While the rest of the Northeast was covered with snow, it rained in Maine. Nearly 6 inches of rain and winds that gusted up to seventy miles per hour. The house shook last night, the way my kitchen aid shakes when it's on the high setting. An outside rumble that makes you wonder if the whole thing is going to come off it's hinges. There was lightning and rain and high tides and when Micky climbed onto the bed I didn't kick him off. We instantly noticed the tree lying across our backyard. The kind of tree that takes over the backyard with it's fall. A few weeks of firewood, I thought. If we had a stove... or a chainsaw. We didn't notice the roofing until we left for work. The passenger side of the car was riddled with shingles, the scratch stretching deep from front door to bumper.
Storms are incredible things. Some are predictable and some are not. They tear at the foundations that our homes are resting on. They shake us to see if we're stable or if we just might tip over, with all our guts and possessions exposed. And today the roofer will come and lay a tarp over the roof. He'll gather the shingles and start the patching process. Next week the handyman will show up to bust apart the fallen tree. And soon we'll be back to where we started, minus one tree and two dozen shingles.
Sometimes it feels like love is just one long string of bracing for the storm and rebuilding when it's over. And these storms are more likely to come without warning. Sometimes they lead right into each other. Even now, as I'm writing, I'm asking (telling) Rich to (please) stop talking to me. And he isn't. He's going on about some website he saw and then something he heard on the radio at work. And I can't think and I can't write. Now I'm raising my voice, to just please let me finish this. Just ten minutes. But his feelings are hurt and he's walking away.
One storm after another. And so we rebuild in the moments of peace. We peer through the missing shingles of each other, seeing glimpses of our guts. Then we patch and hold together and somehow end up a stronger unit rather than a mismatch of glue and staples.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Day 83: All I Can Manage
It's cold in our house. The wind outside is whistling a thousand sailor tunes of stormy days at sea and the drafts move through the window cracks and slide under the doors. I'm freezing, but the coldest part by far is the black hole that has taken over where my heart used to be. Day 83 and I thought we'd be past these distant days. Days when there's not much to feel, and I'm no good at faking. Last night I slept with my knees curled up against his chest in what I realize now is a completely defensive position. And I threatened to punch him when he accidentally yanked the covers off me. A serious do that again and see what happens kind of threaten. He chuckled nervously, but this is not who I want to be.
Lately it seems like so many of our sentences start with "remember when..." Or "I can't wait until." Little clauses that indicate how much we're into the past and the future, completely ignoring today. Like we're trying to just make it through the moment in order to get to a better tomorrow. That's no way to live and it's certainly no way to build a marriage.
And so I turn to him and physically force my own knees down. And without feeling, I speak. I say, I love you I love you I love you because I do. Because I want it to be more than just words. I'm trying to say that I'm sorry for being selfish and distant. I'm sorry for spending my hours worrying about finding the perfect home. Projecting what kind of mortage payment we can manage and how long it will be until I can get a stackable washer and dryer. I'm trying to say that I'm still the girl who fell for you over thirty gallons of mashed potatoes that you were mixing with what looked like a mini chainsaw. And right now I don't feel so full of love. I feel tired and anxious. But I don't say all these things, all I say is I love you. Sometimes those words are all I can manage. And I force my knees down until we're face to face. Just being together. In the now.
Lately it seems like so many of our sentences start with "remember when..." Or "I can't wait until." Little clauses that indicate how much we're into the past and the future, completely ignoring today. Like we're trying to just make it through the moment in order to get to a better tomorrow. That's no way to live and it's certainly no way to build a marriage.
And so I turn to him and physically force my own knees down. And without feeling, I speak. I say, I love you I love you I love you because I do. Because I want it to be more than just words. I'm trying to say that I'm sorry for being selfish and distant. I'm sorry for spending my hours worrying about finding the perfect home. Projecting what kind of mortage payment we can manage and how long it will be until I can get a stackable washer and dryer. I'm trying to say that I'm still the girl who fell for you over thirty gallons of mashed potatoes that you were mixing with what looked like a mini chainsaw. And right now I don't feel so full of love. I feel tired and anxious. But I don't say all these things, all I say is I love you. Sometimes those words are all I can manage. And I force my knees down until we're face to face. Just being together. In the now.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Day 82: Love and the Olympics
Lindsey Vonn rockets to the left and slides around another gate. It's the slalom event and I am hooked. Hooked like the tip of her ski that catches a gate eventually sending her tumbling and out of the race. On the edge of the couch I bob and twist with the skiers; excited by both the fantastic crashes and speedy finishes. It's the Olympics and I am wearing the red, white and blue. I almost bought a "Team USA" t-shirt from Target this weekend, but it seemed a little too commercialized for even me. Instead, I pulled our old flag out of storage and tacked it on the front door so that when these sea breezes pick up, the stripes billow out like a parachute. It's an old classroom flag that is stained and looks falsely antiqued, with tears on the edges. The flag is worn down and so are we, so it seems appropriate.
I think marriage is alot like an Olympic event. So many people give it a try. Some make it and some don't. There are those who seem to have this natural ability, like they are made for this person. Two lives in sync and they glide across a perfectly conditioned marriage as if it takes no effort at all. And then there are the rest of us. Couples who struggle everyday through every turn. The ones who have to practice love, who know that a crash could be just around the corner. Love and the Olympics.
And just like there's no guarantee of gold in Vancouver, there course out here is littered with hopefuls who dropped out along the way. Olympians will confirm that sucess is not determined by the luck of the course or the diseasters of the competitors who have gone before. Success is determined by hard work and long hours and a committment to this sport- this person, above all else.
Soon, the Olympics will end with a podium and a fist raised in victory. But love- and marraige will go on. Hands linked together, podiums stacked away. Because the race never ends for those of us who are in it for life.
I think marriage is alot like an Olympic event. So many people give it a try. Some make it and some don't. There are those who seem to have this natural ability, like they are made for this person. Two lives in sync and they glide across a perfectly conditioned marriage as if it takes no effort at all. And then there are the rest of us. Couples who struggle everyday through every turn. The ones who have to practice love, who know that a crash could be just around the corner. Love and the Olympics.
And just like there's no guarantee of gold in Vancouver, there course out here is littered with hopefuls who dropped out along the way. Olympians will confirm that sucess is not determined by the luck of the course or the diseasters of the competitors who have gone before. Success is determined by hard work and long hours and a committment to this sport- this person, above all else.
Soon, the Olympics will end with a podium and a fist raised in victory. But love- and marraige will go on. Hands linked together, podiums stacked away. Because the race never ends for those of us who are in it for life.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Day 81: Lent
It's Lent and I'm not Catholic. But I like liturgy, and I like the idea of giving up something for someone else. This year I gave up sugar. And it lasted about three days. The truth is, as much as I say I'm giving up something for someone else, I'm giving it up for me. And Lent becomes the excuse.
This year the Church of Scotland is suggesting that people give instead of give-up for Lent. Forty days of giving. I love it. When we give up something - like swearing or sugar or homework (as my students used to say) the benefit is ours alone. We lose five pounds, we discover new vocubulary words. Whatever. But when we give- a loaf of bread or a handshake, the effect goes further than ourselves.
So this year I'm giving for Lent. Yesterday I gave a second chance to someone who probably didn't deserve it. Today I gave the last slice of pizza to my husband. I was trying to think up some great distraction so he would leave the room and I could grab the slice of pepperoni before he came back in. Then I remembered Lent. And I knew this was my thing to give. So I said, "You go ahead, I'm full," Micky and me watching as he ate the last bites.
It's hard to give the things we really want. The last slices. But in the end this is love. It sounds ridiculous that love might be found in a slice of pizza, but love is in the giving of pieces of our hearts. Love is giving the hours in our days. Love is giving the money in our wallets. Love is giving every bit that makes up who we are. Bits that we want to keep for ourself.
Lent is the preparation of our hearts for the presence of the Divine. For the death of Christ, which is perhaps the greatest single act of love known to mankind. So Lent must be about love. And love, I say, is about giving.
This year the Church of Scotland is suggesting that people give instead of give-up for Lent. Forty days of giving. I love it. When we give up something - like swearing or sugar or homework (as my students used to say) the benefit is ours alone. We lose five pounds, we discover new vocubulary words. Whatever. But when we give- a loaf of bread or a handshake, the effect goes further than ourselves.
So this year I'm giving for Lent. Yesterday I gave a second chance to someone who probably didn't deserve it. Today I gave the last slice of pizza to my husband. I was trying to think up some great distraction so he would leave the room and I could grab the slice of pepperoni before he came back in. Then I remembered Lent. And I knew this was my thing to give. So I said, "You go ahead, I'm full," Micky and me watching as he ate the last bites.
It's hard to give the things we really want. The last slices. But in the end this is love. It sounds ridiculous that love might be found in a slice of pizza, but love is in the giving of pieces of our hearts. Love is giving the hours in our days. Love is giving the money in our wallets. Love is giving every bit that makes up who we are. Bits that we want to keep for ourself.
Lent is the preparation of our hearts for the presence of the Divine. For the death of Christ, which is perhaps the greatest single act of love known to mankind. So Lent must be about love. And love, I say, is about giving.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Day 80: January Allergies
I said; "You are strong and you are brave."
He said; "Why do I always have to be the brave one. Why can't you brave sometimes?"
And in those moments I broke into a hundred pieces. We're driving home from the awful phlebotomist experience, both hurting in different ways.
It's not easy getting jabbed a dozen times, but it's hard to be the person in the waiting room. To be the one who's on the side.
A nurse called last week. She wanted to cofirm more appointments with different specialsts. I told her we were done for now. That the insurance wouldn't cover much more, and we didn't feel comfortable with hormone therapy anyway. She said she would just wait to hear back from Rich himself, she said maybe he would like to be the one to make this decision. As if I had claimed some sort of executive veto power. She rattled off a phone number that I never took down and we both hung up rather shortly.
I've always thought that the brave ones were the fighters. The front-liners who fought disease and travelled to hard-to-pronounce places. But now I see that it takes a different kind of bravery to sit beside someone who is broken, even while you can't change a thing. To wait. I think of my father who will stay home as my mother travels to the border of Haiti. Thirty years together and he will put her on a plane. I understand that it takes guts not only to let your loved one go do something incredible, but to step back while they do it. To be at home, making sure the pipes don't freeze. Keeping the driveway clear. To read every magazine in the waiting room. I want to be brave.
And so when my husband turns to me and says that I am not, it kicks the air right out of me. But he's been through alot these past few months, so I push away the tears until later. He's worn out and feeling pricked and manhandled, so I don't snap back. Instead I link my hand through his and try to be what he says I'm not. And no, I'm not crying, I say. It's just allergies. January allergies.
He said; "Why do I always have to be the brave one. Why can't you brave sometimes?"
And in those moments I broke into a hundred pieces. We're driving home from the awful phlebotomist experience, both hurting in different ways.
It's not easy getting jabbed a dozen times, but it's hard to be the person in the waiting room. To be the one who's on the side.
A nurse called last week. She wanted to cofirm more appointments with different specialsts. I told her we were done for now. That the insurance wouldn't cover much more, and we didn't feel comfortable with hormone therapy anyway. She said she would just wait to hear back from Rich himself, she said maybe he would like to be the one to make this decision. As if I had claimed some sort of executive veto power. She rattled off a phone number that I never took down and we both hung up rather shortly.
I've always thought that the brave ones were the fighters. The front-liners who fought disease and travelled to hard-to-pronounce places. But now I see that it takes a different kind of bravery to sit beside someone who is broken, even while you can't change a thing. To wait. I think of my father who will stay home as my mother travels to the border of Haiti. Thirty years together and he will put her on a plane. I understand that it takes guts not only to let your loved one go do something incredible, but to step back while they do it. To be at home, making sure the pipes don't freeze. Keeping the driveway clear. To read every magazine in the waiting room. I want to be brave.
And so when my husband turns to me and says that I am not, it kicks the air right out of me. But he's been through alot these past few months, so I push away the tears until later. He's worn out and feeling pricked and manhandled, so I don't snap back. Instead I link my hand through his and try to be what he says I'm not. And no, I'm not crying, I say. It's just allergies. January allergies.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Day 79: Asthma
My husband was a sort of forgotten child. Just a few months old, they would forget him at home. And it is rumored that he cried so softly (on account of poor lungs) that noone would know he was awake, or hungry or anything at all.
When he was a kid, Rich spent weeks in the hospital. He was the last child and his mother just didn't have it in her to give up smoking for a third time. It was 1977; things were different. And so my husband was born with lungs that couldn't breath the air without wheezing like a deflating air mattress. They would keep him in the hospital, zipped up in a clear bag of breathable air. He says he liked the bag, that it was quiet and safe. I say this is where his loner ways began. Rich's severe asthma eventually weakened until a constant inhaler was enough. And today he ran four miles in clear cold air. Who could know that a boy in a bag in a hospital would one day forget he ever had an inhaler? Who would guess that he would hike a dozen mountains, that his wife would tell him to just calm down a little with the outdoor activities.
I think that growing, like loving, is constant tension between who you are and who you want to be.
This afternoon I searched the genetic disorder the doctor's claim has made my husband infertile. They say it's caused by smoking mothers. A rare side effect for the unborn baby, but present for one in ten thousand. I wonder, do any of us really know how deeply one decision can affect the generations? There are damages that cannot be undone. And there are miracles. The miracle here is that she kept him. She chose life. A welfare family who couldn't feed the kids and stepkids that they already had. She kept him.
Somewhere out there, another mother will choose to keep a baby that she cannot raise. And we will be here with all this love that is just storing up in our hearts. It feels right. It feels like justice.
When he was a kid, Rich spent weeks in the hospital. He was the last child and his mother just didn't have it in her to give up smoking for a third time. It was 1977; things were different. And so my husband was born with lungs that couldn't breath the air without wheezing like a deflating air mattress. They would keep him in the hospital, zipped up in a clear bag of breathable air. He says he liked the bag, that it was quiet and safe. I say this is where his loner ways began. Rich's severe asthma eventually weakened until a constant inhaler was enough. And today he ran four miles in clear cold air. Who could know that a boy in a bag in a hospital would one day forget he ever had an inhaler? Who would guess that he would hike a dozen mountains, that his wife would tell him to just calm down a little with the outdoor activities.
I think that growing, like loving, is constant tension between who you are and who you want to be.
This afternoon I searched the genetic disorder the doctor's claim has made my husband infertile. They say it's caused by smoking mothers. A rare side effect for the unborn baby, but present for one in ten thousand. I wonder, do any of us really know how deeply one decision can affect the generations? There are damages that cannot be undone. And there are miracles. The miracle here is that she kept him. She chose life. A welfare family who couldn't feed the kids and stepkids that they already had. She kept him.
Somewhere out there, another mother will choose to keep a baby that she cannot raise. And we will be here with all this love that is just storing up in our hearts. It feels right. It feels like justice.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Day 78: Love and Outlets
I said, "What's your happiest "us" moment this year?"
He groans and mutters "Here we go again- you always make me think!" And it's true, my mind is composed of ten thousand writing prompts and with no students to teach, my poor husband ends up having to answer each one.
We're eating sandwiches in the car. Fueling up for an afternoon of Outlet (window) shopping. And I want his answer to be some incredible single moment that I've forgotten. Between bites of chicken salad he tells me his happiest "us" moment is when he completed his first full semester of college with just under a 3.5 GPA.
But that's not really a single moment, is it? I'm not supposed to judge his responses, but my answers are all red ink and corrections.
"Your best "us" moment has nothing to do with me," I say, which isn't fair but it just comes out.
"What this means," I continue, "is that you see me as nothing more than a way to improve your own self. Why does everything have to come back to you?" Even as I'm speaking, I understand that these words should stay in my head, but the ink is bleeding out and I've managed to mark up and grade his moment, as well as crush his ego, in a matter of seconds.
He looks at me then at his sandwich as if something in the chicken salad started all of this. And the Naphtali that I know would have run this guilt for all it's worth. She would have used his feeling bad to capitalize on a dozen honey, I love you, you're the best thing that ever happened to me's. But I'm not the same as I was. Instead, I put the car in park. I turn to him and tell him that I am intensely proud of him for finishing his first semester of school, while working and managing to snag a promotion. I tell him that he is brilliant and that he is kind. I tell him all the things that stay inside my head when I look at him. The things that hang behind the criticism. I tell him how much I like to hear him say he loves me, and maybe that's insecurity and maybe that's love. But one thing's for sure. He's here beside me, on a Saturday, fueling up for a day of Outlet Shopping, when I know he'd rather be anywhere else.
He groans and mutters "Here we go again- you always make me think!" And it's true, my mind is composed of ten thousand writing prompts and with no students to teach, my poor husband ends up having to answer each one.
We're eating sandwiches in the car. Fueling up for an afternoon of Outlet (window) shopping. And I want his answer to be some incredible single moment that I've forgotten. Between bites of chicken salad he tells me his happiest "us" moment is when he completed his first full semester of college with just under a 3.5 GPA.
But that's not really a single moment, is it? I'm not supposed to judge his responses, but my answers are all red ink and corrections.
"Your best "us" moment has nothing to do with me," I say, which isn't fair but it just comes out.
"What this means," I continue, "is that you see me as nothing more than a way to improve your own self. Why does everything have to come back to you?" Even as I'm speaking, I understand that these words should stay in my head, but the ink is bleeding out and I've managed to mark up and grade his moment, as well as crush his ego, in a matter of seconds.
He looks at me then at his sandwich as if something in the chicken salad started all of this. And the Naphtali that I know would have run this guilt for all it's worth. She would have used his feeling bad to capitalize on a dozen honey, I love you, you're the best thing that ever happened to me's. But I'm not the same as I was. Instead, I put the car in park. I turn to him and tell him that I am intensely proud of him for finishing his first semester of school, while working and managing to snag a promotion. I tell him that he is brilliant and that he is kind. I tell him all the things that stay inside my head when I look at him. The things that hang behind the criticism. I tell him how much I like to hear him say he loves me, and maybe that's insecurity and maybe that's love. But one thing's for sure. He's here beside me, on a Saturday, fueling up for a day of Outlet Shopping, when I know he'd rather be anywhere else.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Day 77: Valentines Day
It's Valentines Day and I'm scurrying through the house lighting candles with a mini-blow torch made for creme bruleeing. That's how it's done when you're married to a man who cooks for a living. The blue torch melts horizontal slices in the candles before the wicks have time to catch, but they do catch and we have melty candles setting a mood.
I spent the better part of my Sunday shopping the mall for something special to wear for my own valentine. I realize that this is a lot of information, but part of marriage is trying to keep your love life fresh, and there's a lot of pressure on Valentines Day. After trying on various outfits without any luck and a feeling depressed and over-sized, Rich calls me from work. He says that if I'm going to spend money on Valentines day, why don't I buy the pair of winter boots he's been eyeing at LL Bean. Says he's a size nine. A year ago the knowledge that he wants boots more than lingerie would have set me off into fighting mode Where I'm mad because I think that he thinks that I'm not attractive anymore. Believe me, we have had that fight a dozen times. But today, standing outside of Victoria's Secret, I am relieved and laughing. Because we've made it to the place where we can say what we really want, where we don't have to act like society says we must act on Valentines Day. So I bought the boots and on the way home I stopped into a Jeweler and picked up a wedding band, size eight. This will be his third wedding band so I bought the cheapest one they had.
We drank cheap pink champagne and ate a dinner of chocolates and grapes and hunks of Tuscan bread dipped in brie until we couldn't move.
Now the candles are lit and we're snuggled on the couch listening to the latest podcast of the Vinyl Cafe. I can hear his heart beating against my ear and his breathing has found that sleepytime rhythm. I want to shake him awake to hear the end of the story, but he looks so peaceful so I keep still and hold onto this exact moment. I remember it into my mind so that tomorrow, when it's Monday and not Valentines Day, I can still feel as full of love as I do right now.
I spent the better part of my Sunday shopping the mall for something special to wear for my own valentine. I realize that this is a lot of information, but part of marriage is trying to keep your love life fresh, and there's a lot of pressure on Valentines Day. After trying on various outfits without any luck and a feeling depressed and over-sized, Rich calls me from work. He says that if I'm going to spend money on Valentines day, why don't I buy the pair of winter boots he's been eyeing at LL Bean. Says he's a size nine. A year ago the knowledge that he wants boots more than lingerie would have set me off into fighting mode Where I'm mad because I think that he thinks that I'm not attractive anymore. Believe me, we have had that fight a dozen times. But today, standing outside of Victoria's Secret, I am relieved and laughing. Because we've made it to the place where we can say what we really want, where we don't have to act like society says we must act on Valentines Day. So I bought the boots and on the way home I stopped into a Jeweler and picked up a wedding band, size eight. This will be his third wedding band so I bought the cheapest one they had.
We drank cheap pink champagne and ate a dinner of chocolates and grapes and hunks of Tuscan bread dipped in brie until we couldn't move.
Now the candles are lit and we're snuggled on the couch listening to the latest podcast of the Vinyl Cafe. I can hear his heart beating against my ear and his breathing has found that sleepytime rhythm. I want to shake him awake to hear the end of the story, but he looks so peaceful so I keep still and hold onto this exact moment. I remember it into my mind so that tomorrow, when it's Monday and not Valentines Day, I can still feel as full of love as I do right now.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Day 76: That's a Line
I said; "Baby, what's wrong with your breathing?"
He said; "It's you, you just take the breath right out of me."
I groaned and said; "That's a line..."
He's wheezing and searching the glove compartment for his inhaler while I stand there watching. We've just run up a smallish hill and while it is well into the minuses outside, I don't understand the asthma attack. But it's the winter of 2007 and we've only been married for a handful of months; we've only known each other since July. And in the knowing process, I've learned he's full of lines and I can see them coming from a short distance away. As it turns out, my eyes are like stars and my hands are like magic. Apparently I have the ability to rise the sun and spin the earth, with just a glance. Oh, you didn't know? Yeah...
For the first year, every compliment was a line and it used to make me crazy. Just don't say anything at all, I would say. I'm from the school where silence is better than a cliche any day of the week. Three years later, I'm not so sure.
Today I'm wondering, what are the lines that we use? And what does an honest heart look like? Maybe love isn't about saying exactly what you feel and not saying what you don't feel. Maybe love is saying what your partner needs to hear, even if it's not a complete reflection of reality.
This morning he woke me early with coffee. I'm buried in the down comforter with my wild morning-hair head poking out of the feathers. There's no doubt that I'm quite a terrifying sight. But this morning he called me his winter crocus- the first to bloom in spring- sometimes sticking it's head out of the snow. He said I was his brave flower. And three years ago I would have rolled my eyes and said, "Really? that's the best line you can come up with?!" But not today. Today I'm going to hold onto the line. Because it means he still loves me like be did in the beginning. And that's what I've been looking for. A reminder.
He said; "It's you, you just take the breath right out of me."
I groaned and said; "That's a line..."
He's wheezing and searching the glove compartment for his inhaler while I stand there watching. We've just run up a smallish hill and while it is well into the minuses outside, I don't understand the asthma attack. But it's the winter of 2007 and we've only been married for a handful of months; we've only known each other since July. And in the knowing process, I've learned he's full of lines and I can see them coming from a short distance away. As it turns out, my eyes are like stars and my hands are like magic. Apparently I have the ability to rise the sun and spin the earth, with just a glance. Oh, you didn't know? Yeah...
For the first year, every compliment was a line and it used to make me crazy. Just don't say anything at all, I would say. I'm from the school where silence is better than a cliche any day of the week. Three years later, I'm not so sure.
Today I'm wondering, what are the lines that we use? And what does an honest heart look like? Maybe love isn't about saying exactly what you feel and not saying what you don't feel. Maybe love is saying what your partner needs to hear, even if it's not a complete reflection of reality.
This morning he woke me early with coffee. I'm buried in the down comforter with my wild morning-hair head poking out of the feathers. There's no doubt that I'm quite a terrifying sight. But this morning he called me his winter crocus- the first to bloom in spring- sometimes sticking it's head out of the snow. He said I was his brave flower. And three years ago I would have rolled my eyes and said, "Really? that's the best line you can come up with?!" But not today. Today I'm going to hold onto the line. Because it means he still loves me like be did in the beginning. And that's what I've been looking for. A reminder.
Monday, February 8, 2010
Day 75: Love and Spatulas
My mother is going to the Dominican Republic this month. To the border of Haiti, where she'll spend over a week working in a hospital. For four years she's been a qualified nurse, but the truth is she's been taking care of people for nearly three decades. On the phone tonight, she tells me what she's bringing. Medicine and eyeglasses. Towels and kitchen utensils. Kitchen utensils? She's bringing a set of spoons and knives and spatulas, and I know she's just trying to be helpful and logical, but I can't help but smile because this shows her heart.
My mother is taking something she used to feed her family for (I don't know how many) years. But she's taking it and giving it to another mother in another part of the world. I don't care if it's old and she has a newer set at home, that's not the point. The point is, every wife wants to know her husband- her family is fed. The earthquake and all the chaos that ensued, took away many wives' ability to spoon out food onto plates and watch it dissapear into mouths and bellies. By giving her kitchen utensils, my mom is giving these wives a chance to serve their families again- to spoon out sustenance. To take care of them. She is giving away a set of love.
These spoons and knives and forks have fed a hungry family of six in upstate New York and now they will travel with her and they will feed a dozen families more. Families who need nutrition and hope. We give away food, we give away money, we give away clothes. But when my mother gives away her spoons, she is giving purpose to another wife. And if you know my mother, you know she doesn't look at it that way. She doesn't stop to analyze the symbolism behind her gift, or behind her trip to the Border. Because love to my mother is so engrained in who she is and how she sees the world, that there simply is no other way for her. This is what it means to live 100 Days of Love. It's to love without notice or intent, with generousity and truth. I see that in her, and I hope one day to see it in myself.
My mother is taking something she used to feed her family for (I don't know how many) years. But she's taking it and giving it to another mother in another part of the world. I don't care if it's old and she has a newer set at home, that's not the point. The point is, every wife wants to know her husband- her family is fed. The earthquake and all the chaos that ensued, took away many wives' ability to spoon out food onto plates and watch it dissapear into mouths and bellies. By giving her kitchen utensils, my mom is giving these wives a chance to serve their families again- to spoon out sustenance. To take care of them. She is giving away a set of love.
These spoons and knives and forks have fed a hungry family of six in upstate New York and now they will travel with her and they will feed a dozen families more. Families who need nutrition and hope. We give away food, we give away money, we give away clothes. But when my mother gives away her spoons, she is giving purpose to another wife. And if you know my mother, you know she doesn't look at it that way. She doesn't stop to analyze the symbolism behind her gift, or behind her trip to the Border. Because love to my mother is so engrained in who she is and how she sees the world, that there simply is no other way for her. This is what it means to live 100 Days of Love. It's to love without notice or intent, with generousity and truth. I see that in her, and I hope one day to see it in myself.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Day 74: Overtime Money and Tears
He wants to give money away. He wants to give it away to a single dad who's trying to do right by his kids. A guy who hasn't had a break. Rich wants to give our money away and I've been grumpy about it. Here's the thing- it's been a long week. A long week of overtime and late nights. A long week of early mornings and I've been waiting for the weekend to spend that overtime money on shoes. Or jeans. Or cashmere sweaters. And then Rich tells me that this guy has been on his mind. That he knows, deep down in his gut, that we're supposed to give this dad our overtime money. I'm sitting on edge of the bath tub crying while Rich shaves. Crying because I want the spending money and crying because I hate it that I'm the kind of person who wants the spending money and crying because now my husband knows that this is the kind of person I am. He sits down beside me and shares his coffee- which is more like 24 ounces of espresso- and tells me it's going to be ok. That this is the right thing to do and he's not exactly asking for permission. Then he kisses my forhead and goes to work, leaving me and my bad attitude to nuke his now-cold coffee and dilute it with creamer and sugar.
I want us to be a generous couple. I want us to be quick to bless the people around us. I want us to give. Just not this weekend. This weekend I want to shop. And so I go about my day feeling sorry for myself for having a generous husband. And then, in the midst of my attitude, I realize it's not about what I can get, it's about what I already have. And what I have is a man who cares about other people more than himself. A man of principle who will do the right thing, even when his wife makes him feel like a monster for doing it. What I have is better than anything I could find at an outlet store on a Saturday afternoon. I call him at work and I apologize. I tell him I want to be the kind of wife who encourages the good things in him. And after all, this is what 100 Days of Love is about- loving each other so much that it overflows to the people around us. The people who need love. So this weekend I'm not shopping. I'm writing, and this good. This weekend I am honoring my husband, and this is better.
I want us to be a generous couple. I want us to be quick to bless the people around us. I want us to give. Just not this weekend. This weekend I want to shop. And so I go about my day feeling sorry for myself for having a generous husband. And then, in the midst of my attitude, I realize it's not about what I can get, it's about what I already have. And what I have is a man who cares about other people more than himself. A man of principle who will do the right thing, even when his wife makes him feel like a monster for doing it. What I have is better than anything I could find at an outlet store on a Saturday afternoon. I call him at work and I apologize. I tell him I want to be the kind of wife who encourages the good things in him. And after all, this is what 100 Days of Love is about- loving each other so much that it overflows to the people around us. The people who need love. So this weekend I'm not shopping. I'm writing, and this good. This weekend I am honoring my husband, and this is better.
Day 73: When Bad Things Happen to Good Houses
I want to live in a world where people protect their property. Where bad things can't happen to good houses.
We've been spending much of our time together looking at real estate. Throughout the week we browse various realtor websites looking for new or lower priced homes. And then on days like Saturday, when we have a few hours to spare, we map a loop and check out different homes- many of which are abandoned. We peek in windows and scoot around the property and mostly end up dissapointed. But my heart just broke this Saturday. It was a smallish home on nearly two acres. We'd been glancing at it online for weeks now and decided to see in person why the house was unusually inexpensive and had no inside pictures.
At first I thought the shards of glass were ice. But every window was smashed and we crunched along the porch, kicking away the glass and snow. Inside I could see wide pine hardwood floors- bright wood now spotted with spray paint, the ceilings and walls decorated in bright pink graphitti. And odor, something metallic and sour permeated the air. Through the busted windows I saw the kitchen- exposed brick and dark wood. It didn't take much imagination to see this home as a cozy place. There was moulding around the door frames and a solid rack with an intricate carved pattern hung above an island. But the walls were splashed with nasty phrases and there was a hole the size of a soccer ball, straight through the back door. The stairs leading to the second floor were ripped apart. Solid wood lay in a heap where the skeleton of stairs lead up. Rich shook his head in disbelief as he picked his way through the glass back to the car. And for a moment I stood facing this destroyed beauitful home until I started to cry.
And of course it's ridiculous that I should feel so attached to a building that was never mine. But the home was violated, defaced and I felt embarrassed for how it was left so vulnerable. I wanted to know who cared so little about their property that they left it exposed to the elements and whoever happened to wander by with a crowbar and a can of spray paint. I suggested we buy it just to take care of it. But Rich is right, we can't purchase a home because we feel bad for it. We need to buy the place that is right for us. So we'll keep driving and looking and waiting. And just like love and children, we'll hold out for what's meant to be. And when we have a house of our own- a family of our own, we'll protect them. This I know.
We've been spending much of our time together looking at real estate. Throughout the week we browse various realtor websites looking for new or lower priced homes. And then on days like Saturday, when we have a few hours to spare, we map a loop and check out different homes- many of which are abandoned. We peek in windows and scoot around the property and mostly end up dissapointed. But my heart just broke this Saturday. It was a smallish home on nearly two acres. We'd been glancing at it online for weeks now and decided to see in person why the house was unusually inexpensive and had no inside pictures.
At first I thought the shards of glass were ice. But every window was smashed and we crunched along the porch, kicking away the glass and snow. Inside I could see wide pine hardwood floors- bright wood now spotted with spray paint, the ceilings and walls decorated in bright pink graphitti. And odor, something metallic and sour permeated the air. Through the busted windows I saw the kitchen- exposed brick and dark wood. It didn't take much imagination to see this home as a cozy place. There was moulding around the door frames and a solid rack with an intricate carved pattern hung above an island. But the walls were splashed with nasty phrases and there was a hole the size of a soccer ball, straight through the back door. The stairs leading to the second floor were ripped apart. Solid wood lay in a heap where the skeleton of stairs lead up. Rich shook his head in disbelief as he picked his way through the glass back to the car. And for a moment I stood facing this destroyed beauitful home until I started to cry.
And of course it's ridiculous that I should feel so attached to a building that was never mine. But the home was violated, defaced and I felt embarrassed for how it was left so vulnerable. I wanted to know who cared so little about their property that they left it exposed to the elements and whoever happened to wander by with a crowbar and a can of spray paint. I suggested we buy it just to take care of it. But Rich is right, we can't purchase a home because we feel bad for it. We need to buy the place that is right for us. So we'll keep driving and looking and waiting. And just like love and children, we'll hold out for what's meant to be. And when we have a house of our own- a family of our own, we'll protect them. This I know.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Day 72: Love and Annas
We drive to Boston for Burritos. This is true. We don't go to visit friends or shop or walk around the intelligent city feeling sophisticated. But every few months, one of us craves the "Mexican street food" that is Annas Taquerias and off we go. An entire day in the car, and it's worth every bite. You wouldn't think so to see it. Annas- in Brookline, is a hole in the wall. A smallish shop where they'd just assume you take your burrito find somewhere else to eat it. There's cured pork (is that pork... or chicken...?) hanging on the wall and the smell of freshly fried tortilla chips and shredded chicken bubbles in the air. I love Annas. Once, my burrito fell halfway into the garbage bin. The cook glanced up at me and I just shrugged whatever and ate it anyway. Because Annas is unlike any other taco joint you've walked into. I'm not sure exactly what it is, maybe the combination of cilantro and spiced meats. Or maybe it's the way they grill the tortillas until they are warm and soft and stretchy. The workers chatter in Spanish to each other and the only acknowledgement the customer will get is words like "Next!" and long spoons that point to different meat and bean options.
It's just over ninety nine miles from our driveway to Beacon St, with two hundred Mexican Restaurants in between. But we love Annas and so we keep on driving. Because when you find something incredible, whether it's a person or a burrito, you hold onto it. You clutch it and declare that this is the best you've ever had, the best there is. When there's love, distance and miles don't matter. I hope you have that kind of love in your life, even if it's in the form of a burrito. And if you're ever in Boston, go find Annas. Order a chicken quesadilla with everything they can fit in it, grab a fork and knife and multiple napkins. And love will certainly find you.
It's just over ninety nine miles from our driveway to Beacon St, with two hundred Mexican Restaurants in between. But we love Annas and so we keep on driving. Because when you find something incredible, whether it's a person or a burrito, you hold onto it. You clutch it and declare that this is the best you've ever had, the best there is. When there's love, distance and miles don't matter. I hope you have that kind of love in your life, even if it's in the form of a burrito. And if you're ever in Boston, go find Annas. Order a chicken quesadilla with everything they can fit in it, grab a fork and knife and multiple napkins. And love will certainly find you.
Monday, February 1, 2010
Day 71: Road Rage
He said; "Why are you being so mean to me?"
I said; "Because sometimes you just do stupid things. You just do stuff, and you're doing it now. You're just doing and not thinking."
We're stopped about five yards past the stop sign at a four way. Rich is waving on the car who had the right of way. But he's also blocking the vehicle's right of way, so no one is moving and everyone is waving and now I'm getting angry. When I say I don't know how he survives without me riding shotgun, it's not just a cliche, it's the terrifying truth. The man can't drive. He speeds on the highway. He doesn't use directionals. Despite his avid love of a standard transmission, he stalls out at least once a day and forgets about fifth gear. My husband has been written a ticket on a lonesome highway in Nebraska, for following another car too closely.
We spent the first year of our marriage fighting about his driving. We lived in Boston, a city defined by terrible driving and so Richard felt quite at home as he ran red lights and cut in front of traffic, rocking to a complete stop before accelerating to sixty five on a northshore higway. These were scary times. Times my heart would shoot between the pit of my stomach and my throat and I would close my eyes and press my face into my hands. And then I would cry, and then I would yell. And though we never did crash into a single thing, I spent a year braced for impact.
In Maine we've found a (somewhat) happy medium. I tell him where the stop signs are and where to turn and he mostly listens and pretends that I'm a nag. Though we both know he couldn't make it to the mall without me in the car. But as I'm sitting in the car watching a stranger wave his arms around in our direction, I can't help but think how foolish it is to get so worked up over a few feet of space, over one spot up at a red light. Which is exactly what I've done- not only today in this grocery store parking lot, but every day that I've sat in this seat. I've judged and criticized and have acted flat-out mean toward my husband over something as trivial as his style of driving.
This is not love, and I want to love. So I'm going to close my eyes, in a peaceful sort of way. I'm going to keep my mouth closed, and if he drives straight by our exit, I'm not going to be angry, I'm going to look forward to taking the backroads home. Because when you love someone, you let them drive. However it is they drive. And you remind yourself that it's not about what gear you're in, or how many u-turns it takes to get there. Love is about being in the car, about the trip you're taking together. Even if it's just to the grocery store for ice-cream on a Monday night.
I said; "Because sometimes you just do stupid things. You just do stuff, and you're doing it now. You're just doing and not thinking."
We're stopped about five yards past the stop sign at a four way. Rich is waving on the car who had the right of way. But he's also blocking the vehicle's right of way, so no one is moving and everyone is waving and now I'm getting angry. When I say I don't know how he survives without me riding shotgun, it's not just a cliche, it's the terrifying truth. The man can't drive. He speeds on the highway. He doesn't use directionals. Despite his avid love of a standard transmission, he stalls out at least once a day and forgets about fifth gear. My husband has been written a ticket on a lonesome highway in Nebraska, for following another car too closely.
We spent the first year of our marriage fighting about his driving. We lived in Boston, a city defined by terrible driving and so Richard felt quite at home as he ran red lights and cut in front of traffic, rocking to a complete stop before accelerating to sixty five on a northshore higway. These were scary times. Times my heart would shoot between the pit of my stomach and my throat and I would close my eyes and press my face into my hands. And then I would cry, and then I would yell. And though we never did crash into a single thing, I spent a year braced for impact.
In Maine we've found a (somewhat) happy medium. I tell him where the stop signs are and where to turn and he mostly listens and pretends that I'm a nag. Though we both know he couldn't make it to the mall without me in the car. But as I'm sitting in the car watching a stranger wave his arms around in our direction, I can't help but think how foolish it is to get so worked up over a few feet of space, over one spot up at a red light. Which is exactly what I've done- not only today in this grocery store parking lot, but every day that I've sat in this seat. I've judged and criticized and have acted flat-out mean toward my husband over something as trivial as his style of driving.
This is not love, and I want to love. So I'm going to close my eyes, in a peaceful sort of way. I'm going to keep my mouth closed, and if he drives straight by our exit, I'm not going to be angry, I'm going to look forward to taking the backroads home. Because when you love someone, you let them drive. However it is they drive. And you remind yourself that it's not about what gear you're in, or how many u-turns it takes to get there. Love is about being in the car, about the trip you're taking together. Even if it's just to the grocery store for ice-cream on a Monday night.
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