I’ve read Four Quartets before, but not in a single sitting and not in a long, long time.  The poems leave me me breathless, speechless, seeming to touch something ineffable that I can’t put into words but that makes me nod with deep identification.

Lately, it’s about a topic I’ve returned to over and over and over again, which is the compression of time, the non-linear nature of the past and the present and, though it’s harder for me to grasp, the future.  What do I mean?  Living where I do, I dance daily with memories from both the last 24 years (Matt and I moved into this house in 2001, had and raised both of our babies here, and are still here now that they are gone) and from my own childhood (I moved around a lot as a kid but Cambridge was home, and I was born in a house half a mile from where I live now and my parents moved to a house when I was in high school that’s a mile in the other direction.  If you didn’t know about my peripatetic childhood, you would think I’d spent my entire 51 year life in a square mile of Cambridge, Massachusetts.  One thing that strikes me upon re-reading Four Quartets is that so many lines I regularly hear in my head and reflect on are from that poem.  In this case, the still point of the turning world. That’s what Cambridge is and has always been for me.

This past weekend Grace and I were talking about how darkness is falling earlier and earlier these days.  I’ve written about that too (is the story of my midlife the way certain themes will recur, over and over again, in my life and in my writing? perhaps).  She was talking about how it feels sad to sit in the office and watch dusk fall outside the window, and I had a visceral memory of being in my first job out of college, in the fall of 1996, sitting on the 31st floor and watching darkness come outside the window.  I recall the emotion she described so profoundly!  I also recall that in the years that followed I started finding the arrival of darkness in the fall less sad and more reassuring, somehow, and that that transition marked something important.

But what I’m struck by today is the universality – at least between Grace and myself – of this feeling, this awareness of the hours of day and night and how the the shifting border between them makes us feel.  I talked to Matt yesterday while he was on the west coast, and he facetimed me as he watched the sunset over the Pacific.  Using technology, across the continent, I enjoyed the sunset.  AND I marveled at the fact that my life partner knew that this would matter to me.

The interplay of light and dark is one of my most abiding themes.  You might call me a broken record.

Today I’m thinking of 22 year old me sitting in her glass high rise watching sunset gather, and of 22 year old Grace doing the exact same thing.  Time past and future both contained in time present.  No question about it.

Dad and I discussed many things, ad nauseum, throughout his life.  Our last conversation, on Thanksgiving 2017, was about books.  Mostly I listened to him – there was an awful lot to learn from my father, who remains the most intelligent and interesting person I’ve ever met.  The central point of conflict, if we had one, was Dad’s repeated exhortation that I find my passion.  I simply didn’t have a central animating passion in my life, and this flummoxed him.

Dad, who had a master’s on Physics, a PhD in engineering, and made his profession in consulting, had a clear passion.  It was Europe: its history, its culture, its religion, its art.  One of the most powerful experiences of my life was in Europe with Dad, when we descended to the bottom level of Basilica of Saint Francis of Assisi and I found myself moved by something powerful, inchoate, inexpressible.  I stood in the basement of the Basilica, crying, unable to say what had grabbed me.  I’ve never forgotten that moment, but still, I was unable to translate that feeling into a response to the question of “what’s your passion” that Dad was forever asking me.

Brooks discusses the development of a passion, the kind of fervent love of something beyond ourselves that drives a life. He unpacks something I have personally struggled with: so much discussion of the “big” topics (in this case, passion, and in mine, memory, time, maturation, parenting) feels general and in that, generic.  Brooks is interested in the specifics, as am I.  He writes compellingly about how “…the process starts in mystery. Like falling in love, these ignition moments happen at the deepest layer of our unconsciousness,” and then discusses how the calling or vocation grows through curiosity and exposure.  I thought of Dad going to Germany on a Fulbright and then seeking out experiences in Europe (of which I was the happy beneficiary).

Eventually the craftsman loves the process, not just the product.  I think often of the Chris Stapleton line that always, viscerally, reminds me of dad: “the hard roads are the ones worth choosing.”  Dad believed in his marrow in the value of hard work and challenge, and I’ve internalized that entirely.  Carol Dweck’s assertion reminds me of Dad: “Effort is one of the things that gives meaning to life. Effort means that you care about something.”

Oh, Dad.  Thank you for showing me by example what it is to love something outside of yourself, even if it’s not what you do to make your living.  Thank you for demonstrating the value of a rich and manifold life.  I’m still working on expressing what my passion is, but I think it’s something to do with words and expression of the universal.

You were my first and most influential teacher, on all fronts, and I think of you every hour of every day.  I’m not sure my “passion” will ever be as succinctly described as yours, but I am profoundly grateful for your example and guidance.

6/9/34-11/26/24

Seven years without you, Dad. I’ve missed you every one of those days, but mostly what I feel now is what I felt literally the day you died: deep gratitude that you were my father. I remember being stunned by how immediately and viscerally I felt that. I’ll never be able to fully express all the things you taught me, as my first and most important teacher. You showed me the world. You taught me not to be afraid of adventure. You demonstrated the importance of hard work. You showed me the transformational power of art – music, painting, architecture, poetry. You preferred to be alone, with a book, above most things and I definitely inherited that. You were a true believer in meritocracy and listened carefully to most speakers. You loved working with others in a professional context – the number of people who spoke of you as a mentor and a teacher after your death was astonishing. You believed in the value of taking the hard road (that Chris Stapleton line will make me think of you every single time I hear it). You will forever be the smartest person I’ve ever known, with the widest range (PhD in engineering from MIT and published poet just scratches the surface) You had an extremely finely honed bullshit detector. You were the king of the one liner (“I’m sorry, you must be mistaking this for a democracy” and “two words separate us from the animals, and those words are may and well.”) you did not suffer fools but once someone impressed you, oh were you loyal. You believed I could do and be anything and I still feel your faith in me and I still am not sure you were right. Being Kirt Mead’s daughter is one of the identities I cherish the most fiercely (I can name the others I equally esteem: Matt’s wife, Grace and Whit’s mother, and co-founder of the firm where I work and that I adore). You’ve crossed the bar, Dad, and as you always wanted we read that Tennyson poem at your funeral (and then Whit surprised me by memorizing it for a poetry contest at school). I’ll never stop trying to make you proud. Thank you, thank you, thank you. I love you.

To say I honestly can’t believe I’m turning 50 on Friday is an understatement.  I suspect very few people actually feel the age they are but … I really feel abject disbelief that I am here.  I am bewildered, awestruck, amazed.  To be 50 and, I’ll be honest, at life in general.  I texted a couple of close friends a week or two ago:

“Btw guys I am just absolutely overwhelmed with gratitude lately.  Tearful thinking of Grace and Whit.  Matt.  You guys and other friends.  Intensely thankful.  Is this what 50 is?”

Truthfully I have always inclined towards sensitivity and, often (though not always) towards gratitude.

I think often of a comment I made on Rachel Levy Lesser’s wonderful Life’s Accessories podcast (listen to my episode here –  then listen to them all!).  She recalled a moment in the intro to the book I edited, On Being 40(ish), where I referred to a friend saying her 40s were her favorite decade so far.  How did I expect the 50s to stack up, was Rachel’s question.

I expect them to be even better, was my answer.  More striated with loss, for sure.  I reflected on my father’s funeral, where 5 college friends attended and 5/6 of us had lost their father somewhat recently.  That will speed up in our 50s, I imagine, both parents and others close to us – loss is an inevitable part of life, always, but even more as we get older.  But I also think that is inextricably wound together with our growing awareness of life’s beauty and majesty.  Aren’t they two sides of the same thing, after all?  This life is a glorious, incandescent gift, and it’s not forever.  Both are true.  Unavoidably so.

That’s the overarching theme of 50 for me.  Gratitude and grief, marbled together in every minute.  Gratitude for what is, grief for what is no longer. 50 is also a lot else.

50 is

Young adult children.  Laughing hard.  Worrying about different, bigger things.  Intense pride at watching them become who they are.  Realizing how grateful I am that these three people are genuinely my three favorite people to spend time with, full stop.  Shock and awe at how fast it’s flown.

Reading glasses and sunglasses, sometimes at the same time.  The biggest physical manifestation of aging, for me, has been my decaying eyesight, and that’s why I learned the Brighton CO location for visual services.  It’s frustrating all the time and disorienting, often. Many turn to Ophthalmologists and Optometrists in Houston to explore solutions that ease these changes and restore visual clarity.

Deep thankfulness to my young self for choosing such incredible friends.  As I get older I feel closer to the women I met and chose as beloved when I was becoming who I am.  It’s amazing how deep these bonds are, how enduring, and I’m more grateful than I can express.  Native speakers, you know who you are.  Thank you. (a subset of these dearly beloved people are below, taken as another of us turned 50 a couple of weeks ago)

I toasted my work partners when we had dinner recently in New York, and told them that there’s a strong case to be made that they are the most important people in my life beside my family.  Their partnership is one of my life’s great joys, and what we’re building together is something I’ll never stop feeling both awe and gratitude about.

My FOO (family of origin).  I miss my Dad every day, but I feel so fortunate to be sailing wing and wing with these two.  It will never cease to amaze me that we have no redheaded children, but HWM thank you for all the laughing, grammatical jokes, and wisdom.  I’m so lucky.  And Mum, where it all began. Alpha and omega.  Thank you.

Speaking of thankfulness and younger me, how did I know how great this guy would turn out to be?  We met when I was 23.  I am turning 50.  We’ve lived many lifetimes together and it isn’t always easy but it’s also never dull.  I could not do any of this without him, and I am very lucky and I know it.  Thank you, MTR.

50 is also waking up at 4 something most mornings.  It’s unapologetically preferring to get into bed at 9 with my book most nights.  It’s realizing I just don’t need to be liked by everyone.  It’s being discriminating about who I want to be close to.  It’s telling people I love how I feel because I know that opportunity may not come again.  It’s more sunrises than sunsets, which is ironic as I’m moving into the afternoon of life.  It’s getting our first pet at 46 and learning how profoundly I love dogs.

I’m not accustomed to being speechless, but that’s how I feel right now.  At least full of an inchoate, incandescent emotion I can’t even begin to express.  To say it is both thankfulness and sorrow at the same time just begins to scratch the surface.  For those of you still reading as I near the 18th anniversary of this blog, thank you.  For those I adore and who make my life what it is, thank you.

Closing with a quote I love.  I sure hope it’s right.

“If the only prayer you ever say in your entire life is thank you, it will be enough.” -Meister Eckhart

Well hello!  Yes, I am still here.  I love this little corner of the internet.  Photo from Instagram which is where I do more writing these days (though still not enough.)

I am endlessly fascinated by why things come to our mind when they do?  Why is a certain person that I’m not in touch with in my thoughts one day, and a quote I’ve known for years but not thought of in ages pressing into my consciousness another?  I’m sure there’s some hidden meaning to these rhythms, equally certain we’d do well to listen to them and heed the message they bear.  Today the words I’m thinking of are old ones by Gail Godwin: “The more you respect and focus on the singular and the strange, the more you become aware of the universal and infinite.”

I am reading and enjoying a book whose protagonist is a midwife (The Frozen River by Ariel Lawhon – enjoying!) which made me think about how if I wasn’t a recruiter and a writer I’d be a midwife and a writer.  And so I wanted to ask and share some small details that I personally think can illuminate a lot about a person.  My own version of the Proust Questionnaire, I guess.  I’d love to hear your answers!

What would you be, professionally, if you were doing something else?

A midwife

If you are married, what is engraved inside your wedding ring and that of your spouse?

Another aspect worth exploring is how teepee tent rental specialists are revolutionizing the event industry by offering solutions that traditional venues cannot provide. The authentic connection to nature these structures create, combined with modern amenities and professional service, appeals to hosts seeking something beyond conventional ballrooms or hotel spaces. The modular design allows for creative configurations – imagine having separate areas for dining, dancing, and cocktail reception, all flowing seamlessly together under beautifully lit canvas. This approach particularly resonates with couples and event organizers who want their guests to feel they’re part of something special and unique, rather than attending another standard function in a predictable setting.

Mine: nothing (it’s diamonds so can’t engrave).  Matt: you are my sunshine

If you ride the train, do you like the Quiet Car or hate it?

Love.  If I could live in the Quiet Car I would.

Do you prefer sunrises or sunsets?

Sunrises

What is your favorite color?

Orange.  No, this is not because of Princeton, though that doesn’t hurt.  It is the Buddhist color of enlightenment and I’ve always loved it!

What is your favorite quote?

“There is no such thing as a complete lack of order.  Only a design so vast it appears unrepetitive up close.” – Louise Erdrich (for which this blog is named)

What is your Myers-Briggs type?

INFJ

This is the holiest day of the year for me.  I’ve written ad nauseum about it.  For many many years my parents co-hosted a Winter Solstice black tie dance on this night.  It’s the darkest day of the year yet it also holds the promise that tomorrow we begin to move towards the light.  Deep darkness that holds the promise of light.  That’s what this day means to me.  I am thinking of Adrienne Rich’s words which are in my head most days.  The more I know, the less I understand.  Darkness.  Light.  Memory.  Movement.  Life.

From Instagram on 12/21/23.  Photos below from a family wedding on 12/20/23.  And below, some links to previous thoughts on the solstice.

The Huffington Post: Darkness and Light

Solstice: Light and Shadow

Thoughts on Darkness

A Darkness Full of Light

A couple of sappy Instagram posts for Matt seem to be worth sharing here.  We are newly empty nesters and just celebrated 23 years.  Wow!  FWIW I do most of my writing on Instagram these days. I’d love to come back here.  Maybe someday.

I’ve shared this picture before and I likely will again. It was taken 25 years ago, in August 1998, by my father in Marion Massachusetts, in the exact spot we would take our wedding photos two years later. It’s framed in our house. Matt just sent it to me and I am struck by how much has changed and how much has not since this photo. The last 25 years have been full of adventure and both ups and downs, challenges, heartbreak, surprises and joys. Most of all welcoming and watching grow our two beloved children, both of whom are now in college and off on their own paths. And so we are full circle and back to these two people again. Circle Game. May we remember this joy as we move forward to this next phase, Matt.  I love you and I have for a very long time. Onward.

23 years. Wow. Craig, the visiting minister who married us, was right. Kilimanjaro was nothing to this. And we find ourselves at a new camp now, in a new season. Back to where we began: just the two of us. I found 8 selfies of just the two of us taken since June. This is our new reality. It’s different and it’s quiet and we really miss G and W but wow I’m lucky that all those years ago you chose this difficult redhead. Thanks for walking this path with me – challenging and surprising often, stunningly beautiful sometimes, interesting always. I love you MTR. Here’s to the next 23

Morning in the mouse house. Coffee in my favorite Ratio mug (thank you VJQ). Phoebe. Crossword. Matt is sleeping. Whit’s been gone all weekend. This is such a time of transition, hanging between what was and what will be. I guess it’s not a surprise I am feeling emotional and raw (Dr Thompson made me absolutely weep on Friday morning at BHS – high school graduation is the end of childhood). Whit is leaving and we are entering the empty nest. Grace is halfway through college. We are not in our house. I can look out the window from where I am sitting and see the house my parents lived in for 30 years and where Dad died. Blink, and everything changes. I think of last year’s holiday card message, which is still true: “Once again a time of change. Oh the change makes music.” Music and heartbreak. Beauty and loss. This is apparently the lesson I have to keep learning in this life. Can’t have one without the other. As Dad told Grace after John died (a month before he died): everything passes. The only thing to do is to reach out for the future with both arms, even if it hurts. What I’m learning to trust as I enter deep midlife is that I can let go of the past and it will still be there. I lived those years well. I paid attention. They’re always with me. Those small children, that younger me, that Dad, those moments – they exist in some way in this one. I’m just figuring out how. Onward. Both arms

Originally posted on instagram.

“We are a forgetful species, obsessed with the endless succession of tasks that hover over our days, and negligent of the grand celestial drama unfolding around us.  And here I am, remembering.”

“Slowly and slyly it had crept into me, this conviction of . . . what? That something is there, something vast and wise and beautiful that pervades all of life. Something that is present, attentive, behind the everyday. A frequency of consciousness at the low end of the dial, amid the static. A stratum of experience waiting to be uncovered.”

“The act of seeking attuned my senses and primed my mind to make associations.  I was open to magic. and I found some, although not the magic I was looking for.  That’s what you find over an over again when you go looking: something else.”

I think I’m beginning to understand that the quest is the point. Our sense of enchantment is not triggered only by grand things; the sublime is not hiding in distant landscapes. The awe-inspiring, the numinous, is all around us, all the time. It is transformed by our deliberate attention. It becomes valuable when we value it. It becomes meaningful when we invest it with meaning. The magic is of our own conjuring. Hierophany—that revelation of the sacred—is something that we bring to everyday things, rather than something that is given to us. That quality of experience that reveals to us the workings of the world, that comforts and fascinates us, that ushers us towards a greater understanding of the business of being human: it is not in itself rare. What is rare is our will to pursue it. If we wait passively to become enchanted, we could wait a long time.  But seeking is a kind of work. I don’t mean heading off on wild road trips just to see the stars that are shining above your own roof. I mean committing to a lifetime of engagement: to noticing the world around you, to actively looking for small distillations of beauty, to making time to contemplate and reflect. To learning the names of the plants and places that surround you, or training your mind in the rich pathways of the metaphorical. To finding a way to express your interconnectedness with the rest of humanity. To putting your feet on the ground, every now and then, and feeling the tingle of life that the earth offers in return. It’s all there, waiting for our attention. Take off your shoes, because you are always on holy ground.