These Threads

These Threads

We were healthy and strong, moving forward and sideways in

our lives when they intersected.

Often careless, excesses were not unusual.

We had pasts that were not so far behind us

that we couldn't see them with a casual glimpse over 

our shoulders.

There was something waiting

that would bring us both to our knees, 

each in our own time. 

And then

the uncertainty was agonizing:

Once in the desert with wide skies that neither barked nor

whispered, simply waited with the wild horses and withered

cactus, hovering landscape with something always moving out of the corner of an eye.

Sometimes you came inside and laid your head on my chest just to hear me breathe.

You would go out and walk and wander,

or wonder

because we were so far from any place where anyone might hear us call out.

We never called out. We just waited it out for days. 

And then again in a crowded city hospital, so busy

that I had to take notes just to

keep track of the comings and goings.

We moved in, sort of.

With stacks of magazines and extension cords that kept us connected

to everyone else. 

 I crawled in beside you each night

and pulled you close,

a fragile frame, listened to you breathe, never submitting to

wonder if we would land again someday

in some other place like here, this place, our home,

waiting for the clock to welcome still another year

together.

Gifts and Bows and Travel Woes.

It didn't work out that I would get on an airplane as planned and head to San Francisco and spend Christmas with Tim and Kath and Paul and all the others that I visualized sharing Christmas joy with for months when we first bought our tickets. Mother Nature had other plans for me and ice and wind and temperatures that hovered at just the right place to get in the way of a takeoff from Burlington International Airport. 

Six hours passed and I watched the screens that announced arrivals and departures and, of course, delays and cancellations. Chicago, O'Hare was the first to fall. Next was Newark, which started out promising despite several hours of delay. Travelers boarded, then waited on the tarmac. An hour later were asked to go back to the terminal. 

I wandered through the small airport, crowded with families and individuals, waiting, like me, to meet up with someone at the end of the flight or just get home to routines and what is familiar. I ordered a bean burger at the concession and sat one person away from a chatty machinist, eager to share the details of his work. He was showing photos from his phone to the woman writing Christmas cards, neatly stacked in front of her while she sipped beer and ate a mountain of french fries thick with gravy. She was politely asking questions, raising her brows on cue and offering pieces of her own history: Raised on a farm in upstate New York and teaching business at UVM, hoping, someday to work with kids on a reservation, teaching math. Did I think she was too old to do such a thing? I couldn't say, but told her that I still had dreams of my own; More school, hoping to continue, to always be a student somehow or another. She told me her mother had been a special education teacher, funny, how that opens up conversations even further...it's not like being a doctor with solutions to people's problems. No, I just identify the problems and hope for the best.

It seemed that if we all waited patiently and didn't press too much, the information would come that we could listen for our seat sections to be called and off we would go, first to DC, then on to the big embrace of our families or compact rental cars. There is something both intimate and impersonal about travel through airports. We all want something from the experience; Escape or work. We stand in line without our shoes, empty our pockets, dump our liquids. We raise our arms over our heads while images are gathered of our structural imperfections. We are gathered in close quarters and when it goes well we cheer and when it doesn't, it frees us to share who we are. The couple in front of me standing in line, transplants from Houston to Montreal, who "white knuckled" their drive to Vermont through the previous night, hoping to make their way home for a Texas reunion.

No promises were made by the airline and I spent the night at the Burlington Hilton where the price dropped over $100 when I said my flight was cancelled. Big, lonely room with a full view of the parking garage, but a hot shower and comfy bed, the best I could hope for after a day of waiting, quietly, patiently, determined that whatever the outcome I would be fine. Turned out that no one could get me on a flight before the 25th, and given that the return was scheduled for the 26th I opted to go home once the roads were cleared.

In a diner the next morning a family of five joined me at the counter. They were a cheerful energized crew, having just come from Stowe where they didn't get to ski after all as the mountain was sheer ice. The mother of the bunch told me they were happy to just sit around and read and be quiet together. They were from Syracuse and there were plenty of opportunities to ski. I shared my disappointment about travel plans, but that I would get to spend Christmas Eve with my daughter Sarah who would have been alone in Portland, and the wife, also a teacher, told me that my diversion was truly a gift, the time with my daughter. After breakfast they were driving home, fearless about the roads in front of them, figuring on six hours or so. The father joked that I was welcome to join them if I had nothing else to do. I have something else to do.

Gifts are supposed to be a surprise. They are supposed to be something unexpected. We should be grateful for gifts, no matter what the packaging. I welcome tomorrow evening and the opportunity to pass a night with my oldest daughter. I will miss my West coast family. I will miss Molly and her tan freckled nose on the mountain in Mammoth Lakes. I will miss my lovely Kate and her beautiful family in England, creating new traditions and savoring old ones. I will miss my sister Donna and brothers when they sit down to dinner together in Pennsylvania, a noisy bunch who will be laughing hard and talking about old days. I will miss Tim beside me. 

Christmas is always about family and love. It has little to do with geography. Proximity is wonderful, but the greatest gift of all is love. It transcends our disappointment. It transcends mine.

It doesn't require a bow.

The Joy That's in This Journey

I was driving home in the late afternoon and realized that it was the first time in a long time that I was coming home at the end of a work day while there was still daylight. The sky was illuminated with a soft pink glow that hovered in the chill. Pale yellow sun trimmed the edges of the clouds, and a there was a still, soft, blue-gray sky as a backdrop. There were silhouettes of trees as far as I could see, some with leaves still clinging, dangling above the snowy earth, and gentle hills behind them, curved like a woman's hip or shoulder. I felt myself exhale.

The road home is not a straight one and the incline is not a steep one. When it's dark, the reflected light on the road from oncoming cars makes me cautious. I keep an eye out for deer, their subtle movement on the side of the road, or the reflection of my headlights in their eyes. My shoulders come up closer to my ears when I am driving in the dark.  But tonight, I was aware of my relaxed breathing as I allowed myself to move through the turns with a near lean. From the corner of my eye I could see a flock of birds rise up from a field as if on cue.  They rose in front of those trees that looked like limbs of old men, branches that taper as they get closer to the sky. I imagined that I could hear the sound of the air against their wings, the sure flap that caused them to rise so steadily.

By the time I was further into the valley, closer to home, colors were muted but no less lovely. Smoke was rising out of most chimneys, lighter than the sky. The dance that spills out is just so sensuous. I could smell the wood fires and there was something about it that evoked memory of a long time ago. It was the kind of memory that gets you to the edge of a place or a feeling, but doesn't quite take you all the way there.

Coming into the village the road straightens and the houses that line it looked quiet. Some have modest decoration for the season, and the lights shine bright against the snow. This landscape that I move through every day welcomes me home and the simple task of driving to get here has felt like a part of an important journey.

fully exposed and leaning toward the wind.

I’m glad we’re all gradually coming back to this blog—it’s like finding a way back home, like Kate can so poetically articulate, my mother continues to redefine, and what gives me peace of mind from the obstacles I move around, like a slalom skier, in my daily routine that is chock-full of self-imposed regimens.

Even as a kid, I needed to create order. My sisters and mother still pick on me for my residual OCD-ness, my compulsions to organize and keep it together and look put-together in the same breath. A space where I know where everything is, keeps me free of stress. I had lived alone for years, until Molly became my roommate in Portland, ME.

 

We kept house, sharing chores, and optimized the square-footage of our apartment, promoting a nurturing environment that had nothing but good, motivating energy. We had one rule:  Keep the negative out! And we did, by helping and supporting one another through our latest endeavors to better ourselves in school, at work, and in our romantic relationships. We told it how it was, not withholding or sugar-coating, because we respected each other and wanted only happiness for the other. We laughed until it hurt, and hugged it out when we needed to cry. Now, Molly’s out West in Mammoth, CA and I miss her like crazy, but I know she’s following her own internal compass and rightfully I’m proud of her for doing it, getting up and just going and honoring her adventurous spirit.

 

It’s amazing how much can transpire in such a short passage of time. Only a couple years ago, it felt like we were on the berm of making big decisions and important life choices. Today, when I look at the Facebook feeds, or have a conversation with my mother or either one of my sisters, everyone genuinely sounds like they are in places that are rewarding and full of joy. And of course, this is what they deserve and all I have ever wanted for them.

 

As for me, I continue to forge ahead with the pursuit of writing. I’ve had a couple publishing endorsements since my January graduation (I can’t believe it’s been almost another, whole year!), and as we move into 2014 there are already a few, exciting things on tap that will be shared as my work is released to the public. I have no complaints in this realm. I feel I’m on track to shape a career out of this passion of mine, and all the signs are there to keep me confidant that I’m following the right path.

There have been some changes, personal sacrifices and a handful of compromises. But I’ve held it together as best as I can and have most recently discovered what coming out on the other side of the tough stuff can do for an inspired mind. My faith in love is restored, as past tensions subside and I heal from what I can’t undo. I’m finding for the first time in my life that I’m following my heart, and accept fear as the unknown challenge I’m finally ready for.

Franz Kafka had some great insight into the important role fear plays in the development and growth of one's character: he said, by accepting fear as part of one’s substance, it perhaps becomes the defining attribute—how we reach for more, not knowing where the extent lies, or can be.

I’m certainly leaning toward the future, with my face fully exposed to the wind. And I'm anticipating all the possibilities.

~Sarah

 

'Tis the Season

The first big snow of the year was an easy reason to be still

and home

and do the things I put off all week long

Piles wait for me

Unread newspapers slipping off of the sofa

Mail addressed to me, thick with pleas to contribute to one cause or another

Just because I donated once or never but fit a profile of 

some kind of bleeding heart

Unsorted laundry

Layers of scarves draped over the banister

The over the door hook in the downstairs bathroom

weights the door down with work garments that need special attention

Shriveled boots accumulate in the shoe tray, now water stained by the others 

placed carelessly on top.

And Christ! there are socks everywhere;

Under the kitchen table, in the living room, on the stairs, stuffed inside those limp boots.

I shoveled and swept a bit

Baked cookies for my students who I know will not have moms or grand moms who

love this part of the coming holiday when what hangs in the air is as important as what moves

around them or settles under a tree.

There was a flurry of communication from two of three daughters and friends

Visits from neighbors who stopped by and shared a cup of tea,

a hard conversation with my sister who is anticipating her son Thomas's pending surgery

to save his heart, a good heart, an honest heart, a frightened heart

All of whom I wish could come together to share a meal, embrace at arrival and departure,

and celebrate this season when we give thanks

for all that is good, knowing that each day is precious

and far more important than anything

as trivial as socks.

5 years.

I write this post from that same big bed that was moved piece by piece from our too-big house on Urban Road.  The same ginger husband reads next to me, looks over to notice that somehow I'm writing again, and doesn't question it just waits for me to turn off the light eventually.  Recently I realised that it's been 5 years since I left my life in the states and whilst I would have loved a weekend to reflect on that, I took 5 minutes, micro-blogged a thank you on Facebook and went back to my very different, very hectic life. 

I work hard, in a thankless job where I'm oddly respected and can play dress-up every day.  I'm an anomaly to my coworkers, will never stop being a foreigner really and overshare, cry too much, get frustrated too easily and just as easily let it all go when the key scrapes in the lock and my beautiful partner has run the bath and vacuumed the cat hair off the living room rug and grocery shopped without me because it's dark at 4pm and he's home before and somehow, despite what I think, he believes I deserve it.  The disconnect from that work-self when I walk in the door is an amazing form of sweet release.  I get 30 minutes, give or take, to complain about my day and then I must let go and surrender my best self to my real life.

I've never been ambitious really.  Never thought I'd have an important career or save the world or go back to school for an advanced degree.  I've been searching for my way home for years, for a true life partner and soul mate, a love to take for granted and a beautifully curated life.  My walls aren't filled with degrees or awards but photos of our wonderful extended family and the adventures we've had, art created by the women in our life.  My life isn't my own any longer, it's shared and cooperative.  I've never been so unselfish in my life and my only fear of having children is that I may love them more than I love this man.

It's been so long since I've written, I worry this is rambling but it feels so good to stretch these muscles, I hope eventually I can articulate some coherent thesis, explain myself better.  Bear with me.

Kate