Evolution

If I look at a single year in my life, in any of a number of relatively recent years, it's hard to tell whether a lot happened or not much at all. Much of each year, for me, has in recent years been the same: the routines of work, and the routines of home, and the routines of my relationship have become fairly predictable. Somedays I find the patterns comforting. Other days, depressing. With the exception of an occasional trip or the birth of a child, my years, of late, have tended to blend together.

But watching Quinn's evolution in the course of a single year reminds me of what is possible: evolution itself. Human sea change.

I've been writing stories here since the beginning of 2011 and, to my great surprise, a number of friends and family (and even some people I don't know) have been reading them. Thank you for reading them. Having an audience has helped motivate me in this project to document, ultimately for Quinn, some of the stories that led to her existence, and some of the details of her coming to be.

What's becoming more clear to me every day is that Quinn is already doing a good job expressing herself, and little by little I am becoming an outside observer of her life, rather than the sole creator and voice for that life. And, little by little, as Quinn evolves, it is becoming clear to me that I must as well if I am to stand any chance of keeping up with her. As I look back on 2011, I am struck by the number of distinct phases we passed through together. This was not a year of mundane routines, or of one day blending seamlessly into another. This was a year of sea change.

Earlier this month, I found this quote in the back of The Sun magazine: 

"The moment a child is born, the mother is also born. She never existed before. The woman existed, but the mother, never. A mother is something absolutely new." -Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh

And it seems to me that passing through a year, with a child, is an experience of each day also being absolutely new. I've been writing and planning stories for Quinn in hopes that someday she'd find some inspiration in them, or some insight into the world. What I realize now, at the end of this unbelievable year, is that I am gaining more insight than I have insight to give.

Don't Postpone Joy

Lately my mind has been doing laps around a friendship that went south this year. I'm embarrassed to admit this because, on a rational level, I know that a friendship that falls apart so easily is not one worth having in the first place. I know that. I also know that this minor change in my social landscape is insignificant in the broader expanse of things that matter. So why the mental gymnastics trying to make sense of something that is really better left alone?

It might be the Year in Review mentality that has me dwelling on the one thing that went wrong in my life this year. It might also be that in 2011, in my community, many things were lost by many people, and that general sense of loss has me thinking about this one thing that I lost. Just the other day, in the same neighboring town that is still rebuilding after the flood, many of the houses still dark and empty at night…in this same town, just the other day, a great grandmother veered across the center line with her two great grandbabies in tow. In that impossibly brief moment, a propane truck. All three are gone. And every time I drive by the spot, sand still thick on the road, absorbing all the things that were spilled, I start to cry. I think of the babies first. And then I think of the mother, who is also the granddaughter, and I cannot breathe.

In light of this, I feel particularly ridiculous for continuing to think about something that pales to invisibility in comparison. And yet thoughts of it lately fill into the space that empties, in brief moments, in my mind.

Gratitude and vulnerability are closely linked. 2011 has been an incredible year for me, for us. The joy of our healthy baby, the growing confidence in her steps, the increasing number she's willing to take, the words that are now starting to come—Hi. Uh-oh. Woof woof woof.—these things are gifts that are hard to express. And yet, in this place, at this time, in public, I temper my joy with a reverence for the hardships 2011 has wrought on so many others, so close by.

Perhaps my inability to move beyond this failed friendship is some form of survivor's guilt. I didn't have a break up. I didn't lose a home. Or a storage unit. Or a life that wasn't meant to be lost. I have everything I could possibly want and so much more and in my residual Catholicism, I feel like I can't possibly deserve it. And, worse yet, I worry that it can't possibly last.

Fortunately, right on the heels of the Year in Review, we tend to wipe the slate clean and decide our resolutions for the new year ahead. For me, more yoga, more water, more play, more guilt-free snuggly naps with my kid whenever possible, more love for Sam, and more time with friends.

For my birthday, Char gave me a Don't Postpone Joy bumper sticker from a friend's cafe in Asheville. It's a good reminder. Life is short…sometimes devastatingly so. Dwelling on the negatives fills up mental space that could be used to celebrate the positives. Admittedly, I'm entering here into some easier said than done territory, but I have to start somewhere.

My friend Jean sent me a birthday card for my fortieth in which she thanked me for being a loyal friend over the twenty years we've known each other. When I read her note, I couldn't believe she was thanking me…Jean taught at UVM and was the Director of the Writing Center when I was nominated to be a writing tutor. She taught me how to do that work: how to have something to say about writing, and how to help people improve their own writing. That's just the very beginning of what I've learned from her. On the surface, Jean is a petite, soft-spoken woman, but to know her is to know her clear voice and her ferocious dedication to the people and things she believes in. She lives more gently on this earth than anyone else I know. Over the course of these last two decades, I've been lucky to share countless afternoon teas with Jean, and to walk through her garden with her over and over again. I've received so many insights and inspirations and kindnesses that I can't enumerate them all. Inevitably, much of who I am is linked to the people I come from, but much of who I aim to be is linked to Jean.

It seems to me that there are few people you encounter in life who actually manage to influence the course your life takes. Jean and Char are two such people in mine. In the past month, I turned 40, Char turned 60, and Jean turned 70. Somehow I find that wonderfully symbolic.

A week-long canoe trip down the Raquette River in the Adirondacks,
in the spring of 1999. There is so much about this picture I love...
Char's expression...Jean's concentration...and the many other
hilarious memories it conjures from that trip.

...I made it to yoga today for the first time since August. It's hard to believe how quickly the time goes, and yet, that is the thing to believe: time goes quickly. Don't Postpone Joy. The yoga teacher closed with a mediation that seemed perfect for today, the winter solstice, the day after which the light of each other day grows and expands. "Body like a mountain," she said, "Breath like the wind. Mind like the sky."

Be steady and strong. Be light and free. Be limitless.

Always be grateful.

A Purse Full of Sugar Packets

Last night I drove to Massachusetts so I could attend my grandmother's funeral today. Anyone who knows me knows I'm no good at funerals, or goodbyes, or old people. But there were a number of wonderful things about the day.

For starters, I haven't done too much long distance driving without Quinn in the past fifteen months, and last night I headed south on my own. As you approach southern New Hampshire and Massachusetts the radio station choices start to multiply exponentially and, to my great joy, there are a disproportional number of "classic rock" stations. So, last night, driving into the chaos of Massachusetts drivers, after a long day at school that came after a long night with Quinn kneeling over my head in my bed (long story, don't ask) saying "Hi!" over and over again, I was pretty psyched to turn the volume up all the way and jam out to some excellent, loud, old school rock. That's one great thing about Massachusetts: the "Massholes" are not afraid to rock. Another thing is that they get seriously pumped about Christmas and they go balls-to the-walls with the Christmas decorations. So, that's pretty great (and hilarious) too.

But those were minor sideshows to the main event of the trip. I don't want to sound crass, but the news of my grandmother's passing came as really good news last week. She lived a very long time in precisely the way she did not want to live: addled by Alzheimer's, her body deteriorating, in a nursing home. My grandmother was incredibly proud and, after watching her brother suffer that fate, she worried for a long time it would be hers too, and it was.

For a while, after college, I had the great privilege of weekly visits with my grandmother. I'd pick her up and take her to a movie, or sometimes go out to lunch. On many occasions, we'd just stay at her condo and have tea parties. She always let me set the table; we'd use the Belleek tea pot I bought her for one of her birthdays, and some intentionally mismatched pairs of bone china tea cups and saucers from her collection.

On those afternoons, my grandmother told me great stories--of her marriage with my grandfather, already long-deceased by then, and of her friendships with the women she called "The Birthday Group," ladies with whom she'd been friends since her childhood in South Boston, and of her annual trips with those friends. Some years they went abroad, and sometimes they stayed closer to home. When I was in graduate school, living in my own apartment in Vermont, she and some of the ladies came for tea in the midst of a fall foliage tour. I was always amazed by how much she got around, especially since she never had a driver's license.

My grandmother was both graceful and mischievous. One time I convinced her to hide in the shower with me when my aunt arrived in the middle of our tea; we giggled uncontrollably as my aunt ran around the house yelling, "Mum? Mum!" My grandmother had a wonderful sense of humor and an adventurous spirit that I always admired. She was independent and strong-willed. A dedicated Catholic, she tolerated my atheism and my constant teasing. And, she was a masterful gardener who taught me the basics of digging in the dirt.

When she started to lose her marbles, I started to lose my will. One year she forgot to call me on my birthday and I was heartbroken; my grandmother's call was a reliable ritual on that day. The next year, she did call—she called eight times, and each time, in her mind, it was the first time. By the end of the day, I could barely muster a thank you for her oblivious and enthusiastic Happy Birthday!

After I moved back to Vermont, and especially after she was moved to a "home," I didn't make it down to visit her nearly as often. By the time she no longer recognized me, my "visits" lasted only minutes before I was crying my way back out the door and headed north.

Last year, for her 95^th birthday, my aunt organized a birthday lunch at a restaurant near my grandmother's nursing home. I brought Quinn down with me; she was only two months old and I dressed her in one of the dresses my grandmother had bought for me when I was a baby, dresses my mother had saved in her hope chest. The old dresses are sweet, but they're not nearly as comfortable as they make them today. Poor Quinn was in tights and a scratchy yellow dress with lace and buttons around her neck and it didn't even matter--my grandmother barely looked up all day. Sitting in her wheelchair, uncomfortable and in unfamiliar space, with people she didn't recognize, she looked angry and confused. All she could say all day was, "Everyone pays for himself!" It was so out of character from the grandmother I knew, the one who was always stuffing twenty dollar bills in my hand or my pocket, here's a little walking-around money. This "Everyone pays for himself" woman was someone I didn't know.

For years, I've mourned the loss of my vibrant and playful grandmother, my favorite confidante. That's why today felt kind of wonderful: with her misery ended, I felt free to remember her in her better days. She was finally returned home, to her own church, with people who knew her. I felt like I was welcoming her back, rather than letting her go.

I'm sure this is why I generally managed not to cry. My grandmother was stoic…no tears! she'd say, whenever I started to lose it, we don't want any tears! Amazingly, today I had only a couple. They came at strange times—when kindnesses caught me off guard…kindnesses she would've appreciated.

The first was when the deacon at the mass, an old family friend, walked by my grandmother's casket when everyone in the church was singing a hymn or engaged in some other thing, and he tapped his closed hand on it a couple of times—as if to say hello Mill, or good work, or something like that. It was a personal and private exchange, between two old friends with history…a history, presumably, they could both remember.

The other time I got teary was driving home. I found myself in a long line of cash-only cars at the NH tollbooth, with the EZ-passers racing by. As I inched my way forward, a beat up Volvo passed on my left. I glanced into the car and saw a woman driving with a young girl in the backseat. I had just been thinking about Quinn--thinking how fun it will be when she's old enough to talk, and to go on road trips together, just the two of us. The woman in the Volvo was ahead of me, trying to find a way into the lane but no one would budge…each car pulled in close to the one in front of it, intentionally ignoring her dilemma.

It took her a minute to notice that I wasn't moving forward, and had created a big space for her to pull into. I watched her as I waited. She had both hands open, palms up in an unmistakable gesture of WTF?!? I imagined she must've been having a bad day. When she saw the space I'd made for her, she waved back at me, a surprised and relieved thank you. Then she leaned out her car door and looked back and gestured that she was going to pay the toll for me. I shook my head and waved my hands, trying to say no! you don't have to do that! She nodded back, an emphatic Yes, I’m doing this! I don't know why, but this made me cry. It was only a dollar, but it was an unnecessary kindness, one with a beautiful and timely irony: everyone doesn't always pay for himself.

Driving home tonight, I felt like the world was righting itself. I made it to my favorite curve in the road, where the first panoramic view opens up on 89 North, in time to see the alpenglow silhouette the mountains. Alone in the car, the music nice and loud, singing at the top of my lungs, I felt liberated…just a little adrenaline rush on my grandmother's behalf. I'm so glad she's finally free.