I have been thinking alot about traveling.
And about how stressful it can be when I just am not sure if I have the right directions–if I don’t know the right way to get there. If I am not sure I can find my way to where I need to go.
I have also been thinking about how great it is when I just know that I am going to get there and am able to relax into trust. Maybe its because I am riding in the passenger seat and I have faith in the driver. Maybe its because I just know I am going to find it if I just keep moving along in this general direction. But its always then that I am able to relax, roll down the window, crank up the music, breathe and take in the scenery.
When I am confident I am going to get where I am headed I am able to enjoy the journey.
When I am not, I am a mess. I scrutinize every marker, analyze and reanalyze and second guess every decision that I make (to turn left or right?, to take the HOV lane or not?). I am up and down and all about and not at all seeing what is good about the getting there. I am obsessed with making it there finally.
On the otherhand if I can just have trust in my own inner compass, if I believe that I will get where I need to go no matter what happens on the road, suddenly the road is an amazing adventure–full of bumps and tunnels and unexcepted turns sure-but also full of amazing scenery I may never pass again. As amazing as the destination, even…
It would be shame to miss it because my head is in a map worrying about my next move, don’t you think?
Just a thought…
Tonight it rained. I sat in wonder and listened to the sound of the rain against my windows. I stood out on the front steps and let me feet get damp. It has been such a dry summer. The rain smelled miraculous and hopeful, the harbinger of good things. Life giving and cleansing. Just what we needed.
Nighttime in Rio, just after the storm passed
I have thought alot about my trip to Rio –the one I took two Octobers ago. We took this photo our first night there. Eddie’s friend, an ex-pat who had settled in this magical city, had taken us for a walking tour and showed us his favorite spot, a park across a lake from the hustle and bustle of this city. A rainstorm rolled in suddenly, unexpectedly, catching us on the wrong side of the park. It fell in sheets soaking us all as we ran for cover under some trees, laughing. I laughed harder than I had in months. At that moment, laughter bubbled up unexpectedly, as unstoppable as the rain. It was so absurd and silly and joyful. We were dressed to the nines for a night out on the town, with water running down our noses, with my chic outfit dripping and misshapen, my “oh-so-Rio” sandals squishing and making ridiculous noises. It was the funniest thing ever to be in Rio in the warm rain. I jumped in a puddle and lost my shoe. Pretty soon we were all laughing because I couldn’t stop laughing
I had felt so heavy and stressed when I got to Brazil. I was at the height of my financial panic and I had just started to wrap my heart around the idea that Juan was not coming back. I arrived at the airport after flying all night with only $20 American and a three day training to run in Spanish. I went to the cash machine at the airport to take out money for taxi fare and found my account was overdrawn. My cell phone was out of batteries. I had forgotten my credit card at home. I had no idea what I would do next. I went up to the money exchange counter and cashed in my $20. I hoped it would be enough to get me to the hotel where I could regroup and figure out my next move. I thought I had hit rock bottom. I felt so alone, like such a failure. To keep myself from breaking down in this strange city, I repeated a mantra “It is going to work out all right” and then I added a fervent “please” and threw in a prayer for good measure.
The taxi fare was exactly what I had in my wallet.
I got to the hotel and they told me my room was already paid for. I slept a heavy deep dreamless sleep. I woke up to find lunch. A a friend of a friend living in Sao Paolo who had come to meet me. A fully charged cell phone and a Dad on the other end able to wire some cash to get me through the week. And best of all when Eddie arrived that evening he had two airplane tickets to Rio.
Four days later I was standing in the rain in Rio, laughing as the water poured over my toes and ran down my fingers. I remember thinking that the rain washed some of my grief away that night, just let it slip right away and run into this lake, leaving me feeling a tiny bit lighter and ready to start healing.
Today I am filled with a yearning. A sort of mellow sadness. A tightness around my heart.
Last night I slept a deep, delicious sleep. But in this deep relaxation a dream came to me—a dream which won’t let me go.
It is a dream I have had before. I am fixing up a new house, a house I bought in a burst of enthusiasm full of hope and expectations. It was so much bigger than my old one—so beautiful and spacious. But now I stand in all the construction rubble and I don’t know why I left my old one. This house that held the promise of being more is a disaster. Rotting plaster, rooms that seem so suddenly small, an old kitchen and bathrooms that barely work. It is dark an chaotic and smells musty. I miss my old house, cheery and warm. I am angry that I sold it—that I let it go. I want it back. I don’t know why I paid so dearly for this mess of a house, this house I only sort of want now, this house that seems like it will never rise to my expectations. I wake up with the taste of a longing in my mouth. I can’t shake it.
I have this dream only when I am at peace. It is though, only in these quiet and happy moments when my heart is most relaxed that I can face the truth. I am in the middle of soul renovations and I am feeling a bit restless and regretful, wondering why I started on this project–why I dare to look within.
My heart, my life—it is being reconstructed after the hurricane that was my failed marriage destroyed the place where my heart last dwell. The blueprints laid out are ambitious plans—plans that hold promise of space and beauty, but seem so far from completion. I am tired of construction that never ends. I am impatient. I am questioning this new dream of a house—the wisdom of it all. I want my old one back. Sure it was too small. But it was comfortable. It was home.
I have sat with this dream all morning, all afternoon as the children catch frogs and feed ducks. As I pack up our cabin to ready ourselves to leave tomorrow. As I run errands and watch the wind blow through the pines and whip up waves on the lake. I don’t know what to do to shake it and so I don’t. I sit with it until I am at last ready to let it blow away in the Maine breeze, the comfort that I can recognize what is going on in my heart at last what allows it to fade
At last, on Thursday, I rise before the sun. Lisa stumbles down with coffee in hand and drags me out of bed. Together we pull the kayaks into the water, though first we inspect them thoroughly with flashlights, making sure there are no sleeping spiders to tickle our feet. And then with few words we push off onto an ocean of glass and mist.
The lake is still. Only one lone bird is awake and singing. Fog hangs down silent and heavy over the pines—the distant shore but a watercolor—an idea of a forest—a memory of one long ago.
As I move silently I half expect the Arthurian lady of the lake to appear and whisper something wise, perhaps ancient mother secrets of creation. My paddle dips into the water. But the ripples disappear almost instantly as we glide glide glide along the lake, paddling to the middle. The eastern sky is becoming blue now and then from behind the Monet pines fingers of orange reach up, like a hand offering hope. Then the great globe rises brilliant and true—a drop of primary color oil paint on a watercolor masterpiece: brilliant, garish, warm.
We sigh, Lisa and I. We break our silence to talk of metaphors of God and sun. I point out that every ancient culture worships the sun in one way or another because of moments just like these when a dark night instantly becomes day. More birds are in the sky and trees now waking their children and their neighbors with hymns to this hope—this promise that we have one more chance to live. The mist is fading fast, giving way to a brilliant day of blue skies.
I breathe in the smell of pine and cedar and whisper thank you. It is late before we beach the boats. Activity has broken out now on shore. I enter the cabin to see my child raise his head and smile—“Good morning, mama!” I pick him up and wrap him in his blankets, snuggling him in my lap. “Yes,” I breathe into his little ear. “it is”
Chairs at the beach in rain: Woods Pond, Bridgton ME
Stumbling over gnarled roots I traipse back home after the rain. So tired. Not the content sort of tired that seeps into your blood after a day of lounging but an ugly sort of, perhaps I am getting sick, I can’t think straight sort of tired. The fact that I am feeling it here in Maine, in a place of perfect peace is what convinces me that I am indeed suffering from something more than just regular fatigue. That I am not imagining this physical tiredness struggling to be acknowledged.
I don’t like to talk of this fatigue much. I don’t want to validate it, as though talking about it to anyone but my doctor or my father will somehow define me as the tired girl. I don’t want it to define me—I am –I want to be– vivacious, active, full of spunk. I want to live life to the fullest and to expand into every blessed moment. Somehow dragging wet feet down the lakeside path doesn’t feel like LIVING to me. The days when I just can’t lift my head, when all I want to do is crawl into bed, they feel to me like an insult or perhaps a traitorous act—my body and my mind set against my heart and soul.
These days have passed so quickly. Time moves fast when you move slow. I am sad that I have not been able to savor each minute of this precious time, waking up long past sunrise, going to sleep while the bonfire still roars and my cousins’ laughter echoes across the lake. Sneaking away from the communal dinner making because I can’t do one more thing.
But it has been precious nevertheless and that, I must remind myself, is the gift. The lesson is to take what I can from each moment—even the imperfect ones, even the ones that seem blurry and dull and foggy with fatigue. Living in the moment means accepting the moments when you are less than your ideal “living in the moment” self. Now that’s something to get your mind around, huh?
Its rained a little everyday now. Not all day, just a bit. Enough to drive us all indoors for awhile to pop popcorn, or eat lunch inside before the sun comes out from behind the clouds again. And I have too admit, I have been a bit draggy and gray myself. Not all day. But I’ve been a bit more tired and grouchy than last year. A bit more foggy and tired.
Last year, my first year at the lake it didn’t rain at all. It was a picture perfect week—for both of us “the lake” and me.
Last year, the lake and I, we were like new lovers putting on our very best for each other. Every day I woke full of energy to witness her brilliant sunrise, the glassy stillness of the water at daybreak. Every day she sparkled, all blue skies and sunshine while I dwelled fully present in the marvel of every hour—“Look how lovely the trees look in the 2 pm light—how different from the way they looked this morning.” “Oh! The air smells so beautiful right now? Does it always smell so clean here on a Tuesday?” And every night we stayed up late together the lake and I, a chorus of thousands of grasshoppers playing along with the soundtrack of the restless waves rocking the boat knocking it against the dock, as I lay on my back on the green green grass and counted stars with my son.
But this year we are sure of our love for each other and so we are no longer pulling out the stops. I am too tired this year for sunrises. I wake well past dawn when the lake is already busy with swimming and kayaks. The nights are not always clear and bright. The grasshoppers are not always singing. And sometimes this lake she is even gray and choppy. And sometimes we both rain a bit.
Now don’t get me wrong…The lake is no less lovely to me. She is every bit as beautiful and peaceful as I remember. I am seeing a new side of her and finding new beauty in the rain rolling of the pines or the reflection of the dark clouds on the water. Furthermore, I am enjoying my time with my cousins twice as much as last year. There is a rhythm and a comfort this year—a routine that feels like it has always been this way—us here on the lake. We feed each others children and pick up our conversations exactly where we left off last year. There is not so much to catch up on. We can just look at each other and smile—holding hands while we watch our children play at the waters edge, helping gather each others books and towels when the storm clouds come.
And this comfort I think is translating to my relationship with these magic surroundings. The beautiful spot I call the lake–she knows I will come back each year a faithful pilgrim. And I too know that she will be here for me next year, a resting spot for my tired bones. This lake and I, we no longer need to impress one another. We are in that phase of a new relationship when you can relax and let a little of your imperfections show. I am really not that much of a morning person. She is not always sunny and bright. But we will love each other nevertheless. In sunshine and in rain. And that love is in the end better than a vacation full of sunshine.
Max and Zach fishing off the dock last year in Maine
Tomorrow Max and I are headed on a great adventure.
We are off to cabin #2 on a Woods Pond in Bridgton, Maine. We will be joined by a handful of my cousins on my mother’s side and their kids. The family will take over almost all of the ten cabins that surround Woods Pond. There is only one small pay phone there–somewhere between cabin #4 and #5 I think. Near the boat house perhaps. I never used it. There is no internet, and barely any cell phone coverage. At night it is so pitch black that you can actually see the stars. During the day you might see a bald eagle go fishing..
Last year was our first year “at the lake” although my cousins have been going for years. It was nothing short of pure bliss. I would wake at sunrise and sit on my front porch with my tea and my book watching Kevin come back from his morning walk or Eileen to float in on her kayak. Max would wake in the morning and skip out of the house immediately finding an “uncle” (read: grown cousin) to take him fishing or one of his cousins–perhaps 12 year old Zach or the teenage Al and Chris to take him out in a boat. Dinners were communal, and delicous and often followed by a bon fire in a huge outdoor firepit. I sat in an adirondack chair almost all day, reading, knitting, catching up with the cousins. Drinking in calm and relaxation and day after day of perfect sunshine.
Our crazy world with its swirling chaos melted away. There was only peace punctuated by the sound of wooden screen doors banging as little children ran in between the cabins or a cousin brought a cool drink out to share.
I needed this trip last year. I had been doing the single mom thing for 15 months and was feeling overwhelmed, tired and a little bit a failure. I need to sink into love. But was nervous. Aside from Eileen, I had really lost touch with many of my cousins. We hadn’t talked in ages. We didn’t know each other anymore. No matter how hard I tried all my memories of connecting with this crowd floated up from decades past. It had been a long long time.
I knew I didn’t have enough energy to put on a good face. I feared they would meet me at my worst.
But fortunately good faces aren’t required in our family.
From the minute we pulled in my cousins accepted that I just was–asked nothing from Max and I other than our presence. Reconnection came almost instantly and the love that was woven during childhood, the adoration I had for my big cousins, the fondness I had for the younger ones, it all came flooding back to me as though it was summer 1978. It rose up in me like a song I had sung years ago and upon hearing again knew all the words–but with a twist. They had all grown up into such amazing, brave and interesting people.
Eileen, Lisa, Matthew, Emily and Max on our dock
But what was even better was watching Max discover the joy of a big huge crazy family. We have been such a small unit of 2 down here in Maryland. Last year with each fishing trip, each frisbee throw, each search for minnows and dragonflies he was weaving his own blanket of connectedness and family. I breathed a sigh of relief. He will have others who call him family, even long after I am gone. I saw it with my own eyes.
Searching for minnows at the waters edge
By the end of the week, it pained me to say goodbye to my long lost loved ones now found. I knew that the distance and the craziness of all our lives would take over. We made lots of ambitous plans on how we would get together–meet somewhere between New England and Maryland–let the kids play, pick up where we all left off. But I think we all really knew it would likely not happen. So just in case we all just immediately booked another week at the lake in advance. I can’t believe it is already here.
Its true I haven’t seen any of them (accept Eileen- once- last fall) since we pulled out of the woods and hit the highway. But last week I had a message on my cell phone from Kevin. ”Are you still coming?” he asked the playfulness of a 9 year old in his voice. I know he is just dying to dunk me in a kayak.
Max and I just got home from Dolores and Morgan’s pack-and-pizza party. I felt like I was at a modern day barnraising. All day neighbors floated through to pack some boxes, break-down shelves, and load up the trailer truck while drinking beer and water by the gallon. They are still going under the street lights.
On Thursday night a group of neighborhood women gathered under a full moon to drink seabreezes and wine while Dolores roamed through her garden packing and weeding and just being there. While no one talked much about the impending move, we all sat and held the space, sitting together and giggling for just a few hours.
It seems that all these little rituals somehow make the going away easier for all those who are mourning this move. Perhaps it is easier to let them go knowing they are taking a bit of our hearts (and sweat) with them. I am saddened that I knew this family for such a short period of time. But I believe in my heart that it is not the end. We will continue I hope to keep them close.
Rituals like these that Dolores’ tribe have launched are so important. They mark endings and beginnings and allow us all to work through our joys and sorrows in community. We don’t have enough ritual in modern life. Too often we are too busy to stop and mark the simple every day wonders. I have thought about this quite a bit and wondering how I can slow down enough to add some ritual to our lives. I think it would be healthy for not only me, but for Max too. Rituals help us make meaning out of the world.
Late last week I finished a two year assignment to go back to my old job. I am leaving the office of the organization I have worked at for two years. And at the end of the week there was the party that I had dreaded. There was beer and wine,appetizers and cake. Cards and a gift. Everyone stood around in a circle awkwardly and said nice things about me. I felt so funny about it-I hate being in the spotlight and would have just preferred to slip away quietly. But a wise mentor of mine reminded me how we all need these rituals to mark our milestones. I needed it and so did all those I was leaving behind.
I would love to hear about rituals that you have incorporated in your life–I am looking for some good ones to help us bring some order and regularity to our days–to help us mark our endings and our beginnings and mark the time. Post your favorite rituals here in the comments or send them to me at margaretacasey at yahoo dot com.
Max and Holly in Adare, County Clare
This is Max’s new friend Holly. We met her in Ireland. They took one look at each other and were immediate fast friends–as though their whole short lives were leading up to this one moment. She runs like the wind and throws balls really really high. Like Max she can scale walls, poles, trees with ease and grace. After he met her in County Clare, the first words out of his mouth each morning were :”Mommy–is she coming over today?” He didn’t even have to say her name. We both knew that SHE was Holly.
Holly speaks with a crisp British accent. While I warned the hiking children by saying “Hey kids–look out for those prickly thingies” she passed the message down the line by saying “Mind the thistles now”. The mischief in her huge twinkling blue eyes I had expected to see on fairies only. No wonder Max loves her so.
Together the two of them played hard for four days straight until her family had to return to their home in the south of England. But when she left it was hard for me to believe that I hadn’t known her her entire life.
She and Max brought out the adventurer in each other. They scaled walls, invented games, made art and explored. Over castles and fields, restaurants and city streets they lived again and again fully and completely in each and every moment. They suggested outlandish games and hid from the two year old. They occasionally had to take to separate corners–but mostly they tumbled along in sheer wonder and bliss.
Watching the love affair between them unfold I was envious. Such instant friendships do indeed seem the stuff of childhood. We adults are more guarded. We chat about nothing for awhile, circulating around each other suspiciously, asking questions that will tell us whether we can take a step closer. We protect our wounded hearts carefully - don’t reveal too much–we know how easily it is to be hurt when we lead with a wide open heart. We know how hard goodbyes can be and find ourselves censoring ourselves–not wanting to commit our real selves to things that won’t last.
But as I joined their gleeful romps, I found myself questioning that supposedly smart adult behavior. I marveled at how two children who dared to live completely without fear of loss were able to experience such utter joy. I found myself wanting to be like them.
Its amazing to me how as an adult I tend to look at new people through the lens of time: How long have I known them–How long they will be around. I warm up slowly, revealing little bits of my soul. Carefully and slowly unfurling my dreams and thoughts when I know it is safe. Its not been a bad strategy–I have made many wonderful friends this way. But I wonder about the missed chances to connect–the people who were only around a few days or weeks–the people I never let down my guard for and who consequently I will never see again. I wonder about the joy I might have missed while I was worried about protecting my wounded heart.
Because my wise young son dared lead with a wide open heart we now have new friends. Holly and her family are coming to the US for a visit next year. She and Max have planned to take a ride in Uncle Sean’s police car and go to Grandma’s house on the beach. They will marvel at skyscrapers in NY and look for sea shells. Perhaps it will end there. Or maybe it will continue with subsequent visits to the UK. In some ways what the future holds is not important–we have already gained so much from knowing them.
And me, I have decided to emulate the girl with the fairy-like eyes and the boy with green socks. I have vowed to take chances with new folks. To let my kookiness shine with strangers. I still think I will protect pieces of myself from people who clearly don’t get me but I will channel Max and Holly when I find myself censoring for all the wrong reasons. I will welcome each stranger with a wide open heart.
When I was a little girl my mom used to recite this little rhyme whenever we pulled into the driveway after a trip.
“Home again, home again, jiggity jigg…Home again home again to roast a fat pig”. I have no idea where it came from but to me it is the language of return. I have been reciting it all morning.
Yesterday Max and I opened the door of our house and returned home after an amazing two week voyage across the Atlantic. I had fully intended to post pictures and write from rural Ireland but the closest thing I found to wifi was a pair of digital walkie talkies that my brother had packed. Amazingly the internet cafes in Ireland all close by 5 or 6pm and so I found myself frustratingly and blissfully unconnected…
The last two weeks were full of wonderful adventures and some fabulous experiences which I hope to write about now that I am home and settled.
For two weeks my entire family (Mom, Dad, brother Sean, sister-in-law Jen, nephew Jack, and of course Maxidoodle and I) ambled through Southern and Western Ireland in a celebration of my parents 40th anniversary. Over 40 years ago, they had come to Ireland on their honeymoon and wanted to celebrate the life they had built by taking their family back to the place where they had started it.
And so we went. All seven of us. In two big cars we drove all around–making our way from Dublin in the East to Cratloe–a tiny village in County Clare where we had rented a house for the second week: Max and I with mom and Dad. Sean and his family in another. Sean and I chattering away on the walkie talkies as though we 10–telling jokes or jointly navigating–pointing out scenes the other might have missed. When we all drove smushed in one car, Sean would roll down the window everytime we saw cows so that we could all moo as loud as we could and try to make the cows look at us. Such is a Casey family vacation.
Max and Jack loved each fiercely and annoyed each other greatly. It was a lovely reminder of my childhood. I am glad that Max is developing the kind of relationship with his cousin that most people only experience with siblings. The kind of relationship that Sean and I experienced. Of messy love and envy and joy. Of invading each others space and drawing new boundaries over and over again.Of loving each other despite everything. Of unending forgiveness.
And along with all the giggling, the laughing so hard I cried, and the teaching of children, there was long stretches of nothing but the wind and the Irish countryside. I found myself often speechless. No inner monologue, no outer dialogue–just breathing and observing and taking it all in. Such long stretches of mindfulness was a miracle that defies description.
Max and Jack resting in Killarney
We all came on this trip looking for different things. Escape, connection, adventure, renewal, healing, a glimpse of something we had always wanted to see. And like all journeys we came away with different and unexpected gifts: humility, silence, peace, friendship, renewed sense of silliness. Dad learned he can’t control everything–as much as he tries. I learned that I can peacefully be with my family and that I won’t get lost or consumed by their strong world views which differ from mine. Max learned that its not all about him.
But now, we are back. Happily back and settling into our routine. There are clothes to be cleaned, work to be done, friends to catch up with. So much happened in our little world while we were away. But even as we joyfully dive back in, I know I will return time and time again to the peaceful and silly voyage we just took. I know it will feed my soul. I know that I will do things a little bit different because of what I learned on the wild Irish coasts or the person I discovered inside of me when there was no one to talk to but the wind.
