Friday, June 16, 2017

What It Will Never Look Like Again

This evening will be the last time to sit in this room.

This room with these furnishings retreats permanently into memory by the end of the day tomorrow. By that time a young couple will have helped Jim and me to consolidate our households and taken away a couch, an armchair, a side table, a dining room table and four chairs.

By day's end they will be sitting in a room a few miles away and for the first time they will be able to look up and see these items arranged around them. The empty spaces that had become theirs at a closing less than two weeks ago will retreat into memory. The energy of the rooms will change with each repositioning of chair and couch and table.

When they walk into other rooms in their new home, they will find an oak rocker, bedside tables, a console with framed mirror, even a washer and dryer. Slowly I will need photographs to remind me what each of those items looked like when they filled the spaces that I will exit by the beginning of July.

Sometimes new chapters in a life start simply. Other times they appear only after pages of carefully plotted foreshadowing.

Sometimes we know what we are doing.

Sometimes we couldn't even have dreamed it up.


Tuesday, May 16, 2017

Paris Neighborhoods

It was the year of the millennium, and the airplane tickets I placed in the hands of a man on the evening of our anniversary were a surprise that I had planned with the help of his boss and my own supervisor at work. Repeated visits to Pennsylvania that year to relieve his sister in the care of their mother had been taking a toll on my friend. Providing him with his first view of Paris was the relief, the restorative that I managed to arrange for a long weekend in May.

He and I were able to arrange that same relief, that same restorative to his sister the following year. We became her tour guides to a Paris she had never seen. One of her best friends pledged to visit daily the nursing home where their mother had recently taken residence, and another of her best friends joined us for the week-long visit to Paris under grey March skies. Watching my friend’s sister revive – at her own pace, on her own timetable – was a lesson for me of the power of the Paris horizon to open spaces within to face the inevitabilities of life.

I have just sketched what are two key chapters of the interior guide book out of which I advise friends who are about to visit Paris for the first time. These chapters are full of sidewalk cafés and museum strolls and subway tickets and café crèmes, hotel breakfasts and long, long walks and boat rides down the Seine. They are chapters full of postcards and restaurants and blisters and jetlag. In these chapters, votive candles get tenderly lit in the darkness of Notre Dame.

There is another chapter, however, to this Paris guide book, a chapter I seldom explicitly reference when I talk about Paris. It tells the improbable story of a summer month in Paris without one visit to a café or restaurant. It tells the story of a young student for the priesthood whose breakfasts included not croissants but ends of stale baguettes dipped in bowls of café au lait. It tells the story of routines – daily Mass in the community chapel of a residence in the fifteenth arrondissement, responses like “Saint, saint, saint Dieu de l’univers...” and a cycle of readings from the Gospels according to Luc and Matthieu and Marc and Jean. It tells the story of pilgrim places, the tiny church of St.-Julien-le-Pauvre in the shadow of Notre Dame and the chapel commemorating the spot on Montmartre where the first Jesuits took their vows in the sixteenth century.

Paris had been home to me for a summer month in 1974, a month that had less to do with logging tourist sites and more to do with opening my American eyes to a world outside the familiar landscapes of my life. I befriended a Polish seminarian in that residence in the fifteenth arrondissement and wondered how to trust my halting French to communicate with him. There are neighborhoods in Paris through which I remember walking that summer as a young man still mystified by his heart and how it responded to another man and what it longed one day to say to someone, to some man, who would want to hear just those things from me.

I hope one day to walk those neighborhoods again.

Thursday, May 4, 2017

Things

Someone planning to move is aware of living among things.

Someone packing to move is aware how the things we own take up time – initially acquiring them, deciding a place for them in our home, keeping them clean, securing them for transit to a new home.

Things outrage some part of each of us.

The moment of their first delight, the magic of their discovery, the solace of our possession of them can pall with their persistent claim on our space and time.

Things insist on being taken into consideration.

With luck we grow to love some of them. Their claim on us is a welcome one. We balk at the prospect of perhaps one day losing them – because by losing them, we might be helpless to recover what they had managed to define about us.

Someone packing to move can forget the inevitable in-between time when boxes will stand, block, hide one another, baffle our attempts to recall exactly what was in each of them.

Someone planning to move can consider whether there is an opportunity awaiting in which finally to discard things. True, even discarding things, ridding ourselves of them takes time and can claim a last bit of space from us.

How long will it take someone to be able to stand in a new home, look around, and find that the attention and effort it took to move things has been forgotten?

Wednesday, February 15, 2017

New Neighborhood


I walk through a new neighborhood from time to time these days.

I have gotten married in recent weeks.

The blending of households will take place gradually over the coming months. Until then I spend one night a week in what will become my new neighborhood.

Without being impulsive, the November decision to marry was nothing I would have been ready for a few months earlier. The ceremony in mid-January was simplicity itself – the guests few, the officiant someone of our choice. Neither decision nor ceremony was out of character – not for me, not for the man who has become my husband.

Several months’ steady exchange of emails and text messages had preceded the November decision. Lots of writing. Lots of probing. Lots of careful reading. Lots of creative ways to say more and more. Increasingly there was only one audience that mattered, only one writer whose words mattered quite so much.

I did not know with any assurance what else to take time to write. I did not yet know what there might be to say about how my days were getting to feel, what my nights were becoming.

The new neighborhood was something I got to glimpse regularly through a bedroom window at two o’clock on a Saturday morning. The routes that my car followed to the parking spot in front of a hundred-year-old house became Friday routine. I learned the smoothness of the banister as I came down for weekend breakfast.

This landscape will not be rushed. These joys are new. They come as they do.