2013: October, November, December

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Grace turned eleven.

We saw the Jerusalem IMAX movie and visited the Dead Sea Scrolls.  In the exhibit, we were able to write notes that would be sent to Jerusalem and put into the Western Wall.  Grace wrote “I would like to thank God for blessing me with an amazing family and everything I need.  Thank you God.”  Whit wrote “I pray to God that the Bruins win the Stanley Cup.”  Meet my children.

Whit dressed up as Indiana Jones and Grace as an “80s Valley Girl” for Halloween.

The four of us went to New Hampshire for homecoming at the high school I attended.  It was both freezing and fun.

We spent one wonderful Saturday morning rock climbing as a family.

Our Christmas traditions swept us along in December: tree trimming, carols, cookie-baking, noticing things.

My favorite post: Catastrophe and beauty, loss and joy

My favorite quote (which is actually my favorite quote of the whole year):

“Wherever you turn your eyes the world can shine like transfiguration. . . . I think there must also be a prevenient courage that allows us to be brave – that is, to acknowledge that there is more beauty than our eyes can bear, that precious things have been put into our hands and to do nothing to honor them is to do great harm.”

– Marilynne Robinson, Gilead

2013: July, August, September

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We had a reunion with all of Matt’s family in Vermont over the Fourth of July.

We had several wonderful sails with my parents in their seaside town in Massachusetts.

Grace, Whit and I took our fourth annual trip to Legoland.

Grace and Whit both went to sleepaway camp.  I cried as we drove away, but maybe not for the reason you think.

Whit’s godmother, one of my dearest friends came to visit on her way back to Beijing.

We spent a week as a family on Lake Champlain, a tradition that has come to mean an enormous amount to us.

My favorite post: It’s Not All Shiny

My favorite quote (of this season and, very possibly, of all):

“Life gives us what we need when we need it,” she said.  “Receiving what it gives us is a whole other thing.”

– Pam Houston, In My Next Life

2013: April, May, June

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The Boston Marathon bombings affected us all, triggering both fear and fierce pride.

Whit started playing Little League for the first year.  His team, the Giants, had an undistinguished record but a whole lot of heart.

We had a great day at Plimouth Plantation on Memorial Day.

We marked the end of second and fourth grades, and I took the children on a surprise trip to Canobie Lake Park to celebrate the first day of summer.

Over a weekend in June we celebrated my father’s birthday, with his wife, both of his children and all four of his grandchildren around a table.

My favorite post: Inheritance

My favorite quote:

Let everything happen to you: beauty and terror.
Just keep going.  No feeling is final.
Don’t let yourself lose me.

Nearby is the country they call life.
You will know it by its seriousness.

Give me your hand.

– Rainer Maria Rilke

Solstice

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On Wednesday I had the privilege of watching the almost-solstice sunset from the air.  This was my profile in the shadow of that sunset.

This is the holiest day of the year for me.  For the last week or two I’ve felt it coming, felt the awareness of the fulcrum we’re perched on more keenly than I can articulate.

One morning this past week, up early, I saw the year’s last full moon hanging low in the sky, heavy, striated with faint yellow, looking so close and so far away at the same time.  I watched the swollen moon as it passed towards the horizon, from the world we can see to that we can’t, and felt a tightness in my chest that reminded me: yes, this is solstice season.

Just this week, talking about the solstice, I told Grace and Whit about an experience I had many years ago on December 21.  It was dusk, and I was watching the sun go down.  I observed as the light at the horizon narrowed from a wide, almost spiky band of luminous pink to a narrower line, burning a fierce orange color.  All of a sudden, I was overcome with a sensation I hadn’t felt before and haven’t since.  I could sense my grandmothers, Susie, and Mr. Valhouli standing just over the edge of the horizon.  I couldn’t see them, of course, but I was aware of them, hands over their heads, waiting to receive the sun as it slipped from the bowl of our sky into that of theirs.

There’s something pagan and primitive about this day, a bone-deep awareness that the world turns in an enormous galaxy.  More than any other time of year, I’m reminded of our tiny place in the grand pageant of this universe.  Something ancient and essential beats in my body like a heartbeat on the solstice, an ancient message about the inextricability of and interplay between light and dark.

It is so dark right now, but there is also so much light.  This day reminds me of that.