hours.

Me with Grandma Gerda

Grandma, my brothers, and me

I especially love old photographs of my grandparents.

 Gpa Herb's family; the guy who looks like Harry Potter is Herb

Herb & Fern's engagement photo ca. late 1920's

Gpa Herb. What do they do at retirement homes these days?

  

Me, my dad, Gpa Herb, brother, early '90s (like my shades?)

Even though I sometimes wish I could have been closer to my grandparents, at times I feel a connection to them that goes beyond head knowledge. There are mysterious things they've passed on to me, deeper than their DNA.

Likes, dislikes, loves, passions, dreams, convictions--I am convinced I've inherited some of these as well. Hard work and simplicity, peace-loving loyalty, a connection to the land, building your life with your own two hands, faith, family, books, creativity. These are the eternal, inherited blessings from my grandparents.