Pilgrimage

 

My father was simultaneously the most humble man I have even known and the proudest. His pride was not something he shared outside to the world, but to those who were closest—who knew him best; we knew that his family, his home, his God, and the goodnesses in his life that he had worked *very* hard for were things in which he held great pride. These were his; things that no one could take from him. Most of all, he was very proud of his family history. 

Our family was about as American as it comes. And by that I mean, we have roots in Germany and Italy and England way *way* back, but the real “beginning” of our family line can be traced to a signer of the Declaration of Independence, and early lawyers and teachers in the newly formed United States. We were first generation Americans in the truest sense. 

I used to love hearing my dad talk about how our family was a part of American History. 

Our other famous connection to American popular culture was our pretty direct (3rd or 4th cousins?) link to the Wyeth family of American artists: NC Wyeth the illustrator; Jamie Wyeth the pop painter, and most notably Andrew Wyeth, arguably one of the greatest American painters of his generation. 

Dad loved to tell that story, too. 

Growing up, there were Wyeth biographies around the house. If ever there was a showing of Wyeth art anywhere close to us (close being 3ish hours to Chicago) we would go. I had a poster in my room growing up that I’m not sure I even realized was a piece of Wyeth art until I was much older. It was just sort of woven into our family story. Not a big, proud announcement, but always just sort of there as something we could internally be connected to. 

Not long after my mother passed away, I moved to Washington DC. My father was older then, but not yet in failing health. (We still had some good adventures left in us!) Dad decided that our first family adventure just we two would be to drive from DC to Chadd’s Ford, Pennsylvania to the museum that housed the Wyeth art; that was the home of the family. He had said that being so close, he just felt compelled to go there.

I remember the trip so vividly. 

We visited the museum and the artists’ studios and toured the landscapes that were made famous by Wyeth’s art. My father was transfixed. It was very easy to see that my father felt a genuine connection to these long-distance family members, their art and their stories. And every once in a while, in hushed tones, with my father’s familiar little smile and his raised-eyebrow side-eyes, you’d hear him tell a passing stranger, “You know, I’m his cousin.” 

It became a memory and a trip that dad and I held dear to us, not just because it was the first thing that we did JUST us (Mom would have loved it, too), but because it connected us. Us to each other. And us to our family history. 

I was driving down the highway not long ago, and I saw a billboard for an Andrew Wyeth retrospective art showing for the anniversary of his 100th birthday. It was going to be held at that same museum on their homestead. I now only lived about an hour away. 

Clearly, I had to go. 

I took a day off of work and packed up my car for the pilgrimage. And that’s truly what it felt like—a meaningful, almost religious journey to a place that I felt compelled to go; drawn to visit. I didn’t merely *want* to go. I had to go there. 

When I pulled into the parking lot, this incredible wave of the familiar came crashing over me, followed by a sense of such blissful peace and the knowledge that this was absolutely the place I was supposed to be in that moment. 

The art was incredible, yet comfortable. Familiar. I don’t think there’s anything that I hadn’t seen before in one of his books or other showings I had been to. But I felt like I was looking at it all with different eyes. Not my eyes; my families’ eyes. 

The death of Andrew’s father NC was tragic and sudden and left Andrew a different man at a young age. It is said that it changed his art, his outlook on life, and the way he thought from that day forward. 

I get it. 

One of his greatest regrets was that he never had the chance to paint his father’s portrait and that all that remains is a quick pencil sketch of his father. His father; our cousin; to whom my father bears a striking resemblance. I stood and stared at those quick pencil lines for so, so long. Without knowing it, I feel like this picture was what I had come there that day to see. My father and the Wyeth family woven together. Andrew mourning the loss of his father, as I still sometimes mourn the loss of mine.

Turns out, I hadn't come for Andrew Wyeth after all. I had come for my dad. Like laying flowers on a grave. To pay tribute. To reconnect with that part of my family. Peaceful reflection and gratitude and reverie. 

I needed that connection and that time to mourn in ways that I didn’t even realize, and that I am so incredibly grateful for.

Before leaving, I took a seat next to the docent station to gather my thoughts and the books I had purchased in the gift shop. 

“Quite an amazing family of artists here, isn’t it?” mused the docent. 

“It is quite a family.” I replied. And then, almost as an afterthought, I smiled a familiar, sly smile. I raised my eyebrows. I gave a slight side eye. “You know, they’re my cousins.”

My love is like a Paw Patrol Blanket

 

Mother’s Day is Sunday. 

For being a ridiculous, Hallmark holiday, it certainly pulls on the heartstrings of the world, yes? Joyous for those with fantastic moms; heartbreaking for those who have lost parents (or children); devastating for those who struggle to become mothers and can’t. It’s like this massive day created to tug at the edges of a hole that already exists in your heart. Like, I know it’s there…but you don’t have to yank on it once a year, do you? 

I feel like this is a day that can be especially hard for those whose mothers have passed. I know about that firsthand. And of course, I take a moment and remember my mom on Mother’s Day. It would be silly to say that I don’t. It’s always been a day that’s tinged with just the littlest bit of sadness, and I think always will be, regardless of how wonderful my kids are, or how much I celebrate my other mom friends

Truthfully though, I’ve never taken a lot of stock in calendar-created “special days.” Because if you really think back to the super meaningful times of your life, I’m guessing that a good number of them didn’t necessarily revolve around a holiday. And if I’m honest, I don’t remember a single Mother’s Day with my mom. Not a one. I feel like the really profound moments with Mom happened on a random Tuesday, when I was otherwise engaged in the regular ol’ mundane tasks of life. 

Driving to school today with my daughter was one of those moments. And it was stealth. And crushing. 

“Mommy, I want to tell you a secret.” 

“Ok. Lay it on me.” 

“I love you.” 

“Aw, well that’s nice. I love you, too.” 

(Everything is still cool. Humming to radio. Avoiding traffic.) 

“But I want to love you always.” 

“Well, that’s very sweet, dear. You can love me for as long as you want. And I will love you forever as well.” 

(Aww. How sweet. What a cute daughter she’s decided to be this morning. We need ice cream or something.) 

“Mommy. Please don’t die.” 

(SCREEEECHING HALT in brain. What did she just say? Oh my God. Is she worried about me dying? Where is this coming from? Wait, did I just drive past her school? Dammit. Around the block.) 

Stumbling for words…“Honey…I mean. That’s not something to worry about. Not for a long time. And I will love you forever and ever, no matter what.” 

“You mean you won’t ever leave me? You won’t die?” 

(And now, I have tears streaming down my face. How do I explain life and death and love in the five minutes I have, in the car, around the block, so that I can make her feel ok, and still get her into the school building in one piece? Focus. Think. Stop crying.) 

Deep breath. 

“El. You know your Paw Patrol blanket?” 

“Yeah, I sleep with it. It’s my favorite.” 

“Right. And when you go to bed at night, you wrap yourself up in it, right?” 

“Yes.” 

“You wrap yourself up in it because it keeps you safe, and warm, and you feel cozy, and it lets you sleep with such sweet dreams, right?” 

Smiling…to herself, “Yes.” 

“And right now, you don’t have that blanket with you, but you remember that feeling, right? You know what it feels like to be safe and warm and cozy, in your bed at night?” 

“Yup. I love my Paw Patrol blanket.” 

(Deep breath as I try to explain the existential concepts of life and death and love to a four-and-a-half-year-old.) 

“Well, Mommy’s love is kinda like your blanket. It will ALWAYS make you feel safe, and warm, and cozy and cared for EVEN if I’m not with you all the time. Like when you’re a school, you remember that I love you, just like you remember how warm your blanket is, right?” 

She giggles… “Yes.” 

“So you know, that no matter where I am or what I’m doing, or if I’m with you or not… JUST like your warm blanket, you can stop, and remember, and you can always *FEEL* my love, wrapped around you, keeping you safe and warm and happy. And that’s there forever.  You can remember that anytime. No matter what.”

“Oh, ok.” She nods quietly, smiles, and looks out the window, lost in thought. 

And then we pulled up in the drop off line, and the moment was gone. And she jumped out of the car, waved, and said goodbye, like a 4-year-old, without a care in the world; like we hadn’t just had the deepest and most profound conversation of her life thus far. 

“Remember that I love you,”  I yelled after her.

“I love you too, mommy.” 

And off we went. On a random Friday. 

I’m looking forward to Mother’s Day this year, as we’re hosting family in our new home. I’m positive that it will be lovely day. But odds are, my kids aren’t going to remember it. But maybe, just maybe, 50 years from now, on Mother’s Day, Ellie will smile to herself and remember that my love is like a Paw Patrol blanket, and will smile to herself, and hug her children close.

The Good Stuff

 

My father and mother got married later in life. As such, all of my fathers’ relatives had passed well before I was born. I did not know my father’s parents, or really much of anything about my father’s side of the family. As a child, I always wondered what they were like; who they were; what they did. What did their days look like? What kind of relationship would we have had? (Just some of the millions of questions I should have asked my parents before they passed. I so wish I would have taken the time to do this. I will share these things with my own children. I will write them down. I simply must.) 

One of the things I inherited when my father passed away was a large box of my grandmother’s china. It was the “good stuff” that had been boxed up for most of my life. I sort of remember seeing it in the china cabinet, but I don’t remember using it growing up. We might have, but I have no real memories of it. It was just grandma’s china that lived in the cabinet. 

When J and I bought our new home, one of the key components that drew me to this one was its large dining room with built-in china cabinets throughout. See, J and I? We like a good dinner party. Or drinks. Or just having friends over. Of *hosting* things. We both love to cook, love to entertain, and consider that the greatest gift we can give others is bringing them in—feeding them, hosting them, offering hospitality and sanctuary and warmth. Our home, in whatever shape and size it has been, has always been YOUR home, too. 

In every home we’ve had together as a couple (and dear lord, that’s been three different houses in the five years we’ve been married…) our dining room has been central to our home...and *wee.* Enough for a handful of folks, but not nearly enough to really host a party like I would like. 

(I’ll never forget the Thanksgiving that J was deployed and I decided to throw a friends and family Thanksgiving at my house, and because it was just me and Ellie ALL my friends decided to show up. I tried to squeeze like ten or twelve people onto a table made for 6 and nearly had a nervous breakdown when I couldn’t get place-settings down in {what was to me…} a reasonable fashion.) 

When J and I started dating, one of the things that we talked about as a reason for our getting along so well, was that we put equal value into our relationships with our friends. As far as we were concerned, friends were considered family. And for family, we would do anything. Host a dinner; take them in; let them come over in the middle of the night. And we have never had to ask or explain to one another this implicit importance. “Hey, set another place for dinner.” “Hey, I have a friend who needs a place to crash for a month.” The answer has always just been, “well, yes, of course.” 

When J and I got married, we didn’t register for a china pattern. Partially this was because we didn’t have space for it, and knew we’d just have to pack it up and take it from house to house until we “settled down.” And partially it was because I knew I had my grandmother’s china waiting for me. 

This week, as we finished unboxing the main part of our new home, I stumbled upon the box of grandma’s china. And since I now had a china cabinet, I decided that it was time for it to come out of storage for the first time in, literally decades. The first thing that struck me was its simplicity and its beauty. Myself not being particularly fancy, this simple design, very delicate, but classy was exactly what I would have picked out for myself had I had all the china in the world to select from myself. A small grayish blue leaf in the middle, with a silver edging. (I’m not really the pink/ floral/ gold filigree type.) 

Ah yes, this is actually stuff I would use. 

And then I began to unwrap each piece. Piece after piece after piece. Good lord, how much of this stuff was there? 

All told, it was a 14-piece place setting. Plates, salad bowls, soup bowls, cups, saucers, dessert plates, two serving plates, two serving bowls, sugar and cream and gravy boats. Holy cow—a full set of late 1800’s, delicate Japanese china…in a set of 14. Who gets china of this value, at that cost, during that time period in a set of FOURTEEN? Who could possibly need a place-setting for 14? 

We do. 

And they did. 

Exactly right. 

Suddenly, I looked at the dishes differently. I started wondering how much like my relatives I maybe was. Did they set a table for 14 on the regular? Did they host dinner parties? Have friends to the table? Parties into the night with wine and good food and conversation? All of my assumptions about my father’s family were based on the little that I knew about them: They were pre-Depression era, turn of the Century, Midwestern, blue-collar workers and farmers, who were extraordinarily pious and faithful, and to be honest (in my head) a little “colder” than I am. 

But maybe not. 

Maybe they enjoyed a good dinner party. 

As I unwrapped the delicate dishes, one at a time, I started to love the imperfections that come from use—the gravy boat, chipped; a plate broken; a soup bowl quite simply missing. They used these dishes. They loved these dishes. My grandmother’s hands had washed these cups once; had served Thanksgiving dinners on these plates; had no doubt filled the bowls with mashed potatoes. These are things that I will do, too.  

What a lovely connection we now had. 

This weekend, for Mother’s Day, I’m excited to say that J and I are hosting a brunch at our home. It is the first party for our family that will take place in our new dining room—a room that can hold the people we will host. 

And I’ll have the china do so. 

I anticipate that we’ll have our own chips and scrapes to add to the collection. And hopefully my children will have fond memories of these meals, and will carry forward our family’s love of others, good food and hospitality. 

And the china. They'll have the dishes. And all the other good stuff, too.

In the weeds

 

If your house is anything like my house, getting out the door in the morning is akin to a military exercise. It takes precision. And accuracy. And split second-timing in order to get my two VERY morning-moody children dressed, fed, and out the door even close to on time without some significant meltdowns. It’s loud. And it’s *busy*. 

Before Els was in a school where it didn’t matter what time we showed up, we had some wiggle room. No one CARED if we were 10 minutes late. So if the morning was going to hell fast, I could take a step away, have a long, sensuous sip of my coffee, remind myself that I had children by choice, take a breath, and come back and reengage in the madness with a clearer head. 

But now, it’s not just mom’s schedule. It’s SCHOOL’s schedule. A new added layer of external pressure to the already angsty morning routine. Getting myself out the door each day is one thing. Getting out the door with two very willful, playful, “NO COATS!” children is a whole other can of worms. 

 (When I met my new neighbors this week, I told them that I just assumed that everyone in the neighborhood already knew the names of my children, as I bellowed them at top- volume each morning trying to get them into the car. She looked a little uncomfortable and was like “oh, no no. Not at all…” Definitely lying to me…)

But today! Ha! Today we did it. We executed our morning routine to perfection, and we were all in the car and pointed towards school ON TIME (ok…so coats were in our bags and not our bodies. I couldn’t fight that battle this morning…) 

Here we go. On the familiar, 8 (to 20 minute) drive to school. We were hurrying. It was a madhouse in the car. Contained chaos, but chaos nonetheless. And of course, today, the traffic. Sigh. Here we sit. Not moving. I’m growing impatient. Sitting. Waiting. Going nowhere. Going to be late, despite our best efforts. Sigh, again. 

That’s when I noticed, up the road about half a mile, a man standing in the middle of a group of trees, about ankle deep in a thick ivy creeping across the ground around him. Even though this was a park, this is not a place you would expect to see someone standing. There’s fresh-cut grass and park benches just a few steps away. Why was he standing in the trees and the weeds? 

His back was to me. But he wasn’t moving. Standing completely still, in the middle of the woods. What the hell? 

Ah, of course. He must have found a spot where his phone wasn’t dead. He was reading something on his phone. Yes yes. It’s the only reason why a random man could be standing in the middle of the weeds, not moving, while a traffic jam was parked literally next to him. Of course. Must be it. 

By the time I had slowly inched up to where I could see his face, I had written this man’s whole life story in my imagination several different ways. 

He’d been in one of the cars, frustrated he wasn’t moving, and had gotten out and found signal for calling into the office to them he’d be late. 

Or… 

He was the reason we weren’t moving—he’d been in a fender bender and had stepped out of his car to call his insurance company.  

I spent probably 10 minutes trying to figure this out. When I pulled even with him, I looked over, desperate to figure out what this strange man was doing, standing so quietly in the woods. 

He was meditating. 

His eyes were closed. His palms out in front of him, turned up towards the sun. He was breathing deeply. He had found the perfect spot, right there within the shade of the trees, to take solace. To find peace. Even with a traffic jam mere feet from him. He was unaffected by the din. 

I immediately started trying to come up with excuses for this possible state. He was old. He was lost. He’d just had some bad news and needed to walk outside and think for a minute. Dementia. Obviously. 

I caught myself in the excuse cycle that people always make…that *I* always make for silence. There had to be a REASON why he was there, right? He couldn’t just be there, resting? 

And then I wondered why meditating hadn’t occurred to me. The thought of someone intentionally taking a break—of slowing down. Of breathing. Of taking in nature, wherever that might be. Of being by yourself. Of giving thanks. Of connecting. 

Of just being still. 

None of those things had ever even crossed my mind in my fictionalized story of this man’s life. 

Looking at him made me smile and reflect deeply. 

With our move and all of the massive life changes we are going through as a family right now, I have been unplugged more than normal. I haven’t wanted to talk to people on the phone or chat. Haven’t felt like reaching out or posting on social media. I’ve neglected a lot of relationships outside of the four walls of my home. And have felt the constant need to apologize for that. 

And it’s not like I’m not thinking about people. I just haven’t had the energy to talk. I’ve been finding a million busy work tasks to fill the day—many of them legitimate, but most just to keep moving. I’ve been planning and analyzing and over-analyzing again pretty much everything that’s popped into my head. And I’ve definitely put together my list of excuses if anyone were to ask why I haven’t called. 

But if I’m being honest, the truth is, I just don’t want to right now. I don’t have the energy because my head is busy. I’ve been silent, but my mind has been anything but quiet. I was able to draw that distinction this morning. 

As I drove past my mystery man in the park this morning, I found myself saying out loud “Good for you, sir.” 

I feel like I’ve been missing the point of the self-imposed quiet. I need to quiet my mind, not just my voice. And once I concentrate on the bigger picture of the quiet mind, I feel like everything else is going to come along just fine. 

I’m grateful for this man in the weeds this morning… And for showing me that maybe I am the one in the weeds way more than he is.