I was living in a blessed time

It was a rich life.  Even I, the most selfish and least satisfied and most sensitive and wary one, even I knew I was living in a blessed time. – Ellen Gilchrist, Net of Jewels

Vulnerability fosters closeness

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blue post-blizzard morning

This month of the Here Year has been particularly thought-provoking for me.  Aidan chose vulnerability which I think is a rich, complicated, and fascinating topic.  A couple of weeks ago, there was a widely-circulated Modern Love essay called To Fall In Love With Anyone, Do This.  I was particularly struck by a piece I read in the article’s wake, which listed the specific questions the author refers to, and asserts that “mutual vulnerability fosters closeness.”

Aidan and I decided it would be fun to together answer some of the 36 questions.  In the name of vulnerability and in the name of our project, we each agreed to share our responses to five of the questions.  I’d love to hear your thoughts on the basic premise that being vulnerable to each other is the (only?) way to build true intimacy and, eventually, love.

8. Name three things you and your partner appear to have in common.

We both have parents who are still married to each other.  We are both from New England.  We both lived in London for a formative stretch during our childhood or young adult years.  Aside: I’m curious about the “appear” in the question.  These are all facts that we definitely have in common!

14. Is there something that you’ve dreamed of doing for a long time? Why haven’t you done it?

I have long dreamed of writing a book.  I still dream of this, though, candidly, that dream is changing.  I haven’t done it because I haven’t yet convinced a publisher to take a chance on me!!

16. What do you value most in a friendship?

The knowledge that a friend will be with me, no matter what.  That they’ll tolerate me and love me in spite of myself.  That they’ll show up and listen and be there, whatever comes. Abide with me, as always, plays in my mind.

30. When did you last cry in front of another person? By yourself?

I last cried by myself last week, out of fear and frustration and the unknown.  I cry in front of my children all the time.  I last cried in front of a friend in December when I realized I had behaved thoughtlessly and in a hurtful way.  I drove over to her house, showed up, and just started bawling.  It was most definitely the Ugly Cry.  I think she heard me that I was sorry.

34. Your house, containing everything you own, catches fire. After saving your loved ones and pets, you have time to safely make a final dash to save any one item. What would it be? Why?

One of my photo albums from before digital photography (I still make old-school photo albums but the photos are also saved digitally).  Or else one of my four quote books that I’ve been keeping since 1985.

I’d love to hear your responses to any or all of these questions.  Furthermore, do you agree that mutual vulnerability is what love and closeness are made of?

The Hermitage Club

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A couple of weeks ago Matt and I took a rare and wonderful 24-hour respite from real life.  We spent a night and a day in Vermont at the Hermitage Club and it was absolutely perfect.  While Matt is from Vermont, this was a corner (southwest) of the state we haven’t spent much time.  In fact, I’d never been there.  Now, I can’t wait to go back.  I am in love.

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We started our adventure with an evening snowcat ride to the top of Haystack Mountain, now a part of the private Hermitage Club.  We had fondue and drinks in a hut at the top and admired the nighttime views, and then enjoyed a delicious dinner in the gorgeous, brand new lodge.

The next morning dawned clear and cold and we had one of the best breakfasts I’ve ever had at the Hermitage Inn. We knew we were in Vermont and felt right at home because we were sitting under a print of a painting of a duck by Matt’s adored aunt.  We then headed out to ski the pristine slopes of Haystack.  Because the Hermitage is a private club, it’s never crowded.  All morning (and we tragically had to leave after lunch) we skiied directly onto ski lifts. There were #noliftlines.  It had snowed the night before and the mountain was covered in several inches of powder.

Matt and I have skiied a lot, at a lot of places (New England, out west, Europe) and I can say without reservation that this was easily among our top three ski days.  Ever.

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We stopped at the same hut where we’d had drinks the night before for a hot chocolate.  Every single person we encountered working at the Hermitage was friendly, warm, and professional.  The service is flawless.  The Hermitage has seen to every detail and made skiing as comfortable as humanly possible.  There is valet parking and people take charge of your skis and gear for you.  The food is delicious.  There are no crowds.  They can’t – yet – control the weather, but the introduction of a covered chairlift before next season will mean that riding up is warm and comfortable.

Haystack and the Hermitage are simply spectacular.  My only regret is that Grace and Whit weren’t with us as I know they would have adored it.  I think the Hermitage is absolutely built for children.  It would be a fantastic place to learn to ski (no crowds = a much safer environment) and there is a full ski school program. The club has an excellent golf course and the mountain offers excellent biking and hiking opportunities.  The spa wasn’t yet open when we were there but I imagine it’s, like the rest of the resort, absolutely perfection. There’s no question this is a four-season destination.

There are two ways to ski Haystack: join the Hermitage Club or stay at the Hermitage Inn.  The latter is a great way to get a taste of the Hermitage Club experience, and the Inn itself is, as far as I can tell, the manifestation of a perfect New England inn.  If breakfast is any indication, it’s some of the best dining in Vermont.  They offer tubing, snow-shoeing, and cross-country skiing in addition to direct access to Haystack.  This place is absolute, downright, unfettered magic.  I cannot recommend it highly enough.

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 The soaring ceilings of the lodge, with outrageously cool lighting fixtures

Disclosure: we were privileged to visit Haystack and the Hermitage as guests of the club.  All opinions shared here are absolutely my own.

 

That which we love

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Thank you Lindsey, it is a huge honor to appear on your blog.  I’m grateful for you, my friend.

That which we love

Three years ago, a night nurse broke my infant son’s legs. The abuse was intentional and she served (only) one year in jail. In the course of the investigation, we learned that six months before coming to work for us, the thirty-one year old woman also broke ten bones on two-week old twins in Belgium, before fleeing in the middle of the night when the parents took the babies to the hospital. A native of Utah, she was convicted and sentenced to four years in Belgium, with an extradition hearing set for March.

I share the story above only as context for the letter below to my sweet, hilarious, healthy, happy three-year-olds regarding vulnerability. Because the only thing I know for sure is the things and people we love most make us vulnerable. And the path of being truly alive includes how to remain that way.

To my sweet little unfurling souls, Kalvin and Grace,

Vulnerability. The concept has always been a tricky one for your momma having been raised in a Midwestern family where emotive displays contrasted sharply with the stalwart moral value (dare I write) of keeping a stiff upper lip. Add to that years exhibiting steadfast calm behind the goaltending hockey mask regardless of thousands of people yelling insults, and to say I was less than comfortable with being vulnerable would be an understatement.

And so in adulthood, I tackled it from a cerebral point of view, defining vulnerability as having the ability to say, “I don’t know” and “I’m sorry” and “I feel x, y, z.”

Then you.

Actually, then Daddy and then you.

The three of you cracked me wide open, drastically changing my definition of vulnerability, because it’s like this: the people and things we love utterly and completely, and dream for and about from the deepest place within ourselves, and yearn and ache for such that our chests feel too small; they are what make us vulnerable. Disclosure warning. Your momma has suffered public and private humiliation, crushing heartbreak, the betrayal of close friends, violations of trust and love, pain, loss, rejection, devastating guilt, and deep, deep profound loneliness. All because I have loved. The pain exists; it is real. And it will be for you. The fact that there is nothing I can do to prevent your pain is at the heart of what I’m attempting to convey in this letter to you.

Because, my sweet little beings, I hope you love the world anyway. I hope you have the courage to fall in love with as many things as possible, over and over again.  I hope you always remember how to melt into the moments in front of you, as you do so naturally now; how to be present with the stars in a clear mountain sky, the spontaneous laughter of a great friend; the yearning regrets of a parent, the curiosity of a toddler touching snow for the first time, the dog who will not leave his injured owner’s side, the snow crystals than hover suspend in the air, as if we all lived and breathed amongst billions of tiny diamond fairies. I hope you feel it all.

I think Momma’s friend Lindsey is right, vulnerability and presence are inextricably linked.  And being present for the good stuff is much easier than remaining present for the hard. But to truly live, I believe you need to be open and vulnerable to both. In order to evolve, you need to learn to carry those contradictions gently in your hearts.

Someday you will ask me about what happened to you. You will ask about depravity and pain, and I hope I will be able to convey with empathy and compassion that yes, evil exists.  It lived and breathed in our home, it smiled and laughed at our dinner table. It tortured babies. It injured you.  And yes, knowing of evil is different than experiencing its existence, as you have.

But the same is true of love. And you know so much love. And I know so much love.  And our home is full of love. And so I hope you will have the fortitude to choose, despite human depravity, to see beauty and live in a way that is a tribute to overcoming the darkness.  I hope you will have the courage and the grit to know you can handle anything life throws at you.  I hope you will have the bravery and the resilience to stay open, vulnerable and porous (Lindsey’s word) such that even when you feel like a lonely drop in a vast ocean, you will remember you are not alone, for you are the ocean itself.

Because here’s the spoiler alert, even the people and things you love will break your heart. Wide open. Especially those. Sometimes they break it to let the light in. Sometimes they break it so your heart can heal stronger. Sometimes the things we love break our hearts so we know just how strong we are.  And sometimes, the heart just breaks.

But therein begins the challenge, path, and destination all in one. Can you continue to honor what your heart is feeling and the life you’ve been given, no matter what? Can you stay open anyway; can you live with what is?

Because more than anything that happens to you, how you react and the choices you make will determine the quality and course of your lives.  Your choices will define you, not the darkness, not the hard, not the evil, not what anyone else says or does.  Just you.  Life simply unfolds.  It’s going to do its thing. And we all have the choice to jump in, lean in, learn and grow. Or we can choose to shut down, resist, and close. We can be the victim. We can live in fear, afraid of what happened or what may happen. We can live in tight little boxes of routine and comfort, secure behind the walls of distractions, rigid belief systems, over-exercise, strange restricted eating habits, closets full of perfectly folded clothes, calendars full of social engagements we don’t really want to attend, DVRs full of whatever, and the myriad of other ways people hide and defend themselves against the world.  We can blame, justify, rationalize. We can fold.

Or we can live.  Laugh, dream, cry, play, break, weep, despair, love, fight, hate, dance, and do it all again. Stand up, fall down, get back up, be your own hero, forgive yourself.  Forgive yourself, my little Gracie girl and Buddha bear.  Honor the manifestation of creation that is unfolding right in front of you, whatever it may be, each and everyday, knowing you will be okay. You will be okay. You are already okay. So you don’t have to close. You don’t have to shut yourself off from life.  It may hurt at times, okay. Ouch. Huge ouch. But try not to close. Try to surrender and melt into the magic because that is where the good stuff is found. That is where you reside now, even within our busy and chaotic days that are changing at a dizzying pace, you live totally and completely, with effortless resilience and affection, open and aware in each moment, ready for each adventure.

And so I want to live there too, with you. Your Daddy already lives there. His innocence and vulnerability both terrify and inspire me, just like yours. I’m all too aware that my need to live with three of you in wonder and awe leaves me vulnerable. And that’s ok. Because we are alive, together.

I love you both, with all my everything, love, Momma

It is a huge honor to share Sarah‘s beautiful words with you today.  It has been a privilege to get to know Sarah, in person as well as online, and I count her among my dearest friends now.  I hope you loved her writing as much as I do.  You can learn more about Sarah on her Writer page, here.

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On Turning Ten

The whole idea of it makes me feel
like I’m coming down with something,
something worse than any stomach ache
or the headaches I get from reading in bad light–
a kind of measles of the spirit,
a mumps of the psyche,
a disfiguring chicken pox of the soul.

You tell me it is too early to be looking back,
but that is because you have forgotten
the perfect simplicity of being one
and the beautiful complexity introduced by two.
But I can lie on my bed and remember every digit.
At four I was an Arabian wizard.
I could make myself invisible
by drinking a glass of milk a certain way.
At seven I was a soldier, at nine a prince.

But now I am mostly at the window
watching the late afternoon light.
Back then it never fell so solemnly
against the side of my tree house,
and my bicycle never leaned against the garage
as it does today,
all the dark blue speed drained out of it.

This is the beginning of sadness, I say to myself,
as I walk through the universe in my sneakers.
It is time to say good-bye to my imaginary friends,
time to turn the first big number.

It seems only yesterday I used to believe
there was nothing under my skin but light.
If you cut me I could shine.
But now when I fall upon the sidewalks of life,
I skin my knees. I bleed.

– Billy Collins

In honor of this week that Whit turned ten.  Thank you to Kim for reminding me of this beautiful poem.