Sigh

It’s the launching season. Time to grab a pumpkin latte and check the school supply lists.

Or if you’re in the roomier nest stage like us, it’s time to clutch the ache in your chest and drop your youngest at the airport for his semester abroad. To trust that he has what he needs, literally and figuratively, to explore the big, beautiful world and return home safely.

Then it’s time to rent a U-Haul to help move the newly graduated son into his first NYC apartment. It’s a big deal. I’ve been saving for this day. My basement is full of ‘first apartment’ offerings. Couches, a recliner, small appliances that work—just not as well as the upgrades that replaced them.

Yep, the kids are out in the world doing their thing. Starting new adventures. All good here, I texted my sister yesterday. Because it is. All good here. 

Sigh.

It’s a new season. One where my husband and I—who’d become more like relay runners—now get to return to the goofier selves to which we were first attracted. 

It’s also a season where routines no longer reign. Tasks that once felt mandatory have been rendered optional. Grocery shopping? No thanks. Dinner? Maybe. Laundry is now a competitive procrastination sport. We get around to it eventually. But we’re both waiting for the other to run out of underwear.

The number of souls that might fall apart if I drop one of the balls that were once soaring through the air, registers squarely at zero. Well, that’s not totally true. Daisy needs me. Rob forgets to put ice cubes in her water, and she doesn’t always drink without them. So, there is one very special canine that might experience dehydration if not for my diligence. But you get the picture—exceedingly low stakes.

Which is mostly liberating. Cause during all the chauffeur/calendar management/kitchen duty years there was a feeling of losing myself, a lot of the time. Now I have meaningful work, amazing friends—heck, I’ve got trips to plan!

Sigh.

I miss the old days. The clarity found in the predictable rhythm of family routine. Don’t get me wrong. I’m excited for what comes next. For the boys and me. 

But there’s a tickle in my gut knowing that Staples is chock full of sharpened pencils, three ring binders, and those ridiculously expensive calculators that they had to have, and I knew they’d lose. 

I’m in good company. There are loads of poignant momancholy articles flooding my social feeds. I know that I’m not alone but it’s a lonely feeling, nonetheless. 

There is no fix for this condition. No going back. This was the goal all along. And someday not too far from now, I’ll likely look back on this chapter with a similar deluge of nostalgic emotion. 

Time to appreciate this day. Get cracking. No way around, only through. 

Sigh.

You know what might help? 

New pencils. Oh, and notebooks! Can always use those. We’re also running low on envelopes and my favorite black cartridge pens. 

Guess I’ll make a list. Right after I get my pumpkin latte.

That Was A Lot of Work, Also Fun and Quick...

When You Say Nothing at All

Ours was a whirlwind romance. Timing in the form of meant-to-be.

I opened the big wooden front door in my apartment building and there he was, my husband of now twenty-five years. He was there because a co-worker (now my sister-in-law) was graciousness enough to show up to a Christmas party thrown by an eager twenty-something. Our first date was two days later, and we’ve been together ever since. 

It’s hard to remember most of the formative moments of those years. But there are some that are etched deep. Like the first time we heard Alison Krauss’s When You Say Nothing at All on the radio while driving. We both knew the words, sang loudly, and from then on it was our song.

We danced to the song at our wedding. It’s probably my most played selection on Spotify. When it’s featured in a movie, I rewind. The song is about what the title implies. Not needing words to communicate. 

You say it best when you say nothing at all.

Which is kind of funny because Rob and I rarely are at a loss for words. We’re analytical to a fault. Rob’s family calls the unique form of perseveration, Howleyizing. The practice is alive and well in our branch of the Howley clan. No subject is too small or too big for a good old-fashioned breakdown. It’s one of things I love most about us. It can also be quite exhausting when life, as it often does, requires a decision to be made. 

Which is also why it was a small miracle that after finding each other, we just decided. We were a we from the very beginning. We worked, what-ifs be damned.  

The totality of our two plus decades has not been a seamless fairytale dance. Marriage is a push-pull endeavor. But it’s humbling and extraordinary to live alongside your best friend who puts you on a just-high-enough pedestal so that tumbles aren’t catastrophic—and you’re equally excited when the other walks through the door. Also, our sons are fantastic. Better versions of us in every way and so on days and years when we’re hot messes, we have proof of our best selves.

I’m incredibly thankful for all of it—but especially for you, Robbie.

Try as I may I can never explain

What I hear when you don’t say a thing.

Happy anniversary to us.

Courage Reborn

I love things that hold things. Bags of all shapes and varieties. Boxes with top that have compartments on the inside. Ceramic anything, the brighter, the better. Glass bottles. Baskets. Tiny trays. Wooden trays. Vases. Pitchers. Clay pots. 

 

Of all the vessels I’ve amassed over these many years, my collection of notebooks is the most impressive. Some are colorful, purposefully adorned, other more muted; it hardly matters. Their value is in their readiness.  

 

In my early adulting years, I collected notebooks in preparation for the days when my thoughts would crystallize into profound formations. They sat unopened for a long time. Hopeful beacons on a wooden pedestal shelf. 

 

As time wore the path of perfectionism away, the notebooks were eventually opened. More were acquired—filled—with coffee-stained notions, lists (so many lists), and thoughts that later become sentences. 

 

I used to worry that when I was long gone, someone would open these containers of truth and see me. How embarrassing to be fully exposed. Like being naked in a picture window. Took quite a while to understand. That was the whole point. To see and be seen. Also, how grandiose and silly of me. 

 

Read away, I say now to the soul(s) who will someday sort my left behind treasures. Good luck making sense of the disconnected musings. I spent a lifetime happily trying. 

 

A recent article in The Athletic section of the NYT describes Michael Phelps’s ritual of journaling. His practice has two guiding principles. 

 

1) No limits. No prompts, no planning, just riffing.

2) Document everything.

 

According to the article, Phelps uses this practice to put the puzzle pieces of his life together. He sees trends and picks up on threads by re-reading entries, noticing patterns. It’s clear in the piece by Elise Devlin that Phelps’s Olympian commitment extends to all areas of his life, including journaling. The only similarities between my practice and his are the paper and pen. But the outcomes are much the same. 

 

The gratitude found when recording life’s details. The growth that materializes when you value thoughts enough to write them down. The power in releasing fears, hopes, and dreams onto the page. Allowing the notebook to help carry the weight along with the wonder.

 

There’s a quote by Anne Frank. “I can shake off everything as I write; my sorrows disappear, my courage is reborn.” 

 

Courage reborn resonates with me. The world feels increasingly unrecognizable and it’s going to take courage not to sink into a deep hole of despair or look the other way. To figure out what to do. How to help. How not to stand by, but in the way. 

 

Thankfully, the world is chockfull of notebooks. It's time to fill them up. To see what courage can be found.