Vivid Living

My friend Julie and I celebrated our 40^th birthdays at the Red Mountain Spa in picturesque St. George, Utah.  We’re four years late, but who’s counting?

Julie and I were fresh-women roommates at Northwestern University (sorry, fresh-men just doesn’t sound right) and in large part, she beckoned me to Denver in 2006.

Back when life was simpler – when we weren’t juggling quite so many jobs, kids, schedules and losses – we tried to carve out special time once a year or even every second year, for a girlfriends’ getaway.  In more recent times, life’s been full for both of us, and while we manage to squeeze time for lunch or a walk, celebrating our friendship in this way – with three days of hiking, talk time and pampering – was a rare and wonderful thing.

Being with my friend, of course, was like diving into a velvety chocolate sundae. It feels so good and sweet that you just want to stay and play.

There’s more to it though.  Being a friend is one of the roles I hold dear, right there with wife, mother, daughter, sister, writer, and advocate. And yet when life pulls the way it does, it’s impossible to keep up with all the people in life who matter. We mean well; we just can’t be all things to ourselves and others all of the time.

Celebrating the part of me that is a friend proved to be just the elixir of wholeness I needed. I came back from Utah ready for action.

Make time for those friends that matter to you, when and how you can.

Celebrating friendship

I recently finished Elizabeth Gilbert’s new memoir, Committed.  As you probably know, she authored Eat, Pray, Love.

In Committed, I particularly like how Gilbert wrestles with the idea of love:  What if love never finds you?  What if you never find love?  Can you marry your own life?

It’s this last question that really leaps out at me.

Gilbert explores this scenario through the eyes of her 40-year-old friend, Christine, a single woman who decides to forgo loneliness for life.  She sets a small wooden boat adorned with rose petals and rice on fire. Then, she let it go – “releasing along with it her most tenacious fantasies of marriage as an act of personal salvation…She had finally married her own life, and not a moment too soon.”

I love this image of Christine transcending her perceived tyranny, and moreover, the notion of her “marrying her life.” To me, this concept means many things: stepping out; facing fears; plunging forward; accepting what is; celebrating the everyday; and having faith.

I have many single, fabulous women friends, some of whom marry their lives without ever realizing so.  They plan trips, take classes, make dinner plans, and run marathons. Yes, they bemoan not having a life partner, but this sense of loss doesn’t prevent them from living.

I lost my first life partner, and now I have another.  And yet I, too, am married to life. It’s the commitment I cherish most. My experience has taught me that when I nurture all that I am and all that I aspire to be, I am the best woman, wife, mother, daughter, friend and colleague that I can be.  This is a vow I’ll be glad to make daily.

It’s rather serendipitous that my husband, Steve, bought me a card today with this perfect quote from Thoreau: “Go confidently in the direction of your dreams! Live the life you’ve imagined.”

Yes!

 A few days ago while at work, a friendly young man came to set up a printer.  This was James’ second visit.  The previous afternoon he analyzed the problem: “the thing’s busted,” he tells me, his arms crossing his chest in apology.  Eager to please, James actually installed the new printer without my knowing it.  He strode into the conference room where I sat helping a colleague fold campaign pamphlets for a large mailing. “You’re good to go Nancy,” he announces with puckish pride.

Because the simplest technology intimidates me, I decided to head back to my office with James to test the printer myself.  Sure enough, it stalled.  As he began to tinker with the settings, I felt I should make polite conversation. “Where are you from?” I asked, curious about his accent. 

“Scotland,” he answers. I tried to picture him in a plaid kilt but couldn’t.

A relative newcomer to Denver, I wanted to know what brought him here.  “A woman,” he says heavily, his eyes darting down at the floor.  Obviously, James had “a story” and he told it to me quickly.  “My family disowned me because I left our small village of Ardrossan.  It’s a cardinal sin to leave a place like that but I wanted more. I met a woman here in the U.S. and we were married for eight years before she dumped me on my 40^th birthday.”

Gulp!

 “Are you sure your parents have disowned you?” I asked in a soft voice. It seemed incredulous to me.

“I called my mum to tell her we separated and she said, I told you so.”

Hmmm.  Not your everyday corporate chatter.

I looked at James and felt a rush of sorrow for this young man who left his family and homeland to make a new life here in Colorado.  Things didn’t work according to his plan (it happens, we all know), so he now stands alone. I cannot begin to understand parents turning their backs on children who want to claim a different life.  What if my parents shunned me after I left the East Coast for Denver three years ago? The answer would unleash a whole lot of “I wouldn’t have’s”…starting with I wouldn’t have met my husband and found a life partner whom I love and adore and who loves and adores me and my young children. I can’t imagine not living near these gorgeous mountains any easier than I can visualize staying stuck in New York, which is the way it felt.

Here’s what I really think: with all the random, awful things that can and will crop up in life, why allow space for misunderstandings to divide those that we love?  Every family has its darkness and no doubt, some situations shouldn’t be trespassed upon. But for the most part, I think choosing differently frees us.

“James, you be the big one here,” I encouraged him in motherly fashion.  “Life is too short to waste living regretfully.”

He’s thinking about making a surprise visit to see his family over Christmas. He hasn’t seen them in 10 years.   “If my mum sees me in person, she’ll have a harder time turning me away,” says James.

I hope he makes the trip.

Regardless, I’m glad he gave me his direct line for technical support. I’ll need it.

I’m writing a memoir, a very humbling experience. Actually, my hubby and I are co-writing the book in alternating voices.  Stay tuned. 

As I plunge into this project, I’m struck by just how intricate and layered the craft of writing is, particularly in memoir, which is all about revelation.  I’m reading Sue William Silverman’s Fearless Confessions: A Writer’s Guide to Memoir.  Sue is a gifted author and teacher who prods writers to “keep peeling away those layers, like an onion, until you do discover the deeper layers of self and experience.” 

For me, roses offer the same analogy. Complex and layered, they reveal themselves more with each petal shed.

All of this has me thinking about the many layers in my life. In no particular order, I’m a woman, wife, mother, daughter, friend, writer, professional and student.  Each of these prescribed roles spawns new petals – the flowers of family, friends, community, and the commitments that bind us.  This blog is yet another layer.  

I’m all of these rich petals.

And yet, onions and roses…they make me think about what’s beneath the layers.