That’s not happening.

Instead, this week, I’ve spoken to his mother,and traded messages with his wife, whom I’ve never met. I cannot imagine their grief. Or, perhaps I can, and that makes it even harder to wrap my head and heart around. I am remembering moments that I thought were lost a long ago to time, separation, or stubborn anger at the ways things ended. My husband says I can hold a grudge better than anyone. He’s right. I held a grudge against this man, because, you know, things ended badly, as they often do, though in our case, mostly because we were 21 and torn in a million different directions by our two different lives. That was hard to see at the time; it’s bright and clear with more than 20 years’ distance and the harsh light of a death.

And though we were not actively in each others’ lives any more, the truth, if I can bring myself to think it, is that I thought about him, not all the time, but a lot. He took care of me when my father died. We were deeply, headily in love. We were young, and passionate, and adventurous, with what we thought were many cares but again, with time? Not so many. We were central to each others’ lives for a brief, intense period when we were leaving childhood and becoming adults. We loved each other.

And now, I am immersed in grief that I haven’t felt since my father died 27 years ago. I remember thinking then that grief was like a tsunami, an unpredictable and overwhelming wave of feeling, but unlike a tsunami, grief often sweeps in and over without warning. And when the death also occurs without any preamble, maybe the onslaught is even less predictable. I am struggling with where to put my grief, how to label it. He was no longer my love, now just a distant friend, but there is that nagging feeling of just how important we were to each other once that rises over and over. I am remembering him, analyzing what made him special, in a way I haven’t done since I was 20: his enthusiasm, his energy, his ability to lock into and hold onto emotions, his or another’s. I’ve looked at pictures and letters over the last week that transport me to a reality that is intimately familiar and still not quite mine.

There’s no “what if” to these feelings; he and I separated when we needed to and went on to live the lives we wanted. We loved, and love, our spouses. There’s no romanticized sense of “if only”, none at all. But the grief is there, disproportionate and awkward, hard to carry without tripping, and falling down.

I am pondering this great post from The Sister Project, “The List that Helps With Loss“, as another way to process my sadness, contemplating (but not yet writing) my own list, to help with a very peculiar loss.

“When we’re with people who bring out our essential selves, our words flow effortlessly, the energy is positive, we tell funny jokes, people laugh. There’s a sense of complete understanding that comes from being on the same wavelength with two essential selves.” –Martha Beck

I don’t usually have much interaction with the anthroposophist (Rudolf Steiner devotées) communities which abound in this area. I like the people, usually, very much, but the dogma is too heavy for me. Camphill is a Steiner project that cares for developmentally disabled adults in a village setting, where they live and work side by side with normally-abled adults and their families. Its presence here (about 10 miles from my house) means that we often see the residents out and about, which I think is a great thing for my kids, and for me. (In California, I now realize, I almost never saw disabled adults, and rarely children. Where were they?)

Anyway, the people at Camphill tend an herb garden and make wonderful teas (really, tisanes) with lyrical names like Douceur de Fete (one of my favorites.) They also make the prosaically named Tea for Colds, which seems to actually help. So, with my head stuffed and snotty with a cold, I made myself a cuppa just now, using my newest (non-local) fave acqusition, my Tea Stick. (Pricey, but genius. If you drink loose leaf tea, get one.) And I poured the nearly-boiling water into my favorite new mug (one thing you may not know about me is that for years now, I’ve been searching for the perfect mug. It’s more challenging than you might think, but I think the search is over.) My mug was made by a potter/friend down the road who gave it to me in exchange for using my home as a location for a photo shoot for her new website. So my soothing tea was in my perfect mug, which soothes the palm of my hand in addition to holding my medicinal tea, and I thought: this is all from right.here. If I had a younger horse (and, let it be said, was a better rider) I could get to both of them in an afternoon. And that thought just made me so happy that I live in this random, odd, lovely place.

Meanwhile, last night I made a discovery that also has everything to do with where I live and what I do here, and it also made me shiver with quiet joy.

Mary Oliver is one of my favorite contemporary poets, but I only recently discovered this work of hers. To make it even better, I found it on a work of art made by my teachers and friends Karen Arp-Sandel and Suzy Banks Baum. If you live near me, check out their collaborate mail art show, Femail, at the Berkshire Art Kitchen.

Praying

It doesn’t have to be
the blue iris, it could be
weeds in a vacant lot, or a few
small stones; just
pay attention, then patcha few words together and don’t try
to make them elaborate, this isn’t
a contest but the doorwayinto thanks, and a silence in which
another voice may speak

~ Mary Oliver

“In the depth of winter, I finally learned that within me there lay an invincible summer.” ~ Albert Camus

What is it in the universe that’s sending so many words of wisdom my way lately?

Maybe I’m just paying attention. It’s a good time to be observant, at least here in my corner of the world, which is blessed with white snow covering the scars on the ground, blue skies that range from palest aqua to intense, nearly purple depth, bare trees that reach up up up like so many finely wrought sculptures. The beauty here, as it almost always does, stuns the eye and the mind, and especially this week, when we’re all wrung out by powerless sympathy with the too-traumatized people of Haiti, it provokes intense attention and gratitude.

I wrote a post a while back on The Sister Project about the tradition of the commonplace book. Also known by the insanely evocative Latin phrase silva rerum, meaning ‘a forest of things’, these are journals of bits of found wisdom, collections of quotes and sayings and our reactions to them. We do this now, of course, whether in our Moleskines or our Facebook pages or our blogs, but the naming of the practice is all but lost, and I think that’s a shame. How do you keep track of the words you discover that move or provoke you? Can you share some of them with me, here, or over at The Sister Project?

But in every other way, the last 29 days of writing the first more or less complete piece fiction I’ve managed in, oh, more than 30 years, has been a great gift of solace and escape during a dark and difficult time.

I did it.

I wrote over 50,000 words in November (my word processor says 50,323; the official NaNoWriMo counting machine only gives me credit for 50,048, but I’m not going to quibble with victory.) This is over 150 pages of prose, the longest thing I’ve ever written, including my college thesis. (It’s possible that the final report I wrote for my graduate school field study was longer, but that was a group project and it was for business school, so it definitely.doesn’t.count.)

I ought to feel gleeful and exhilarated, but the last few weeks (outside of my little novel-writing bubble, that is) have been so painful and difficult that those particular words are not, at least for the moment, part of my personal lexicon. Even so, I am proud of myself for completing a task (a notoriously elusive accomplishment for me) and prouder still for synthesizing a million fragments of story into a semi-cohesive whole. I like the idea of my novel more than I like the draft itself at this point (and even the hard-to-please H genuinely liked the story, when I, in a moment of incredible and inexplicable vulnerability, pitched it to him a few weekends ago) but I think, I think, I can turn it into something that while not anywhere in the neighborhood of art might still be, for someone out there, a worthwhile read. I still have sections to excise, whole chapters that need to be conceived, the work is far, far, far from done. But still, I think I owe it to myself to say–

Congratulations to me.

——–

I returned Sunday evening from the longest period I’ve ever spent away from my kids. Don’t think they didn’t notice: When I returned, the Babe was sick, and she stayed home from school on Monday. She did manage to deck herself out in the new dress I brought her, and spend much of the day cuddling a toy now known as Sing-y the Bear. Dido went off to school looking like a one-kid advertisement for prep school education in his new Exeter Lacrosse cap and grey and maroon sweatshirt. By Tuesday, Dido was sick, too, and I took both to the pediatrician. Weds., the Babe had recovered enough to go, kicking and screaming (yes, literally) to school, while Dido stayed home for the longest TV marathon of his young life. Today, Dido is still here, remembering to complain about his earache whenever I look too skeptical that a child in pain could climb, slide, run, explore the woods and pretend to shoot so energetically. Ah. Parenthood.

What was it that took me away, at long, overdue, last from my short people? My 25th high school reunion, which I approached with exactly zero sense of irony or trepidation. I liked high school. I like going back there, and I do it every five years, sometimes even more often, if I can come up with an excuse. My attachment to Exeter is broad and deep, and I think, in some ways, this weekend helped me better understand why.

25 years ago, I was a runner. Not a talented one, not fast, but track and cross country were the two sports at Exeter that allowed anyone who showed up and did the work (of training and competing) to earn a varsity letter. I did, in both, enduring the embarrassment of coming in last or nearly so in nearly every 800 yard race I ran. I held similar standing on the cross country courses. Then, as now, I wanted to have some claim, no matter how tenuous, on an athletic life. I wanted to validate a part of me that I knew would never predominate, but which mattered to me nonetheless.

I am once again trying to be a runner, and this weekend, I brought my running shoes, though in the end, I used them only for a long walk through the woods, along the Exeter river and down old trails with some of my dearest friends in the world. I was exhausted at the end of the weekend as though I had run a race, and exhilarated, too, though my exhilaration manifested first as grief.

I am something of a Pollyanna when it comes to Exeter. (My husband, rather cruelly, I think, has said one more than one occasion that my high school years were the high point of my life. I hope that’s not true, because I am happier at 43 than I ever really was as an adolescent or young adult.) But despite the normal and encompassing teenage angst I suffered from 14 to 18, those years were heady, exhilarating, and sometimes fulfilling in a visceral way that can be hard to replicate in the “real”, adult world, and particularly in life’s middle years.

On campus this weekend, I attended an English class (Great Books: As I Lay Dying, Rabbit, Run ,and A Farewell to Arms) taught by Doug Rogers. Mr. Rogers (keep the cardigan jokes to yourself) taught a senior seminar on Faulkner that I took in 1984. It was one of those life-changing literary experiences for me, but also memorable because that was the sad spring my father died (at 48, too young, from a brain tumor) and Mr. Rogers, along with many of his colleagues, extended untold kindnesses to me in that hard time.

I also attended an assembly, led by a classmate who is now a high-ranking executive at a truly enormous global company. The experience was surreal, not only because I found myself watching soda commercials in the Assembly Hall, but for the memories that flooded me sitting in that august (it really is) space: sitting among the senior class my prep (9th grade) year, because there were too many of us for the 9th grade section; sitting in the balcony on dates at Saturday night movies–I still remember seeing Alien there for the first time; now THAT’s a date movie.

We visited the Grill, the on campus snack shop, strolled to the Bookstore, took that long walk along the river, where some of my favorite memories, of skating up the frozen river with John Torontow, of finding secret hidden spots along the cross country trail, came rolling back.

I cooked dinner that night for the returning Langdell-ites (my dorm mates) at Barbara Jenny’s home in Portsmouth. Back at the Exeter Inn that night, I stayed up as late as I could stand to, talking with the huge crowd of classmates at the bar, finding it impossible to have enough time with everyone I wanted to talk to–which was, really, everyone.

Saturday included 2 Harkness discussions led by classmates, one on a life in the arts, featuring museum director Stephanie Stebich, chairman of the board of the Academy of American Poets Nicie Johnson Panetta, and filmmaker Roland Tec. The second discussion was on the concept of non sibi, not for oneself, and how we apply it in our lives post-PEA, was led by Uwe Brandes and Katherine Rouleau, who work in the areas of environmental sustainability and healthcare, respectively. The discussion showed our class’ Harkness manners and muscles off well: it was extremely well-attended, and the discussion thorough and thoughtful. I did wish there had been more time to delve into the minority viewpoint on healthcare reform raised by one classmate. I was quiet, I think, in both discussions, and I remember how I felt at the table all those years ago: not afraid to speak, but occasionally too hesitant to expres my views, at least in some classes. I made a mental note to put forth my opinions more. (If some reading this just blew cappucino out of their noses laughing at the idea that I need to be more opinionated–hey, there’s more than one side to me.) I thought both of these discussions were particularly relevant as a counterpoint to Katie Joklik Baynes’ assembly talk–I wish that students might have seen this side of our class’ life paths, too. I also went to a panel of current students, and then gathered with other classmates on the steps of the Academy building to have our class picture taken. Lunch in Wetherell followed, and then Kris Rosbe and Lee Rose Emery and I decided to take a break from the intense and tiring delicious work of reconnecting for a little retail therapy. (So much for non sibi. We bought clothes for our kids at the outlet mall, but still.)

By Saturday night, it felt as though we’d really reached critical mass. New faces had arrived throughout the day, but a few more arrived just for the dinner. Never one to turn down a socializing, social-easing glass of wine, I found myself not wanting to drink. I was exhausted from all the intense thought and feeling, and not wanting to miss anything. Amy Kittenplan Hubbard brought her Exeter scrapbook, tattered but full of memories and incriminating photographs. I was talked into confessing to a Lower year crush. I wished for more and more and more time as classmates on campus only for the evening took their leave.

Back at the Exeter Inn, discussions continued until at least 2 a.m. (that’s when I called it a night.) We sat in the bar, talking to people we knew well and not so well. I wrapped up my night by delivering a semi-epic monologue about my twisted career path. In my defense, Tom Jones set me off by asking a question about where my life had gone since the last time he and I had seen each other, nearly 20 years earlier, in Brooklyn. I was soundly teased for my long discourse, though that’s not why I chose the end of my speechifying to head to bed.

Sunday morning, Kris Rosbe, who was my roommate for the weekend, and I decided to attend the service at Phillips Church for classmates who have died. A small group of us gathered there to hear the inimitable Bobby Thompson ’72, school chaplain, preach and offer us the opportunity to remember. In attendance were David Chipman (with whom I’m so sorry I didn’t get to speak during the reunion), Elyse Packard, Chris Saxman, Trevor Agard, Mike Vaccaro, Julia Logan with her kids, Martin Brinkley with son Sam, Jim Lando and his wife Leigh, Brett Games and Werner Brandes. (If I’ve left anyone out, apologies.)

The service was a highly emotional experience for me. I am completely a-religious, and have been my entire life, but I always enjoyed being at Phillips Church (the few times I actually went!) and appreciate church in general as an opportunity for reflection and introspection, even though I am not a Christian. We all shared memories of the dead, and Thompson’s words, not to mention his stunning leadership in singing my favorite hymn, Joyful, Joyful, We Adore Thee, were beautiful and moving.

Throughout the service, I found myself reflecting on loss, not only of classmates who died much, much too young, but also of youth and of possibility, my own, and others’. I am not a person who spends much time mourning my own long-gone youth. I am decisive, and to be so requires me to dismiss regret much of the time,  to suspend passing judgment on my own decision-making. (That’s not to say I don’t perceive right and wrong decisions, but I try to move on, rather than to dwell.) Anything else just produces hours of self-torture. Even so, revisiting the friendships and values of my teenage self could not possibly have passed without making me wonder about where I am in my life, and where I might have been. And here’s the rub: I have a terrific, comfortable, loved life. My family are all healthy; I live in a beautiful place; I perform work that is fulfilling and meaningful (though I might complain that I don’t have enough time for it, that’s the result of my own choices and I probably would make them all again.) Even with a life that is happy and satisfying, there is a measure of grief at what might have been, at just the sheer passage of time, the separation from loved ones, the lack of time available for the kind of intense study and thought and contemplation that characterized much of my time at Exeter. I am lucky to ever have had it, but when confronted with its memory, I melt. The English class I attended was inspiring (all five alums who went together left thinking that to teach English at Exeter would be a VERY good gig) both for the intelligence on display (impressive) and for the moment: the idea that twelve people might gather to discuss one short passage of one great novel for 50 minutes is so far removed from most of our daily lives as to be laughable–or, instead, cry-able.

So, what I’ve noticed is that some women DO accomplish some (maybe all?) of these desired things, so the answer must be that they prioritize/organize their time differently than I do. Maybe, just maybe, if I were able to gain a window into their daily schedules, I’d get a sense of how to reorganize my own. (Say: don’t spend three and a half hours in the morning online redesigning your blog page. Just as an example.) So…there’s a new tab at the top of the page. If you want to play, click there, and leave your daily breakdown (in whatever form makes sense to you) in the comments. The other great thing about this semi-tedious exercise: you get to give yourself credit for the things you do manage to get done.

Like yesterday, a hellish snowday: I trekked down to the barn to check on and water the chickens. (We’re going on week 2 of broken pipes in the barn–a hassle for me and a big hassle for our patient friends/tenants.) I sorted one of the two remaining giant toy dump boxes in my son’s rooms, threw out a huge box of broken toys and organized a bunch more. I culled all the broke crayons from the playroom crayon graveyard, and the Babe and I melted them down into big, madeleine-shaped crayons (I think I like this more than she does, though she loves sorting them by color.) She and I filled the birdfeeder. I tested not one but two (sucky) recipes that I had hoped to publish on Rural Intelligence. I got the remaining images and info I needed for my next gallery show on The Sister Project. Then it all went to s^*%, but hey–I did some things. And now I can see where the day went, even if it’s not exactly where I wanted it to go.

Well, so much for every day. Holidays and inaugurations and recovery from 8 years  of, you know, left me with no blogging mojo whatsoever. That link up above is to a site I wanted to share; it’s lovely. And Ive made some other changes which have been great–exercising more often again,which has,as it always does, changed my entire mood (though I get extremely peevish when I then CAN’T get my workouts in.) But I’ll try to do better–I’ve again gotten comments and phone calls, all so flattering, wondering where the hell I am, so I’d best get back to it.