Besides realizing that two glasses of wine can make you drunk, I have had this realization: that you can look at something, close your eyes and see it again and still know nothing – like staring at the sky to figure out the distances between stars.
– Ann Beattie
Last weekend was one of those golden, empty-of-all-plans weekends. We spent it at my parents’ house on the coast, one of our very favorite places. On Saturday morning my parents left for two separate out-of-town commitments, and the four of us looked ahead at two empty days with delight. We simply hung out. There was golf, tennis, hamburgers on the grill and dinner for four at the table on the back porch. There was reading on the couches, a game of Clue, many games of Mancala. There was some shouting and a lot of hugging. In short, it was our regular family life.
One thing that’s critically important to me is that my children know how precious it is to be alone, the four of us. I want them to know how much I prize that time. My attachment to these empty family hours grows ever fiercer and my experience of them shimmers with more and more beauty. I am sure this is correlated to my keen sense of how limited they are, days with no plans and only each other for company. These are the days I know they will remember as their childhood with a capital C, the days I’ll turn over in my pocket years and years from now like touchstones smoothed from repeated touching: them sprawled out on top of their beds asleep in the heat, the smell of sunscreen on Whit’s head when I kissed it, the clatter of Mancala pebbles as they played, talking quietly to each other.
My favorite part of the weekend, though, was Saturday afternoon at the beach. I love the coast; for many reasons I have explored before, there’s something about this border between two worlds, this place that the moon demonstrates its power over the tides, this land of shells and myriad blues that feels like home. On Saturday I stood where the ocean meets the land and watched my three family members’ heads, dark and sleek as otters, bobbing towards the wooden raft off the shore. They clambered up and waved to me, arms above their heads, exaggerated as though they were miles away.
Then I watched Grace jump off the raft into the ocean. She came up, broke the surface, and even from the shore I could see her grin. It was 5 weeks to the day since she broke her collarbone. I felt a wash of simultaneous wonder and gratitude, and saw the ghostly, broken bones on the x-ray in my head. My eyes filled with tears as I thought about how healing happens, inexorably, undeniably, mostly invisibly.
And I stood there, shallow waves lapping at my feet, watching my children hurl themselves over and over again from the raft into the ocean, hearing their laughter, trying to simply be there. I fought to keep my observer self inside my body, instead of letting her slip out and hover apart, watching, chronicling. No: I squished my toes into the sand, felt the sun on my arms, squinted to watch Grace and Whit having a cannonball contest. Trying to fully live that golden hour, even as I knew it was running through my fingers as I watched it.
Blond hair, blue eyes, cornflower blue sky. He swam by himself to the raft in the blue ocean for the first time this weekend. Whit, my first son, my last baby.
A snapshot of my version of “it all”: hydrangeas (one of our wedding flowers) grown by my husband, in our small front garden, on the kitchen island. In the back you can see a construction paper garland that Grace recently made for father’s day.
Like everyone else in the blogosphere and real-world-o-sphere, I have been participating in many conversations about Anne-Marie Slaughter’s cover story in the Atlantic, Why Women Still Can’t Have it All. While I certainly don’t have a clearly-articulated response to Slaughter’s comprehensive and thoughtful examination of working motherhood today, I do have a profound emotional response. By the third page of the article my eyes were full of tears, the words having touched some reserve of emotion in me as inarticulate as it is endlessly deep.
Most days I feel pretty good about my choices regarding work and family. Sure, I wonder sometimes what would have happened had I not “leaned back,” as per Sheryl Sandberg, before I was even pregnant. And yes, I do wonder what it would be like not to work, mostly whether I’d be a more relaxed and less distracted parent to my children. But on the whole I feel pretty good about the decisions I’ve made and about the trade-offs I make every day (I hate the word and notion of balance when it comes to this topic). My emotional reaction – quiet, but intense – when I read articles like Slaughter’s, however, suggests that something deeply buried in me still grieves, hurts, and wonders. About and over what, I am not entirely sure.
Mostly what Slaughter’s article has me thinking about, though, is what “it all” really means. My friend Kathryn, who is one of those can’t-live-without-her-friends that are for me a big component of feeling like I have anything like “it all,” emailed me to say she was at home because her nanny was out, sitting on her bed with her laptop working while her children lay on either side of her watching TV. Is this “it all,” she mused?
For me, the answer to that is yes.
I am certain this is a deeply personal equation, and one that changes every day. For me there are some elements of “it all” that are non-negotiable. Downtime with my children most days. A happy relationship with my husband. Work that I find challenging with colleagues I respect and learn from. Not missing any – or almost any – school events, plays, concerts, assemblies. My handful of dear friends, those native speakers whose companionship I cherish. Time, several days a week, to think and write about this divine and devastating life. Time to read. Eight hours of sleep most nights. Time, several days a week, to run by myself. The calculus of how each day’s hours are allocated is ever-shifting; I think having “it all” is something we ascertain over the arc of weeks and months, not in a single day.
The point of Slaughter’s piece with which I agree with most vociferously is that flexibility is absolutely essential to making this particularly rich, and demanding, phase of life work. There’s no question that that is true for me. I’m certain that my ability to be present for events both big and small in the lives of my children while working full-time has a lot to do with my job’s flexibility. Of course I’ve made compromises though, and I have written before about how my life over the past years has simultaneously narrowed and widened. What I’m not totally clear on is where the line is between a mature acknowledgement of the need for compromises and a defeatist acceptance of “not having it all.”
There is lots I don’t have. Lots. Tons of children. A book published. A fancy house. A perfect figure. Extravagant vacations. Sound sleep every night. A marathon under my belt. A high profile CEO job. A real yoga practice. Unbitten fingernails. A yard for my children to run in. A king size bed. A red-headed child. A basic orientation towards calm.
But I think I would say that in the ways I care about, I do have it all.
What is your definition of “it all”?
Update: I’m happy that Catherine, of comment #19, won Priscilla’s book in my giveaway. Congratulations, Catherine – I can’t wait to hear how you like it!
I’m thrilled to be participating in a blog party for Priscilla Warner‘s birthday. I read Priscilla’s book, Learning to Breathe, last year, and was immensely moved by it. I later read her first book, The Faith Club, in anticipation of our family trip to Jerusalem, and learned a lot of valuable information about the three religions that intersect so richly – and with such sparks – in the winding streets we walked in December.
Leaning to Breathe was one of those books that I think about every day. It was nothing less than a light for me, a beacon showing me the path, an invisible hand on my shoulder reassuring me that I am not alone in my sometimes-frantic, often-agitated search for a something I know is that even though I can’t quite name it yet.
Some of the greatest things in life don’t have to be so dramatic … It’s in the quiet moments that our lives are shaped. In homes, in cribs, in bedrooms, in the little things. That’s where it all happens.
This is my favorite passage from Learning to Breathe, and is one of the book’s many such intimate epiphanies. I’ve had the good fortune to get to know Priscilla through email since I read her book, and she’s every bit as delightful, warm, human, and inspirational as I had imagined. Furthermore, she has both the same name and same home town as my beloved grandmother, a small coincidence that nevertheless made me feel even closer to her. I’m thrilled to add my voice to the chorus that is chanting:
Happy birthday, Priscilla!
As part of this celebration, I’m thrilled to give away a copy of Priscilla’s book. If you relate to any of what I write here, I can assure you you will be touched by Priscilla’s story of learning to breathe, both literally and metaphorically. Please leave a comment and that will enter you into the giveaway. I can’t emphasize how meaningful Priscilla’s book is; I think everybody should read it.
In addition to this giveaway, Priscilla is hosting a wonderful birthday giveaway on her blog. She is giving away one of her buddha bracelets, a tibetan singing bowl, her favorite candle, nirvana Belgian chocolate, and a CD by Bellruth Naparstek, her guided imagery guru. Please click over to Priscilla’s blog to participate. Some other writers who join me in celebrating Priscilla are there as well. It is my honor to share in this wave of love towards someone who I am proud to call my teacher. Thank you, thank you, thank you, Priscilla, for all that you are, to me to so many.