most of the people we know – or hang around with – have like 40 or more. 11 is way different than 40. in some ways, it is like we are still newlyweds, not quite catching up to the tenure our friends have had in their relationships or marriages.
i wonder – sometimes – if we will have 40 someday. we’d be well into our nineties. considerably different than 40 in your sixties. i guess we’ll find out. i hope so.
in the meanwhile, we will be rambling on – traveling what is now the daisy path – trying to attend to the littlest details of this thing that is love, trying not to miss stuff, trying not to be lax or in any way aloof. because – no matter what – we will have less. less time, less experiences, less of a life arc together. so every thing counts.
we had different plans for this 11th anniversary. plans to be away on this day, plans to hike under high mountain sun, plans to renew our vows. but you know the story. our dogga needs us to stick around here right now. and so here we are. cause that’s what love is.
the daisy path is not etched in stone. this tender path is fluid and the dirt under our feet creates stardust as we walk along it.
when i dip, he raises me up. when he dips, i lift him. when my frustration gets the best of me, he helps reorganize how i am thinking. when his frustration gets the best of him, i help him cut to the core of what’s actually important. when a tear falls on my face, he can feel it. when a tear falls on his face, i weep along with him.
it’s the same with laughter and simple stuff and beauty and anticipation and moments of adventure and moments of glory.
we don’t have as much time as our friends. so the time we have seems amplified. and every day is liminal space between where we have been together and where we are going.
i recently made a chain of paper rings. it had about thirty strips of colored paper – many of the colors visible and invisible in this cloud – each cut with fancy paper scissors or pinking shears, looped, stapled and hung on the closet in our room.
it was a countdown and i needed the visual to keep it all in perspective, to remember to hold it all lightly, to know that there are days before The Day and days after The Day.
our whole lives are filled with paper rings, connected loops that go on and on and on. each season of our lives drops to the floor when we cut the loops loose and then – miraculously and on cue – the next season starts.
i had placed a lot of emphasis on The Day at the end of the paper chain. when it arrived, not only was it anticlimactic, it turned out to be utterly disappointing, completely unsatisfactory and a day that had been overemphasized in my mind and heart as we headed toward it, lopping off loop after loop.
i suppose that this is not uncommon. anticipatory angst, anticipatory fear, anticipatory grief, anticipatory glee at completing something – they are all supercharged and take up a lot of space in us. i read that the buddha would view it as dukkha– which is unnecessary suffering – that which pulls us away from the present moment. the wish for a specific outcome rails against the fear of that outcome not coming to fruition – it all is a tug-of-war and is suffering itself. at the end of the paper chain something is to happen – we imagine the best, we imagine the worst – all unwritten, all fictitious, unpromised though powerful – but what about every moment – every loop – in the meanwhile?
the rainbow in the cloud was just beautiful. it morphed and changed with the wind, but it stuck around for a while before it vanished. we watched from the adirondack chairs on the patio, content to be in its company.
maybe it was a reminder that nothing is permanent, that no paper chain has a guarantee, that each loop counts. and so does every color.
so we are in the habit of celebrating. not just the big stuff.
particularly in this time – when all the world is in chaos, when we all have no idea what horrific thing will happen next, when there is so much trepidation about losing this country’s very democracy, we – now – celebrate the little stuff as well. and, as you can tell by this photograph, we -big-time – know what we’re doing when it comes to celebrations.
we know that most people choose to, well, maybe go out to dinner as a celebration, or maybe go away on a trip or to an event of some sort, maybe go shopping and splurge on a purchase of something long-awaited for.
we tend to be a little lower-key than all that. but even our most modest celebrations are still celebrations.
it doesn’t take much. in our zeal, we hiked two loops of our river trail. though suddenly exhausted from the toll that anticipation takes on adrenaline, happy kept us going, step by step. breathing the fresh air and feeling the sun – warm enough to take off our jackets – was its own cause for joy.
yes…on this particular day – last week, i might point out – we were beyond excited. our celebration was actually quite thrilling and filled our hearts.
and so we splurged on a $2.79 bag of munchos (on sale at woodman’s) and poured two glasses of wine. we pulled two adirondack chairs from the garage and sat in the 50-plus-degree-sun out on the patio and clinked. when the clouds covered the sun and the wind picked up we went inside, to sit at the bistro table by the window in our sunroom. with dogga on the rug at our feet, we lit a new gift, a soy candle in beautiful cut glass.
and we settled into festivity.
“enjoy the little things, for one day you may look back and realize they were the big things.” (robert brault)
we ordered fried rice and eggrolls the same day i blogged about joy sprinkles. it doesn’t take much to get us enthused and fried rice and eggrolls do it. because we don’t eat out often, it is always a treat to have something someone else has prepared and this dinner is no different.
we only got one fortune cookie in our brown stapled bag of deliciousness; our order must be considered a small order. we saved it for later.
i got to be the one to crack it open.
“sprinkles of joy will shower upon you in unexpected ways.”
it was one of those stunning moments in the universe when all comes to a screeching halt and you realize it is – indeed – all connected. just when you felt a little bit untethered, a little unsteady, the universe shows up with an anchor.
and here it was. simply the words “sprinkles of joy”.
i texted heidi – forever my keeper of the word “sprinkles” – and we laughed to realize we had juuust spoken these very words, that i had just written them. unexpected, for sure. it was like the universe had its own personal siri listening in – like when you talk about mumbai – never touching your computer or phone or any device – and then it shows up on your facebook feed or in your instagram. here it was – the universe echoing back to me the words “sprinkles” and “joy”.
we walked past the cemetery at the end of our road on the way back from the corner store. it was sunny saturday and, having spent the day doing chores inside and outside around the house, we were going to sit out back on the patio with dogga, sip a glass of wine and eat – yes – chips. we haven’t had chips in a week and thought, “eh…what’s a few chips?!!” it was with chip-guilt in a plastic bag walking home – as we strolled past the cemetery – that d looked over at me.
“i’m glad the cemetery is at the end of our block,” he said. “it reminds me that these people all had lives, too,” going on to talk about perspective, stuff that matters and stuff that doesn’t matter, the passage of time, the not-knowing.
every moment is one in which to create joy. for oneself. for others. together. to be showered by sprinkles of joy. in unexpected ways.
i proudly carried our bag of chips the rest of the way home.
in an effort to grab the moments and store them away so they will be retrievable, i take photographs. i want to remember the physical surroundings, the way it feels, the way it tastes, the way it smells. pictures help me recall the visceral. they are prompts in a memory script. the “remember …” cue.
i didn’t take a picture, but, because there is nothing like an unexpected call from your adult child, when the phone rang in the middle of costco and i glanced at it to see that it was our daughter calling, the moment is indelibly ingrained in my mind. walking toward the exit, standing and chatting near the tires-for-sale, shielding the phone’s microphone from the wind as we walked to littlebabyscion, sitting in the parking lot, dogga in the back wondering what errand adventure was next…these are all part of this wonderful rambling conversation, a joy that topped off my week – a perfect friday early evening – in a way that nothing else can.
the neighborhood eatery was not far from his apartment and as we drove over, our son was in the front, directing me, nagging me about going too slowly, instructing me how to properly drive over the humps in the residential streets of chicago and getting out to check the damage when we were rear-ended at a traffic light (luckily, no injuries and no apparent damage). we discovered the joy of lobster deviled eggs, had the skinniest delectable french fries, sipped mimosas and laughed over brunch. we went to his new place, took measurements, talked about decor. i took many, many photos, my iphone always at the ready. the best belated birthday gift – this time together. nothing else can top it.
i don’t take these moments for granted. our children are adults, with busy, consuming professional lives and significant people to share time with. there’s not a lot of spare time and i get that. they don’t live in town and i don’t get to see them as often as many of my friends see their grown children. “the moment they are born the separation begins followed by a life-long balancing act,” a dear and sage friend wrote about children and motherhood. the perils of parenting.
it is often the people with children in their own town who remind me that we raise children to be independent, wingèd and free. though well-intended, these are easier words, these wisdoms, and less painful when one does not have to tamp down the embers of longing that missing beloveds creates.
i try to “think of life…in all its small component parts.” (anna quindlen) it is, truly and after all, about balance.
so i save every one i can. every moment and conversation, all eye contact and every hug. i take lots of pictures – of them, of me with them, of us with them, of the surroundings, of what is right around me when i am with them. it is a storehouse of riches that i may go to in a self-absorbed minute of feeling scarcity, a reminder that, indeed, life is full, nevertheless. a springboard of deep appreciation.
“exhaust the little moment. soon it dies. and be it gash or gold it will not come again in this identical disguise.” (gwendolyn brooks) glory in either, for we learn the lesson over and over: you can feel it. and they all count.
i “try to look at the view.” (anna quindlen)
the view – that must be why i have twenty-four-thousand-seven-hundred-eighty-eight photos on my phone. twenty-four-thousand-seven-hundred-eighty-eight views of twenty-four-thousand-seven-hundred-eighty-eight moments.
and this one – the open-beamed ceiling of cherished brunch with my son.
