brimming over

Lately, I can't seem to sleep in. It's Sunday morning, and I was awake long before six. I spent some time lying very still, trying to trick myself into falling back asleep, but my thoughts had other plans. 

Without my consent, they tried to work out why I feel so alienated from church, and what it is exactly that I am looking for. My thoughts reviewed my thus far failed efforts to find someone to stay with my kids and animals while I go on a mindfulness retreat later this month, and worried about a student I am seeing who is struggling. They reached for the threads of an evocative dream I had been moving through just a few moments before. And they took me back to this past Thursday, when Frances and I met up with two friends from Annapolis to tour Swarthmore in the morning and Penn in the afternoon.

My mom told me that Frances later described me as a puppy on Swarthmore's campus. That sounded about right. As we drove into town, past the old dilapidated apartment where I once lived, I became borderline giddy. The last time I had visited was with Mike and the kids when they were little, to meet up with some friends who were there for a reunion. I don't remember feeling like a puppy then, but I was making space for countless others who had their own stories and expectations and mixed-up histories; this time it was just me and my college-bound daughter on a brilliant sunny Thursday at the end of September. It smelled and looked and sounded exactly right, and I felt free to embody all my big feelings about taking in that abundance with her.

And sometimes, as happens when you re-enter an environment that is rich with memories and meaning, I could feel my twenty year old self taking center stage. And when that happened I often stood back and smiled at her, delighted by her, which is a much nicer feeling than looking back and feeling ashamed or convinced that she wasn't enough - or was too much - which I have felt at other times in my life. 

There were no formal tours offered that day, so I got to play tour guide for awhile. I immediately took our little group to the amphitheater on the edge of the Crum woods. On the way we passed a stone wall, where I paused and told Frances, Milena and Nathaniel that this was the exact spot where Mike and I had first kissed. 

Maybe because of the weird time-space magic going on, I felt not a shred of sadness in sharing that tender early moment with my husband who no longer walks the wooded paths of this earth. Rather, the sweetness and excitement of that afternoon filled my body. I told them how I had run directly from that kiss to my next class, walked into the room half-full of other students taking off backpacks and settling into desks, and grinned at them all. I could not hold it in; I announced to everyone: I just kissed Mike Brogan! and danced to my seat, where a male friend looked at me with a slightly embarrassed expression that meant: really, Meagan? wasn't that a bit much? - and I could have cared less.

Maybe that kind of behavior is acceptable when you're a senior at a very small college. Or maybe I was out of my mind, in total untrained puppy mode. Mike himself, as I later learned, would have been mortified by that kind of behavior. But none of that matters to me now. I treasure that memory.

Later we met up with an old professor of mine. We had been out of touch for nearly twenty years; I was a little nervous that she might not remember who I was, it had been so long. But she remembered well. 

She graciously answered questions and chatted with Frances and Nathaniel about Swarthmore, and then we sat down to talk while the rest of the group toured the lower campus. She had known Mike, and had not known that he died. And she had long ago divorced her husband who was also a professor in the religion department; he had known us both well, too. I used to babysit their children. They came to our wedding. They had modeled a kind of admirable adulthood to us when we were considering what we wanted our lives to be about, and that mattered. 

It was only when I sat down across from her, and she looked at me with her kind and generous eyes and my own filled with tears, that I flashed back to a memory with her from the first semester of my first year. My dad had just been diagnosed with cancer and I was going home for his surgery before chemo began. I hadn't told any adults at school; I was trying to muscle through all the work and confusion of that time on my own. She and I had a meeting to talk about my final paper for her class. When she asked how the writing was going, I started to cry, and told her about my dad.

She scooted towards me on her rolling chair, making caring maternal noises as her feet pushed her along her office carpeting, and wrapped me in a hug. I can hear her now: Oh, Meagan. Meagan. I'm so sorry.

She told me that my dad having terminal cancer was a big deal, and that I could have extensions on my papers. She told me my family was the most important thing and that I didn't need to do everything all by myself. She told me she would help.

What a gift that was! It changed everything about that moment in my life. And what a strange feeling, to be telling her about Mike, while that seventeen year old me experienced her care and support yet again. 

I gave her one of the little books I made from Mike's memorial service. We talked about everything. I got to see pictures of her daughter's adorable new baby and show her pictures of my other kids and talk about how exciting it was to visit colleges with Frances. She saw me then and she saw me now, and I was so grateful. My heart felt stretched and pulled in every direction. 

After we said goodbye, I found my people and we had lunch outside at the Swarthmore coop and headed off to tour Penn. Everything that day was filtered through the conversation of Frances and Nathaniel talking about their hopes for college, where they were applying, acceptance rates, SAT scores. This talk is normally off-putting to me - the endless strategizing about how to best position oneself part of it - because why can't young people simply work on becoming who they are and colleges could consider who would learn and grow well on their campuses and have that be sufficient rather than this anxiety-riddled money-fueled evil game - but anyway, I didn't mind at all on Thursday. I liked listening to their conversation. They are both such cool people. We ended back at Swarthmore, said goodbye to our wonderful friends and made one last stop at the college bookstore where Frances and I bought matching sweatshirts then walked under the tracks and up the big hill to our waiting car. 

It is as if one's life is an exquisite collection of oddly-shaped jewels, a thousand moments that if seen in the proper sunlight shine brilliantly. Maybe some are made of glass and have sharp edges that hurt, but these shine too. Normally in the rush of everyday life they sift through your fingers, one or another briefly popping into your awareness and sliding back into darkness, leaving a feeling behind for a little while. But on Thursday I magically held more of them than seems possible in my cupped hands. They didn't fall through my fingers; all those shining colors and shapes and surfaces stayed with me as we moved through the day. 

Because of this, my heart brimmed over with love for people past, present and future, including myself, again and again and again. 

quiet time

Today is the first day of third grade. And tomorrow is the first day of eighth and eleventh grades. It's happening people. Buckle up.

Yesterday comprised a series of obligations and duties. A big grocery shopping trip with special emphasis on desirable lunchbox items, a stop at dreary Office Max with the third grade supply list in hand, loads of laundry, an errand for a friend that took too long, ordering new dance shoes and leotards as Beatrice has outgrown everything, counter and sink scrubbing in service of the ongoing battle against our current fruit fly invasion. It rained on and off all day as I crossed various parking lots pulling mask loops around my ears. In the late afternoon, gripped by box store-induced malaise, I walked into the house and announced I had to lie down with my book for 15 minutes and could everyone please not talk to me. 

I am crazy about the novel I am reading right now. Family Happiness by Laurie Colwin. It's about a nearly perfect person behaving imperfectly, and the toll it takes when one's outer and inner lives do not match up at all. At least that's what it's about so far; I'm midway through and so eager to find out what will happen to Polly Solo-Miller, the privileged cheerful caregiving woman at the center of the book who is having an affair. It was published in 1982 and I think I am supposed to stand back every once in awhile and think: wow, things were so different then for women! So glad the work of countless determined feminists stand between what it was like to be a 40something mother in 1982 and 2021! But I identify so much with Polly and absolutely never stand back and think that. I only think about how I should probably be thinking that. 

The book in part is about what happens when life breaks through the stories you were told growing up, then took inside and kept on telling yourself, about who you are supposed to be and what your life is meant to be like. Sometimes something happens that is not supposed to, and the pages of the script fall uselessly to the floor all around you. Your forty-two year old beloved husband dies of a rare cancer. Or in Polly's case, you fall in love with someone who is not your beloved husband. Everything you expected and operated according to the logic of no longer holds up. Who are you, exactly, if not the person in the story that once framed your life?

Her problem was not that she had fallen in love with Lincoln, or even what had made it possible to fall in love with him: her problem was herself. It was the yoke she put herself under, the standards she chose to adhere to, and the fact that underneath all the service, cheer, care, and nurturing was some other Polly she had not quite confronted.

Three years in, I have begun to interrogate my insides. It's so uncomfortable. Yet I am compelled. I find my own stories there, and I am not so sure about any of them anymore. 

Gabriel came to see me in my room ten minutes into my declared quiet time and stretched out next to me. The dog had already come in and draped herself across my feet with a sigh. (One of my strongest moments of recognition: Polly and I both love 'horizontal life' and would do most everything lying down in bed or on the floor if we could). I put down my book on my chest and told Gabriel I loved it. I read him a passage out loud about how to recognize people who had been to progressive schools that made us both laugh (they hold their pencils funny, because they were never taught to do anything until they felt like learning it). Then he went to get his book and came back and we both read for awhile. Then Beatrice found us and arranged herself crosswise over my hips, legs hanging off the side of the bed and arms outstretched towards Gabriel, reclining Superman style. I told her she could get a book too if she wanted.

No thanks. 

Okay, but this is quiet time. 

Okay.

After about five delicious more minutes, I checked my watch and groaned. There was lots more to do before dinner time on the last day of summer vacation. All I wanted was to stay right where I was. I made pathetic gestures towards getting up.

Poor tired Mama, said the children.

I laughed. I told them I wish I was better at being an adult sometimes, meaning I wish I was better at putting a brave face on doing things I don't feel like doing, and thus modeling pleasant dutifulness for them. Tricking them into thinking keeping this family afloat is easy peasy.

No, no, said Gabriel. It's better like this. Remember? In our family we tell the truth.

Yeah Mama, Beatrice agreed. You should be honest about how you're really feeling. We like it that way.

That response gave me the strength to shake the dog off, dislodge myself from under Beatrice, and slip on my shoes. 

In that moment I saw clearly that being a functional adult does not require papering over one's pain with false cheerfulness. I suspect that might actually be a fucked up vision of adulthood, especially womanhood, and an unfortunate set-up for the generations that follow us. It ensures inner-outer disconnect. It's okay to be tired and want more than anything to read in bed, and it's okay to do the things anyway. 

The enlivening sweetness for me was in the fact that my children were teaching me about it. Believing our stories so intently, both Polly and I had only begun to face our inner knowing - that being depended upon to gracefully take care of people without proper acknowledgement is exhausting and ultimately enraging - when we were well into our forties, and only then in the wake of life-upending events. But my kids seemed to know something about this with charming and improbable simplicity. Duh. Just tell the truth. You're tired. It's better that way, for all of us.  

It can be hard and lonely to take care of my children by myself. Also, I love them more than anything. And I do, amazingly, feel appreciated and seen by them. 

I hope the stories they are learning about who they are and what the world is like leave lots of room for the vast beauty and heartbreak of their real life experiences. 

I hope their insides and their outsides are never too far apart. 

vacation's end

On Friday I wrangled Beatrice into bed way too late per usual, and was rushing us through her goodnight routine with a distracted mind. It ends with a sacred 'two minute snuggle' which is typically performed in silence. If we start talking it messes everything up and we have to restart the clock and begin again.

So after the final five goodnights, I draped an arm lightly around her ribs two-minute-snuggle style and quietly settled in to think of all the things I still had to do before I could close up shop for the night, feel annoyed at myself for not doing more to mitigate Beatrice's perpetual sleep resistance, and begin to think of steps I could take to support earlier bedtimes. Until she interrupted my thoughts. 

Mama. Mama! C'mon. Snuggle like you mean it. 

She explained she is always the little spoon and as such depends on the big spoon to come a little closer and provide a proper nest for her to nestle into. She wanted full contact. All the way. Like I meant it; like my mind and my body were in the same place, right next to her.

Oh, you're so right. Sorry about that. 

I scooted up as close as I could and wrapped my arms and legs around her, tight, then let all that weight relax and crush her a bit. She laughed. 

That's better!

Before I confess the following, please forgive me for articulating challenges that are associated with having two months off in the summer. I know I'm really lucky. But this year in particular I felt oppressed by my own expectations. In June and July I expected myself to complete various house projects, train our dog, teach Frances to drive, teach Beatrice to ride a bike, make time to nurture and care for myself, garden, provide the kids with fun summer adventures, help Beatrice go to sleep at night in her own bed and stay there until morning, and...oh yeah, finish writing that manuscript. I wouldn't be working, so there would be plenty of time!

Well. A few days ago I told the three of them that I couldn't wait to be a working parent again. Turns out this whole stay-at-home gig is too exhausting. I do a lot of dropping off and picking up, grocery shopping, hopefully putting things on the stairs where they sit neglected until I take them upstairs myself, pleading with Bea to get off a screen, struggling to balance the often-conflicting needs of three people, nagging them to do chores, feeling guilty when they struggle. Just because I have two months off work doesn't mean anything about parenting gets any easier. I forgot. 

And it fills all the spaces. Every available nook and cranny. 

A friend and I wallpapered my bathroom but I haven't made the dining room curtains or put up paint samples. The hanging basket of flowers on the back deck has turned to a shriveled symbol of my inability to water regularly. Beatrice still doesn't know how to ride a bike; it is my widow's shame. It's so easy to focus on the things left undone. 

And it's the last week of July! A week from today I will go back to my office, where I haven't worked since March 2020. It's shocking to think how long it's been since I enjoyed lunchtime chats with my coworkers and in-person therapy in the quiet and cool of my office. These are wonderful things to look forward to. 

And when I begin, I will say goodbye to the summer expectations because my summer will be over. Honestly, there is some relief in that.

But I'll also have to say goodbye to 9:15 barre class, open time with my kids, sleeping til seven, admiring the sunflowers, and companionable hours during the day with my adorable, infuriating untrained dog. It's okay. And luckily I'll have August to acclimate before the kids' fall schedules begin and I will have to crouch inside my barrel and brace myself for the rapids and inevitable trip over the falls of multiple evening activities and transportation coordination and childcare and so. many. emails every night about school and dance and cross country and mock trial and music lessons. 

At least that's how a part of me is feeling. Serious Sunday night dread. 

But then I remember like you mean it. I want to mean it. I want to be there for my life, even when my life is being a stretched-thin solo full-time working parent of three. If I don't mean it, I'll miss the snuggles. I'll miss the sky, the taste of coffee, the outrageous pleasure of a hot shower. I'll miss them.

I saw a photo of someone I don't know's baby shower on Instagram this morning. My mind immediately took me to the memory of baby Frances's fat hands pushing down on my bare thigh to pull herself up to standing while I sat on the floor at my sister-in-law's baby shower so many years ago. Our baby with her enormous brown eyes and soft wispy hair, taking everything in, leaning into my body when there was a barely a boundary between us; she knew the warmth and solidity of me would always be right there for her like her own hands were always right there whenever she lost her balance. My heart hurt, the memory was so vivid. Frances. Now she drives herself to work with increasing confidence while I watch and direct her from the passenger seat.  

The pull of the current can be so strong. I have learned the powerful expectations I have of myself as a parent from my culture, my peers, my own perfectionist bullshit. It's impossible; a set up. You can't be there for your life from the inside of a jolting, bouncing barrel. You can't shiver with the pleasure of a baby's hands on your skin. I want to set an intention right now, on the cusp of this new almost-post-pandemic approaching-a-normal-that-never-was season. 

Here is my prayer: God, give me the strength to say no, to take a breath, to resist multitasking, to tolerate and even embrace imperfection. 

Help me to make the space to live like I mean it. 

sing a song

A few nights ago I dreamt I was writing a song. In the morning I told Frances about it. She listened with an open, smiling expression, and when I was done asked, well, want to write a song with me?

Hmmm. Yes! I mean, I think so. Can I do that?

Her invitation was delivered with simplicity and an implicit faith that writing a song was something we could definitely do, no big deal, like taking a walk or making a phone call. Like making breakfast. She happens to write amazing songs so speaks with some authority about the apparent mundanity of all this. So the next morning when I woke up way too early, even though I don't know how to write a song, I tried out some lyrics at the kitchen table.

She found them later - you wrote a song! - and then asked if she could try setting it to music. Which she did, I kid you not, in about eight minutes. We sat down at the piano and identified the parts that sounded way too sentimental, the lines with too many syllables, figured out what was missing and what could use more rhyme. The back of my throat gathered tears throughout this easy collaboration with my musical daughter. I kept telling her how she was blowing me away. She kept laughing and telling me it was just basic music theory, nothing special.

Are you kidding me? I don't think so. She is a songwriting goddess. The way she can arrange chords and make simple words fill up with emotion and meaning they didn't have moments before, when they were sitting flat and pencilled on the page, strikes me as magical. 

We went through a few versions and finished it yesterday. We sang it together for my mom, Beatrice, Diana and Teb last night after dinner; I could barely hold off the tears. It's a song about turning forty-four next week, which is the same age as my dad. It's about having to grow up without him, and not wanting to leave the space his years made, and I sang it with my daughter who will someday turn forty-two and contend with being the same age as her dad. 

Later, Diana emailed me the poem she had recently written after her uncle died, about the experience of going to the site where his plane had crashed with family. It took me breath away. Reading it, I felt something of what it was like to be there, the quiet and light, the absence and presence.

And then this morning I received a letter from my friend Christine, inside of which was folded a poem she wrote that will be published next month. The poem is about learning that Mike died while she was at the beach. After dropping Beatrice at camp and Frances at work, I only had time to read the letter before going to a barre class. Afterwards, sweaty and content, I climbed back into my car and sat parked on Prince St with the windows down, the cool morning air and sounds of street life gently pushing against me as I unfolded her poem. 

You can read it in The Southern Review soon, if you're interested. It is very beautiful and like Diana's poem, took me right inside her experience: the water all around, the sun too bright, the shells on the beach.

I held that piece of white paper lightly in my fingers and a raucous brass band outside the Market nearby began to play. The joyful music fully cracked opened the pain of Christine's loss for me - her son's godfather died! - and it filled my whole body. Just for a moment, a gasp. Then I took a breath and nosed into the flow of traffic.

And all of these brushes over the past twenty-four hours with words and music that stretch towards what it is really like to live in the face of loss, mystery, and love have left me with a feeling of poignant tenderness that pulsates right at the surface, right where my skin and the air touch one another. The tenderness is for our particular stories, but even more than that I am moved by our human impulse to take pain and make it into something beautiful we can touch and give one another.

A song, a poem, a porcelain teacup, a photograph, a dance. Art can contain a crushing avalanche of hurt and transform it into glistening veined pebbles, the kind you can't bare to leave on the beach but take home and save in a glass jar instead. It can take the brute absurdity and outrage of death and transform it into an exquisite shape we can hold in our hands.

I love that. I love being a person and living in this world with other gorgeous maddening yearning people who make exquisite things out of what we are given. 

After we sang our song last night, Frances asked me if I wanted to write other songs (that is, after she trains me up so that I can actually sing the songs I write, which she insists is possible). 

I think they'll all be sad, I said. I can't really imagine writing any other kind of song.

That's okay, she said. Me neither. 

(The Frank O'Hara poem up top was on the wall of an exhibit at MOMA,where Frances and I visited last week for her 16th birthday).