The Cure Cottage

I have come to value sleep over most things and, above all other pleasures, I long for slow and quiet mornings. With Quinn, each day begins quickly, her demands easily out pacing my capacity to move or think, her frustration voiced clearly in wordless whining—excruciating to the ear and vexatious to the early morning soul. And days started in this way, after many other similar days, leave me edgy to the irritants, quick to react and slow to recover.

For two months I've had planned a brief getaway with Char to her camp, to visit with her and also just to sleep, to follow my own course through a day or two. Sam will have his weekend next; it too is already planned. 

Tucked in the trees, on a hill above the shore of Saranac Lake, Char's camp is a haven of solitude and simplicity. Heated with wood, no running water, an incinerating toilet—it is roughing it, to a certain extent, but with the luxury of electricity, which means an electric blanket to sit under while the cabin heats up, and hot tea which comes quickly when it's needed. Chairs are situated by windows for a variety of views, all of them leading to the lake through the trees. It is a beautiful place, intentional in every detail.

In November, we went over for a day to cover the deck furniture, hang the insulated curtains for winter, stack the wood. That trip was an over-and-back, and on that trip I dreamed of staying and enjoying a rest. This weekend, as we re-folded tarps and put them away, brought wood in to burn, watched the ice melt before our eyes in summer-like heat, it seemed no time had passed at all. In November we jumped into the lake off the dock—one last swim before winter, one wild gesture to welcome our milestone birthdays—we were numb enough climbing out to not feel cold. This time, we settled for lounging in the sun on a dock…not hers, but one as yet unclaimed in this too-early spring, and one with a better blast of heat at midday.

Friday night, I was asleep by 9pm. I laid down by the woodstove to stretch out; I vaguely remember her talking from where she worked on her jigsaw puzzle, but never heard her wash the dishes, or close up for the night and go upstairs. In the morning I woke at the regular intervals that I am accustomed to at home—2 am in restlessness, 4 am waiting, 5 am to Quinn's cries before she gets carried to our bed, 6 am when she finally starts to climb around, testing her legs, poking her sleeping parents in the eye or the nose. At camp, without her, I woke up but didn't move, waited for sleep to settle on me again, stayed in bed until nine o'clock. It was 11:30 before we even set foot outside, and then only to take a walk and find a good place to lie down in the sun. We did that until 3:30 in the afternoon, walked back and made cocktails for the dock…just like a lazy, carefree summer day...with the exception of the still-frozen lake.

Char called it The Cure Cottage, a reference to Saranac's history as a destination for tuberculosis patients in the late 1800s and early part of the twentieth century…fresh air and bed rest to cure what ails you. By the time we packed up and headed back east on Sunday, across Lake Champlain and into our own Green Mountains, I was so relaxed I felt heavy. I hadn't slept particularly well, or even enjoyed that much quiet, with all the talking we had to do to plan our summer canoe trip, but I was rejuvenated by the absence of responsibility for two days, and the laughter and loving company of my dear friend.

In the two days since, the chaos has resumed. Short tempers still flare, school schedules still change, dish crews and papers must still be dealt with.

Today has been a fever day for Quinn. Home from school early, my job all afternoon was to hold her. She refused, koala-like, to be put down. In one coughing fit, she threw up her lunch all over me. I carried her to the tub and stripped us both out of the slime before taking her to my bed for a continuation of her afternoon nap.

She was disoriented and hot, in and out of sleep on the bed next to me, tossing and wrestling pillows and blankets until she found her way to the cradle provided by my extended legs. She rolled into the crease between them, her head toward my feet. Legs bent up underneath her, her feet flat against my stomach, I was amazed to realize that her torso alone stretches down to my shins, the rise of my kneecaps fitting just under her arms. She is long and kid-like already.

Asleep on my legs, with her hands behind her head, she held her pink lamb pressed against a closed eye. In her right hand, the corner of her velvety, pale pink blanket, paler still against her fever-flushed cheek. She slept fitfully, half-waking now and then to whimper or moan. In one cycle to the surface, she sat upright on my lap, her eyes looking at my face without seeing, until eventually I came into focus and she leaned down, pressed her nose to my nose and then flopped face down onto my chest, falling quickly back to sleep. The next time around, she smiled, stroked my jaw gently with her cupped open palm, touched my nose with her pointer finger, and then her own, as if to say: this is a nose, and we both have one. Tawny ringlets stood off her head in all directions. She flopped back down, back to sleep, four limp limbs hanging by my sides.

Eventually she was awake for another dose of medicine, some warm milk with syrup, and Sam's arrival home. She climbed from my arms to his, waved to me sweetly, "bye bye," she said, indicating that she was ready to be put to bed. After only half an hour awake, she went to her crib without complaint.

I type now in the dark on my front porch, sitting in Corey's rocking chair, salvaged from Irene's mud, a hot cup of tea within arm's reach. Dowsville Brook is a steady rush of water not far away. There are no bugs. There are many stars. Moses lies at my feet on the porch, earning his forgiveness for the morning's adventures. Boone is on the muddy ground beneath, the new and irresistible earth. It is 65 degrees tonight in these woods. Snow remains only in tree wells, otherwise black garden soil beckons, green tips of tulips and daffodils, tight red curls of rhubarb, all making their way to the sun. It is too early, by a month or more, but like many things you aren't supposed to have, the temptation of it proves too much and I savor this warm and early spring. My own cure cottage. Happy to be within earshot of my sick and sleeping babe.

Finding Words

Quinn's speech is like bad handwriting. It is hard to decipher, yet you know the words are there. A handful of them are clear, but most have to be decoded, teased out sound-by-sound, letter-by-letter. Everyone tells me that the phases of her young life will pass by quickly…too quickly, most people will say. But for me, a talker by nature, Quinn's language cannot develop fast enough. One of the mysteries of my life is why I would choose to marry a man who doesn't talk. In fact, when Sam and I are at war, his silence is the weapon he wields. And so Quinn's entry into the conversation is eagerly anticipated.

When my sister was a baby, as the family stories go, I was eager to know what her voice would sound like. Then, as now, I looked forward to having someone new to talk to. When she finally found her voice, Amy was a little person who never shut up. In jest, everyone blamed me; be careful what you ask for, they said. But I can't imagine not wanting to hear the sound of Quinn's voice, so I'm not afraid to ask.

This is not just about looking forward to hearing what cute things she might say; it's more serious than that. I very much believe that the strength and quality of your voice are of the utmost importance. A yes should be resounding. A no should be wholly lacking in ambiguity. I love you and I'm sorry should be used with great care. A young woman's ability to speak her mind, to give voice to her life, can be one of her most vital acts of living.

This is the political me speaking here: the woman who grew up encouraged to stand up for what she believes, to do right and be proud. This woman is also the mother of a daughter, determined to protect my girl as best I can as she travels to her own womanhood, to arm her with self-confidence, courage, a clear voice.

I'm sure that boys have their own challenges as they grow, but to be honest, the path just doesn't seem as treacherous. I could be wrong, but it seems to me the obstacles for boys are fairly straightforward, fairly easy to navigate. Recently, talking with one of the boys at school about eating disorders, the boy admitted he struggled to understand. I admired his honesty, and thought his comment about it was illuminating: "I don't know why girls just won't eat. I'm always hungry!" I like boys for this reason—they are generally uncomplicated. I like girls for this reason too—they are complicated. But some of that complexity opens us to vulnerability.

At Quinn's 15-month doctor's appointment, her pediatrician told us that while she wasn't really worried, she would like to see Quinn gain weight. She was 19 pounds and only in the fifth percentile, twenty-fifth for height. In the time since that appointment, I've vacillated between two opposing thoughts: First, someone has to be in the fifth percentile, so what's the problem? Having seen photos of Sam as a child, I know where the chicken legs come from. His brother Josh recently told me that their mother called them The Anatomy Lessons when they were small. So, it's genetic; part of me believes she is doing just fine.

Then there is the other part of me. Oh god…what if something's wrong with her? Why won't she eat anything? Why does she have that bloated, malnourished-looking belly? What if we're not trying hard enough, or feeding her the right things? What if this sets her up for a lifelong problem with food? At almost 18 months, after a bout of stomach virus, Quinn still only weighs twenty pounds...

I know and care about girls who have nearly starved themselves. I worry about them all the time. I worry about my teenaged Quinn and she's still years away. And I worry about the work that I have to do on myself to be sure that Quinn grows up hearing the right narrative. Occasionally I hear myself saying that I'm old, or fat, and I know I'm already late in correcting this behavior, this incredibly bad habit. Quinn isn't telling stories yet, but she's hearing them, and understanding. I owe her, and myself, a different story if there is to be any hope that she'll continue to love the sight of herself in the mirror.

I've just finished reading Louise Erdrich's memoir, The Blue Jay's Dance, which I discovered serendipitously.  In one section she writes, "A woman needs to tell her own story, to tell the bloody version of the fairy tale. A woman has to be her own hero. The princess cuts off her hair...rushes wildly toward the mouth of the dragon, sets off on her own quest. She crushes her crown beneath her foot, eats dirt, eats roses, deals with the humility and grandeur of her own human life." So much of the stories we women tell are the stories someone else has fed to us: you are old, you are fat, you are not beautiful, you can't...but Erdrich is right, we need to tell our own stories.

When Quinn starts looking for words to express herself, I want her to have ready access to a rich vocabulary. It's hard not to simply comment on her beauty, because of course I think she is perfect, but still I try to give her options; Quinn is already smart, strong, resourceful, and good, among many many other things. I hope these words come to her soon, and stay with her through life, and I hope she is constantly collecting new words with which to tell her story. I also hope that she will be impervious to the voices that will try to speak for her, or limit her in their language, a different one hopefully than the one she will speak. I want her to rush at the mouth of the dragon, even if the dragon has somehow found its way into her own thoughts...Especially then. 

In the same section of Erdrich's book, I read this: "Love is an infinite feeling in a finite container." On the morning of Valentine's Day just last week, I was getting ready to give Quinn a bath. Our tub is too deep to lean over and too slippery to let her be in there by herself. Quinn loves taking a bath, and as I organized wash cloths and shampoo and stacking cups, and the water started to collect, she excitedly put her arms up into the air to be lifted up and it was then that she first said, "Mama." 

Not wanting to get my hopes up, I dismissed it…she's just mumbling, I thought, just playing with sounds. But then, when I was scrubbing her dirty face a few minutes later, she was exasperated: "Mama!" she squawked, and swatted me away. I let that one in, knowing it was definitely meant for me. 

But it was the third time that it truly became real. Sam had come in to help us get out of the tub. He had wrapped her in a towel and was holding her while I climbed out myself. I was standing on the bath mat, drying off, and I looked up to see her pointing at me, "Mama," she said in an almost shy little voice.  A smile of recognition lit up her face, as if we were old friends reunited, and then she said it again, Mama. I couldn't stop the tears from coming, or the relieved laughter; it's been a long 17 months waiting for that word, and I've worked hard to earn it. I've never been so happy to hear anything in my life; I have literally never heard a sweeter sound. ...An infinite feeling, in a finite container.

Since then, Quinn's been saying mama with some regularity, and each time it is as completely wonderful as the others. But sometimes I think she is starting to call me when I realize the syllables have become something else: Ma-ma-ma-mine. I'm struck by this irony--Mama, my, mine--the sounds so close, so nearly interchangeable. They keep me alert to my responsibilities. My weaknesses will be her own if I let them, and yet strength of character, and self-confidence are possibilities too. There is so much work to do, but to protect her total absence of self-consciousness, her sassy confidence, is worthwhile. 

It is everything.

It is the work of the mother, still collecting words for her own story, to also provide the language the daughter will need to be her own hero. That is the new everything.

Another First

I smelled something dangerously wrong as soon as I slid Quinn's bedroom doors open. She was standing in her crib screaming. I reached for her in the dark, to comfort her and find her body to pick her up. I touched the back of her head, my mind quickening to answer what is this smell? I felt her hair, covered in slime. Her shoulders, slime. Her face and hands. Everywhere I touched she was covered in vomit. She was screaming and confused.

Sam had just come home ten minutes prior to her waking up. His first night out in weeks, or months, and he had traveled a long way. Everything is a long way from here, so it is amazing he was home, and somehow I think he was meant to be. Other than the occasional baby spit-up, Quinn had never vomited. She had never experienced anything, in seventeen months, like this.

I picked her up and stood her on her changing pad, turned on the light and saw clearly the horror of it all. I called to Sam, desperate for his help. She steadied herself on my shoulders while I stripped her of her saturated clothes. The smell, of course, was unmistakable now that I was awake, slowly processing what I needed to do. I turned on the shower, stepped in and took her from Sam, while he waited with a towel. Her hair was matted and twisted around pieces of carrot and other unidentifiable chunks. She clung to me, arms around my neck, still so confused by the violence of it all: The middle of the night. Her first throw up. And no words to explain it to her.

What scared me most was the fact that she must've slept through the actual act of throwing up. She must have been sleeping in the mess for some time. How else would it have gotten on the back of her head? And everywhere else? Why didn't she wake up?

Thank god she didn't choke. Thank god she did wake up.

While Sam dried her hair with a towel, I stripped her bed, wrapped her pink blankets up in a ball and carried them to the basement to start the wash. We brought her to our bed, willing to risk having her throw up on us rather than go through it again, alone. But from then on, she was fine. She slept on my chest or pressed against my side for hours. I laid there awake, staring at the profiles of my two loves sleeping…just enough moonlight to make it all clear.

There are plenty of days when I tally my complaints in life. Sam's imperfections among them. I'd like to not be the kind of person who keeps track, but sometimes I am. That's why a night like last night is important: it gets me back to a zero balance…nothing owed. One of the reasons I've always wanted Sam in my life is that he is steady…the steadiest person I've ever known. When he sees me starting to spin out of control, he gets a little more alert, a little more tuned in, and a lot more calm. When Quinn is screaming and covered in vomit and I'm nervously pleading for him to help me get the shampoo, he is quietly doing what I need him to do. He never tells me to calm down. He never tells me I'm being hysterical or ridiculous. He just helps…he takes care of things.

Last week an issue of Vanity Fair showed up with George Clooney and two other guys on the cover. Inside, the three actors answered a series of questions. I read Clooney's first. I compared his answers to the other guys. He made the other guys look like boys. He seems like a class act.

I was struck by the fact that some of his answers sounded like answers Sam might give to the same questions. So, as Quinn settled into sleep upstairs, and Sam made us tea, I started asking him the questions and casually jotting down his answers…right away it struck me as the kind of information I would like to save…

Clooney got a portrait that made him look like a stud, so I
thought Sam deserved one too...Corey took this one
back when we were still clearing our land.

What is your idea of perfect happiness?

A morning to sleep in with my wife.

What is your greatest fear?

Letting you and Quinnie down.

Which living person do you most admire?

My dad. My mom. My wife.

What is the trait you most deplore in yourself?

My temper.

What is the trait you most deplore in others?

Entitlement.

What is your favorite journey?

My favorite journey? This marriage and our kid.

My favorite trip? I'm still trying to find it.

What do you consider the most overrated virtue?

Patience…and, well, thrift crosses my mind too, but no, I like thrift, thrift is good; I'm starting to get on board.

What do you dislike most about your appearance?

My nose.

Which living person do you most despise?

I don't like to think about despising people.

Clooney said the President of Northern Sudan.

Oh, yeah! Good for him. I despise the President of Sudan too…And George Bush wouldn't be far behind. And Cheney! I despise Cheney more than the Sudanese President, even though that's a bit illogical.

Which talent would you most like to have?

Singing. Musical talent.

What is your current state of mind?

Tired.

If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be?

My temper. I'd be kinder…less given to getting angry.

If you could change one thing about your family, what would it be?

Nothing. Really, nothing…I'd make my siblings wealthier so they'd have more peace of mind.

What do you consider your greatest achievement?

The small beast upstairs.

What is your most treasured possession?

I'm not that into possessions.

Where would you like to live?

All over.

What is the quality you most like in a man?

Kindness and a sense of humor.

What is the quality you most like in a woman?

Kindness and a sense of humor.

What do you most value in your friends?

Kindness. Intelligence. Loyalty.

Who are your favorite writers?

David James Duncan. John McPhee…hmm…

Who is your favorite hero of fiction?

Mr. Fox.

Who are your heroes in real life?

Martin Luther King. Pat Tillman…

What is it that you most dislike?

Bullies. Loud-mouthed bullies.

How would you like to die?

Either quickly and painlessly doing something I enjoy, or in my sleep.

I like Sam better than George Clooney. 

I do not like the smell of vomit. 

I'm glad that Quinn got my nose and that she did not, last night, die in her sleep.

The college years are going to be hard on me, aren't they?

On Children

Halfway down the stairs, hanging on the wall in our house when I was growing up, was a framed copy of Kahlil Gibran's poem "On Children." I never understood what it meant. How could it be that your children are not your children? How could I not be my mother's daughter? My father's child?


Quinn's nascent vocabulary gives me small glimpses at what is going on in her growing world. Hi! Wow. Woof woof woof. Moo. More? Beeee (baby)! Baba (her name for the dogs). Pea (the beginning of please). 'Tank (the start of tatanka, the buffalo photographed and framed on our wall).


Within the past month, she has become excited about books. She waddles to her shelves all day, choosing new ones and carrying them back across the room to hand to a reader. She grunts her wordless plea for you to sit where she can climb or be lifted into your lap. She reclines against you with a thud, waiting for you to read. She listens. She points. Occasionally, she offers an "Oh!" When you go too slowly, she turns the pages for you--impatiently.

While she is occupied with her books, I can squeeze her as much as I want, trying, admittedly with some desperation, to imprint her tinyness, her smell, her soft skin into my memory. How soon will she be grown?

Your children are not your children...

At school other people's daughters are also in our care. Daily they impress and inspire me, as well as leave me sick with worry. How to protect them all from this world? From each other and from themselves?

They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.


Watching my baby grow into a toddler, so much like a kid already, I imagine so many victories for her. I imagine her to be kind and thoughtful. And yet, already, she shows signs of mischief, squinting her eyes at me menacingly when I attempt to prevent her from feeding her food to the dogs. She is cunning. She'll put something halfway in her mouth, look at me sweetly, as if to say, "Thank you. This is delicious." And then she'll turn a shoulder to me, believing herself to be out of my sight. She withdraws the food, walks quietly to the dogs' bed, looks back over her shoulder once more--victorious and threatening.

They come through you but not from you...

This is not the type of victory I imagine. I imagine she has nice friends. I imagine that people like her without fearing her; they admire her for her kindness, her intelligence, her athleticism, her artistry. As the first-time mother, I am in awe of her great potential, enjoying this time that predates whatever reality she turns out to be.

And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.

Somehow, I have great faith that she will live a good and healthy life. That she will be happy and will make others happy. I have this faith despite the fact that she screams when she's frustrated, or bites me in a rage now and then, or looks me in the eye when she is throwing her dinner on the floor, or doesn't look me in the eye at all when I'm trying to extract some form, any form, of love.

Somehow I imagine Quinn growing into the woman I would like to be. And yet, I have no desire to dictate her course. I am eager to find out whom she wants to be...what she wants to do.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts, 


For they have their own thoughts.


You may strive to be like them, 


but seek not to make them like you.


And I'm sure the mothers of all of the borrowed daughters had these feelings too. That life would be good to their babies.

But, sometimes, life has not been good to them. They have been tested by worries, and cancers, and self-doubt. They have been left motherless. And fatherless. In some cases the babies themselves have been stolen away altogether. My heart aches for these mothers who must have all begun, as I have, in this place of confidence and hope and faith. This place with a view to a bright and cloudless future.

You may house their bodies

but not their souls,


For their souls dwell

in the house of tomorrow, 


which you cannot visit,

not even in your dreams.


And so with these borrowed daughters, I do my best to bolster them. I do my best to help them be strong. I do my best to hide my own worries and weakness in hopes they will believe it's possible to believe in themselves…In hopes I will have practiced enough times to be convincing when it's my time to model these things for Quinn.

You are the bows

from which your children




as living arrows

are sent forth.


I want them all to have a clear path.

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.

Giving Thanks

The bird is in the oven, stuffed with sausage, apples, some rosemary, a squeeze of fresh orange, onions, celery, some pepper and salt. The kitchen is clean, Quinn is napping and the Jacksons are likely all to be reading downstairs. I'm here, in my room, my treehouse with a view of mountains near and far, spruce trees heavy with snow, reflecting briefly on all there is…

I'm still coming down from the high of this past weekend: my fortieth birthday, spent with some of my dearest friends at Topnotch Spa. My sister and brother-in-law arrived Friday to take care of Quinn and set me free. Saturday, Sam and I checked into our room by one o'clock. I was in my swimsuit by two. Jerry and Rebecca had arrived. Corey and Kellam had arrived. Kim and Justin were on their way. Some went off for massage appointments. Rebecca took a yoga class. Sam read magazines by the pool, uninterrupted…his particular version of bliss. I found my way to the lap lane, put on my cap and goggles, and started to swim. Heaven.

There are very few full-length pools nearby; if I had access to one, I would swim every day. In the water, I am somehow lithe and strong. My mind wanders at will, until I find my rhythm. Eventually I am counting breaths, stretching out my glide, savoring the sound of water flowing past my ears, the silk of it on my skin, the strength that is still there in my arms. Once the initial tightness is stretched out, I feel as if I can swim forever…5 hours, 20 minutes is my longest go yet.

On Saturday, at Topnotch, with my friends dispersed in steam rooms, and saunas, and hot tubs, and outdoor heated pools, and on lounge chairs, and massage tables, all of them nearby and no one needing anything of me, I could just keep swimming. Every now and then, I'd stop and look at the clock, feeling as if I should do something else, but really there was nothing else I needed to do, and nothing I would have preferred to do; there were no demands on my time. I swam and swam, gliding away from accumulated stresses, mental checklists, and voices…gliding back into my own body, my muscles, my breath.

By late afternoon, we found ourselves all in a row by the pool in our white spa bathrobes. Each of us had achieved a state of relaxation by some means or other. We ordered drinks. We smiled a lot. Eventually we dressed for dinner, had some champagne, drove to the restaurant. By the end of dinner I was losing my voice. The restaurant was loud and I was hoarse from squealing with delight for so many hours.

I had big plans to sleep late the next morning. Instead I called my sister around seven, knowing she'd be up with Quinn. I missed them. Sam stayed in bed to read some more. I returned to the pool to swim some more. Everyone convened at breakfast. We talked and laughed some more. What more could I ask for…friends, rest, peace of mind…nothing was missing.

When my mother and father had their fortieth birthdays, I was fifteen years old. Each one threw a surprise party for the other. There were gag gifts, jokes about being Over The Hill, lots of laughter. I remember it distinctly and feel somewhat strange that my own daughter is so young…but I feel young too. I've realized that I mind the 9's a lot more than the 0's…thirty-nine felt a bit desperate, like I was running out of time. But, forty feels exhilarating: a new beginning.

I keep thinking about what that means.

To start, I've decided to put an end to the era of leaving my wallet on the roof of my car and driving away; I bought myself a "purse," though I'm calling it a satchel for now because I've always hated "purses." And I replaced the weed colored wallet with a bright red one…something I'll more easily be able to find on the roadside, should I have a relapse.

I've also decided that I need to work on staying young…I need to stop prioritizing work over exercise, over rest, over good meals. I need to enjoy the many fruits of my labor from the past decade. When I turned thirty, I was in a van full of stinky teenage boys driving back to Vermont from Utah, after a semester on the road. I had a backpack and a storage unit and a boyfriend named Sam. Now, at forty, I have a house, a daughter, two dogs, six acres, and a husband named Sam. I have muscles that still work. A mind that still works…These are things I'm thankful for.

My primary goal for my forties is to make it past forty-six, the age my mother was when she died. I also aim to get in better shape, so I'll be ready to take Quinn backpacking, and teach her to climb, and show her how to roll her kayak when it's time to do those things. I'm going to swim more. I'm going to love my dogs more. Garden more…I'm going to take more deep breaths between strokes, stretch out, reach further, glide longer. I'm going to count my breaths, with gratitude.

When we sit down for dinner later today, and we make a toast and wish each other a Happy Thanksgiving, I'm going to be thinking of my sister who has two little cousins for Quinn in her "oven" right now. I'm going to be thinking of my dad who is a really good cook and an excellent late night turkey sandwich maker, and I'll be thinking of Louise who loves him and keeps him company. I’m going to be thinking of Char whose presence at my table will be sorely missed.  And, I'll be thinking of my grandmother who died last night at the very same time I went to bed.

I hope my grandmother was right: I hope there really is a heaven. I hope she feels lithe and strong, and beautiful as she once was. I hope she is, at this moment, gliding back into her own body, her muscles, her breath. I hope her mind is working again. And her memory. And I hope she remembers all the fun she and I used to have together, every Sunday when I went to visit her and have tea. And I hope she forgives me for not being capable of visiting her much since then. I hope she knows how thankful I am to have had her in my life while I did.

And I hope in heaven you get to have your teeth back...so she can eat a really big turkey dinner this afternoon. And I sure hope she gets to pass the stuffing to my mom, and make eyes at her handsome boyfriend across the table.

Nana and Bup  -   Lake Winnepesauke  -   Summer of 1982

On Marriage

I'm pretty sure I've mentioned here already my mantra from my younger years: "For as long as possible, stay free and uncommitted." 

That was the live-in-the-moment me, who had just given away most of my material possessions, had the rest in a small storage unit, and had just started a job teaching for a tiny private high school that shaped its curriculum around two ideas: outdoor adventure and international travel. There were six teachers and a small bunch of kids and each semester we'd pack our backpacks with books and sleeping bags and gear and we'd head off for somewhere. We'd conduct classes wherever we found ourselves, at whatever time of the day would best work with our adventures. In the two and a half years that I was happily homeless, I was sea kayaking and surfing in Mexico, mountain biking and canyoneering in Utah (the semester of 9/11 we stayed in the US), rock climbing, "tramping" and white water boating in New Zealand, back to Mexico for some big wall climbing, then more surfing and boating in Costa Rica, and still more climbing and hiking in Greece.

In the early days of that adventure, I met Sam. And that was both fortuitous and wonderful, and also a bit of bad timing. I met him at the end of my first semester of travel, and I had no desire to stop traveling. I also had no desire to let the man I instantly wanted to marry slip away. What's a girl to do? Well, I kept traveling, for two more years, and I kept hoping that Sam might still be around when I stopped. And he was.

Sam and I are both basically agreed that if we had started our relationship like normal people hovering on either side of 30, and we had lived in the same place, we probably wouldn't have lasted very long. It turns out Sam and I get frustrated with each other pretty easily. I don't think this means that our relationship is bad; I think instead it's a reflection of the fact that we both have strong personalities. (That's probably very generous). I mention this here only because we might have taken those differences as an early sign that we were not a perfect match.

But, we didn't live in the same place and, the way it happened, we met and it was amazing and then I promptly left for Utah. Then I came back and it was amazing again, at first. It was Christmastime so we spent even more time together and suddenly it was a little less than amazing. When I was staying with him, at the school where he was teaching outside of D.C., I decided that he probably didn't really love me, the way I had started to love him, so I woke him up one morning, after checking the train schedule, and asked him to bring me to the station. Okay, I demanded that he take me to the train station.

"What?" he asked, rubbing his eyes to wake up. He was a bit flabbergasted, but I was in "flight" mode and there was no changing my mind. As we unloaded my bag from the back of his truck, in the early morning city traffic, he asked me again why I was leaving. "Because you're not in love with me," I cried, tears pouring down my face.

"Can't I decide that?"

"No," I said, "I don't trust you to make the right decision!"

I sat in the train station balling all morning. I was so pathetic some guy came over and handed me a rose. (I think I might still have that thing somewhere!?) All day on the train I couldn't wait to get home to my dad. I couldn't wait for him to hug me and tell me it would all be okay. My dad and mom had a storybook marriage, or at least that's what it looked like from my young point of view, and I knew that was part of my problem: nothing could ever live up to what they had.

When the train pulled into South Station in Boston, I was still crying. I found my dad in the crowd and hurried toward him. He hugged me, as I knew he would, and I blurted out, in one of the most melodramatic moments of my life: "Dad, he doesn't love me!" My dad's whole temperament changed. "You don't know anything about love," he said and turned to walk to the car.

I hate to admit it, but he was totally right. I had no idea how much work was involved. And how much sacrifice. And I had no idea at that time how good it could actually be. My dad made me call Sam as soon as we got to the house. Sam and I regrouped over New Year's in Vermont, but we each had some doubts after feeling that first burn. Soon after, I left for another semester, but we kept in touch and I saw him again.

Early the following summer, Sam was passing through the northeast on a paddling trip with his friend Andy. He had quit his job and was thinking about moving to Vermont. When people ask him why he moved up here, he always launches into this long story about how he had always loved Vermont (which may be true) and how he had friends who lived up here (which is true), yadda yadda yadda…but I know he really moved up here because he wanted to be with me, and I've gotten him to admit to this in his weaker moments.

Anyway, he showed up and said, "I want to be with you," and he needed to know if I wanted to be with him too. It was all very scary, for both of us. He didn't have a job, and I had a great job that I didn't want to give up…Thoreau was still there in my head...It was all fairly tense. So, Sam said he would let me think it over; he was going to Maine to run a few rivers, and he'd be back. I thought about all the pros and cons, I thought about everything, and when it came down to it, I still felt a bit nervous. It was one thing to try a long distance relationship with someone who had a job and was settled into a life; it seemed like an entirely different responsibility to try that with someone who was willing to move to Vermont so he'd be closer when you came home, and to know that he would be here without his great job and all of his friends. But, what I felt for Sam was undeniable really; I couldn't keep track of all the pros and cons, but I knew I didn't want to never see him again. My doubts weren't so much doubts as they were fears.

I went to Montpelier to surprise him on his first morning back in town. I was ready, I thought. I went to his brother's apartment where he and Andy were staying. It was early, but I knocked. Then I knocked again. He wasn't there, but his truck was, so I figured they had probably walked into town for coffee. I had a little bit longer to think about it. I was nervous all over again. I walked from coffee place to coffee place and couldn't find him. Maybe it was a sign? Maybe it wasn't meant to be?

As I was walking toward the Coffee Corner, I saw this exceptionally handsome guy and thought, "See, there are lots of fish in the sea! This guy is a hottie!" What was I doing worrying about Sam and this BIG decision when I wasn't 100% sure? Then I realized...the hottie was Sam, unrecognizable at first because of his tan, his unwashed hair and his new beard. No, I definitely didn't want to lose this man.

My favorite part of that story is that when I told it to Sam, he told me what happened to him: He was inside, finishing his breakfast, and he looked out the window to the strangers walking by, and he had his moment of doubt too…lots of fish in the sea. Then he saw a girl in red shorts, and he thought, see…lots of fish! But, of course, those were my red shorts.

Unfortunately all of this killed my dream job; whenever I was away I missed him desperately and wanted to come home. I lasted one more year and then gave it up, and came home to Vermont. Sam and I maintained separate apartments for a couple of years, and we had some blow out fights during that period of getting to know each other's day-to-day habits for the first time. But, at that point, we had already invested years into the relationship (2.5 years spent largely apart), and so we kept trying to figure it out. We kept not giving up on it. And in that time, somewhere along the line, I learned something about love.

Recently, a friend shared a quote with me that made me think back to that time, and all that I've learned since that time. It said this: "Apologizing does not always mean that you're wrong and the other person is right. It just means that you value your relationship more than your ego."

By now I value my relationship more than most things. Still, marriage is a crazy concept: forsaking all of those fish for one fish, living together in close quarters when you might actually prefer living in your own space, sharing daily stresses, sharing finances, trying to maintain some of the magic of your initial attractions even as time and age and gravity work against you. But I've come to believe that one of the keys to making all that work is the ability to say I'm sorry when it's necessary to do so. That and trusting each other to make good decisions. (Good thing we don't have a train station nearby!)

I've always believed that an ideal marriage would involve being married to my neighbor. At the end of the day, I could go home to my own space, sleep in quiet and have some room to miss him. I wouldn't have to look at my spouse's stuff, put down where I don’t want it to be. My stove would never have grease on it. The dirty silverware would never get neatly stacked in the side of the sink, with the excuse "I'm not done yet." I would be able, in other words, to control my little piece of the world.

Somedays I wonder whether or not ideal marriage is an oxymoron. But whenever I have a day like that, soon after I have a day when my husband does something like send me a link to an article about a married couple in Shelburne, VT that live in two separate houses, joined by a light-filled breezeway.

Sam gets me, and even if he can't be all things to me at all times, he wants to be and I love him for that. And fortunately I've grown up some and I know that I'm not all things either, and really no one is. The trick is finding someone who is at least close to perfect in all the ways that really matter.

For now I'm going to keep doing what I promised to do four years ago today: I'm going to try, in some way every day, to honor this truly wonderful man and this especially wonderful relationship. And I'm going to reflect some more, on another writer's insights; from Joan Didion's memoir The Year of Magical Thinking: "Marriage is memory. Marriage is time."

I'm grateful for whatever time we've got. I love you Sam.