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.