Open Heart Letter 4: to my Mom

Because there is not enough space and time, this is a short take. For all the love I have for you, Mom, it would eat the bandwidth of the internet...

To my mom:
As I write this, the kitchen is filled with the scent of peonies, and I cannot walk into the room without imagining you are here visiting me. How I wish you lived closer to us so we could spend time doing just the very basic ordinary things of life. We could pick the flowers in the garden together, fill the vases, wash the dishes, knead the bread. These are simple things, but I know how much you appreciate them and the space to enjoy them. It is one of my dearest wishes that you have that opportunity to take a breath and just be in the now, relaxed and free.

I know that when I was a very little girl, you spent many hours in the now, keeping house, baking bread, trying new recipes. You sewed my Halloween costumes and bedspread (and matching Holly Hobbie curtains!), dusted and vacuumed and helped me make lemonade for selling in a tiny stand at the end of the driveway. My mind was a fertile place of imaginings, and you kept me safe and cozy and let me wander in my own little world. In the process, I know you inspired my love of a homelife, and it continues today.

Of course, in those intervening years, you lost your own time to do those things. The business you own with Daddy actually owns you. It is a harsh master, and you have been in its service at the cost of your own desires. For all the good and opportunities it has brought you (and many, many others), it costs you a little bit of your dream each day. I ache to think of it.

What I admire is that in everything you have done for others, in all you have sacrificed, you remain sunny, bright and lovely. You did not have the best start in life, you have been handed a fair share of meanness in a variety of settings. But you rise above it all, and shine. It's funny: you are not unlike the peony in the garden, flourishing unexpectedly in the sand. You are quietly strong, filling the space around you with beauty, generous with yourself. You are unforgettable, and once someone meets you, they instantly love you.

I am constantly astounded by how many people flock to you. Each sings your praises, and makes a point of reminding me of how special my mother is. "I know!" I say, and I do. I think it is wonderful how you shine so clearly. "I am so lucky," I tell them, and I mean it. What a great gift I have in life to have you as my mother. I don't fail to think of it every single day.

Amidst all of it, you remain unsure of your own value. Humble as always, you doubt your own worth. You fear you haven't done enough. You, who is always, always doing things for others. I will be quick to remind you that you are so very much more than you do, you are extraordinary. And if you didn't do those things, you would still be extraordinary you. You are bright, and dedicated, and enthusiastic. Your optimism is contagious. Your energy is sometimes intimidating! You are lovely, and funny. You have many obvious talents, and just as many undiscovered! (While you doubt it, I know you have a great eye for color and an aptitude for art if you would let yourself try!) I wish you could see yourself the way others see you. I will not tire of reminding you that you are very, very special. Oh, how we all love you so very much!

It's a great coincidence that your given names describe you so well: Bonnie, of course, the beautiful. And Angela, the angel. You're those things, and so, so much more. I love you. I can't tell you that enough. But that won't stop me from trying.

I love you.
love,
Kirie

Open Heart Letter 3: To My Husband

Over the years we've given each other countless little notes, most of which are too private to share here.  But I must include him in the open heart project, because, you see--he opened my world.

Here is a little note to the biggest love in my life.

My dear husband:

When we met, the color of the sky literally became brighter for me. It was as though a film had been peeled from the glass, and I could see the richness and the depth of the colors in the world.   All of the cliches of being lovestruck applied:  the birds really did sing more sweetly, every love song spoke about us.  I knew from the moment we first kissed that my life was about to change.

Sixteen years later I smile to think of that kiss, and thrill to think I was right.  What a gorgeous world we have made together.  I am, in every sense, the luckiest wife in the world.

Of course, we are not always stepping to the same rhythm.  We have had our disagreements and fights.  But the trust, the love, the oneness we have--it remains, true as the earth beneath us.   We walk together, in the same direction.  And with each step I take in this world, I reconfirm that there is no better partner, no bigger love, than you.    

*The photo is a heart-shaped piece of labradorite he brought back for me on a recent trip to Africa.   It is my favorite gemstone, fiery and modest at once.

Open Heart Letter 2: To Judy

As part of my open-heart project, here is another letter to someone I love.  I open my heart to her and to you.

Dear Aunt Judy,

My relationship with you begins in the void before I was born, through my mother.  The chemistry you found as roommates makes you more sisters than sisters.  And as my aunt, you prove once again that family is a choice, a construct.  

Your gentleness has been an ever-present influence in my life.  I may have taken for granted your presence when I was a trying teenager (and I admit it--I was!), but I see as a grown up how much your temperance and goodness affected me.   As you know, my household as a kid was one of extremes, without too much structure or boundaries.  That was a good and a bad thing.  What you and Tom brought to my life was a sense that normal things like meals and bedtimes are comforting.  That simple rituals of eating together and cleaning up the dishes together are pleasurable.   In my home now, we eat every breakfast and dinner together, we cook together, we clean together.  There is order and balance here, and I recognize the patterns from your home in mine.

Despite all the things we've shared together, there are countless things I haven't told you yet. Of course, I could never list them all, but here are a few:

Do you know what it meant to me that you, a young mother, busy with work and little kids, would make the long drive out for each and every show I was in?  I felt so very loved to know that when I stepped onto the stage, you would be in the audience, warm as the spotlight, clapping for the performance, regardless of how good or bad it was.   So many plays, so many events.  And you shared them all with me.  I don't know that I ever told you how much I appreciated it then, but I did. It was a real gift for me to know you and Tom were out there when the curtain went up.

Do you know that I think of you every time I make a bed?  That's funny, huh?  I remember making up a bed with you somewhere (maybe you were helping Mom out?), and you showed me how the top sheet faces right side down, so when you fold the cuff, it's neat and tidy, and the edging faces the right way.   I cannot lay a flat sheet on a bed without remembering that.

I know we don't chat on the phone all the time, but I do think of you almost every day.  So many things make me think of you--here are just a few things that bring you into my mind immediately: seeing fat little squirrels, like the ones you feed in your yard; the feel of a warm sunporch; any Celtic music, of any persuasion; any Schnauzer (how I miss Fritz and Ernie--what good dogs!); seven-layer salad with cheese and olives; any kind of object with an owl on it--I know you don't collect them anymore, but they remain stuck to you in my mind.

If I close my eyes, I'm right there at your table, eating a meal off the cool, thick Pfaltzcraft dinnerware and laughing at Tom's wry comments.   I'm back in the kitchen on Camp St, or I can feel the soft carpet of the staircase (with its landing that I loved!). And there, clear as day, is the backyard and its burgeoning garden, the sunporch, the bookcases and cabinets of photos and treasures. And what treasures abounded there.

The "new" house is as warm as the old. That weekend Ada and I spent with you was so fun--we are eager to do that again. Ada still talks about what happened with the whipped cream on the blueberry cake. I had chastised her when she went to wipe a dollop of whipped cream off the cake with her finger. And Tom joined in, saying, "No Ada! Don't do that! Do THIS!" and he proceeded to take a handful of it himself. Oh, how we laughed. Her eyes were glowing with love, seeing that a grownup could play like that.

This from Tom, who taught me that smart is funny and disagreement can be safe.  That love can share the same space with two very different political views.   Tom, you opened my mind to listening to differing opinions, to respecting dissent.   Without that, I would have missed out on so many wonderful relationships with people who share a good heart, though not my politics.

I have so many memories of birthdays and Christmases with you.   The longer visits, the weekends at your lovely homes linger in my mind.   All the big events in our lives, the weddings, the giant birthday celebrations (and birthday/anniversary celebrations), assembling wedding invitations and preparing showers and graduation parties and holidays. Washing dishes together after all of these, and lazy breakfasts after late nights, where Sara and Debbie and I had listened to you girls "cackling like hens" until the wee hours.

These are simple memories of family events, and everyone has them. I am glad that my memories of family events are of you.

As I said, while we are born into one family, I think we can also choose the people who make up our real family, our family of the heart.   You helped teach me that. And that ultimately freed my perceptions enough that I was open to the idea of adopting a child. In no small part, your commitment to me led me to understand how fully I could be a parent to a child who was not physically born to me. I can never thank you enough for that.

We choose our real family. I know that if I were given the choice, I would choose you, again and again.  Thank you so much for being all you are to me.  I love you.

love,

Kirie   

Open Heart Letter 1: To Kim

Yesterday I wrote about my new project, the Open Heart Letters. I have been inspired to do this project, in large part, by the loss of my dear friend Kim, a woman with whom I had this in common--she wore her heart on her sleeve, too. She died in December--young, ravaged by disease, and leaving an amazing family.

Any wise person would insist that our society needs to learn how to accept death as a part of life. I think of Kim, and her grace and honesty as her own death approached, and I understand this now in a way that I did not before. While I am in great health now, I know also that I am here on loan, and by the same grace she was. What Kim taught me, in the way she lived before she was sick, and the way she remained herself afterwards, was to embrace and to be and to love. To cherish those many, many connections that make us feel life all the more deeply.  And writing these letters is a way for me to express that in some way.

I think it's only appropriate that my first open heart letter is to Kim. I was fortunate that I could actually send her a similar letter before she died--selfishly, I needed her to know how much I cared. I share this letter with you now, with love and gratitude for having known her:



Kim,
It seems to me that it’s the little things that make a friendship. Let me tell you about some of my memories of you and us. From the smallest to the most prominent, I have lots of important memories about our friendship:

From the moment I met you, I knew you were a kindred spirit. One of the first times we spent together was just after D. started teaching. It a late spring evening and you and your family came to see us. You were still living over an hour away, and I remember that by the end of the night I was wishing very much that you lived closer—(I eventually got my wish!!)
That night was especially beautiful—the dusk was mid-summer long, and the trees were throwing plum-colored shadows all over the yard and the pool. We lit some lanterns with candles and hung them around our back porch, and we all sat out on our deck—you had your feet in our pool.
Later, after dinner, we were in the screen porch, and I vividly remember little B. listening to us tell stories about ourselves as we got to know each other better. Her eyes drooped, and soon she was asleep on your lap. And you were so lovely—the candlelight lit up your face, and you glowed. I remember many times we spent at our pool as the years went on, but that first night is strongest in my memory.

A few years later, we were thrilled to learn you were moving to our town, and we were so happy! After that, we spent more time together, including one visit on Thanksgiving. Our screen porch was a closed-in room by then, and you were our first Thanksgiving guests to eat with us there. I felt so pleased that you had been able to join us. The kids were so excited that night they had a hard time eating!

Speaking of eating—I must tell you again how I much I love your cooking!! You have a real talent in the kitchen, and I will admit that at least one of my favorite things to cook is a down-right ripoff of something you served us at your home: Moroccan-style chicken with figs, olives, cumin, etc. Oh my. That was one of the best meals. Thank you for sharing that recipe!

I have another ridiculous confession: I think of you every time I fold clothes. Really. Do you remember all of those lovely clothes of B’s you gave me for Ada? We have been loving those clothes for years now. Ada has been “on the small side” forever, and so she was able to wear some of those outfits for two years (or three! Amazing!). Now Esme is starting to wear them, too. It was so generous of you to give those to us. But here is the funny thing: When you packed them so carefully, you folded them in a way that was new to me: arms across each other, then fold, and fold again. Each shirt looked like a neat little hug. Inspired! Here I had been folding wrong for years--lumping my clothes into folds that wouldn’t stay, and they would sort of slump and shrug themselves out of the closet shelves into heaps. So I copied your way, and now the clothes stay put. So silly. But every single time I fold my clothes I think of you. I’ve been wanting to tell you that ridiculous thing for years, and now there it is.

I would be remiss if I didn’t tell you how much we have loved the many gifts you’ve given us over the years. Almost every afternoon, Ada and Esme still wear the fairy wings you gave Ada many years ago. For Ada’s Christening, you gave her a beautiful book about the twelve gifts of birth—it’s one of my favorites. And all of the cards and notes you’ve sent me—it has meant so much to me. I don’t know if it’s always the case that one’s handwriting corresponds with the sound of one’s voice, but with you, it is undeniable. Your voice is sweet and distinctive, and your handwriting matches it perfectly. I swear I hear you talking when I read it!

When we had to move away, I was sad to leave all of our friends behind, and you were such a source of comfort to me. First, D helped us move a U-Haul truck of stuff up north. (Do you remember that crazy time? Our guys spent 8 hours driving to our rental house, 2 hours trying to get a key from the rental agent, and then 1 hour unloading the entire contents of the truck into the house itself. It was a wonder they made the plane to come home!) What a blessing his help was. And yours—A. was so little at the time, and B., and I was so grateful that you and D. could sacrifice that time to help us. Then when we moved, I was really lonely. Sometimes when you move, people fall out of your life—you probably know how this can happen. It’s hard to keep relationships going, and it’s a testament to you, Kim, that so many people stay in touch with you—you have lived so many places, and collected wonderful friendships everywhere along the way!
Anyway, when I moved, only a few people still called or wrote, and you were one of them. The conversations I’ve had with you over the years have been so honest and understanding—I’ve always been able to open my heart to you without fear of judgment, and it’s a true treasure. After I moved, I was so cheered by our phone conversations or your notes; they would stay in my mind for days. Thank you so much for being there for me.

I know I’ve said it so many times, but I wish I were there for you now. I would love to cook for you and D and the kids. I would take the kids to the park. I would hug you, and listen to you, and make you silly little things. I would try to pretend that this would all go away, and I would cry with you when it was clear it would not.

You are so strong, as is D. You are walking a path now that we will all walk one day, and you have taught me so very much about Grace and strength. I know you’ve had the gamut of emotions over the past year and a half, and I’m guessing that riding that emotional rollercoaster might sometimes rival the physical pain.
Your honesty and wry humor are a potent and uncommon combination, and I know you attract wonderful people to your circle—D. being the primary example, of course!—but also all of your friends who I’ve learned about since your illness.
I hope you can feel the strength and love and well-wishes we all try to send to you every day. The waves of love from here are strong and constant, and will continue to be no matter what. You really do always have my heart, my dear friend. I love you.


Kim left us on December 9, 2008. I think of her every day, with love and admiration.

Wearing my heart on my sleeve: An ongoing project

If you have read more than one or two posts here, you know as well as anyone in my face-to-face life this important fact about me: I wear my heart on my sleeve.

I fight it sometimes, I do. But I just can't help it. I put my whole self out there, into the world, just because I feel I have to. You'll not be surprised to learn that I do not have a poker face among my repertoire of facial expressions.

Being this way brings its complications. I'm overwhelming to some people with my puppy-like eagerness. Because I'm not good at pretending ennui, I probably lack a certain mystery; I don't do aloof. 

I love meeting new people and getting to know them. I think most people are interesting, and I love learning about new friends, getting to know the details of their life.   And equally so, I love connecting with people whom I've cared about in my past.   


For years I have been a little ashamed of this kind of enthusiasm.  But now, instead of working against it, I have decided to embrace opening my heart to people. I am wearing my heart on my sleeve, proudly.

Tomorrow I will post the first in a long series of posts I'm calling "Open Heart Letters." These are open notes to people in my life--both currently or from my past--who have made some sort of impression on me. For the people in my life now--well, I am writing these because it's so good to know that someone cares for you and thinks of you, isn't it?

And for those people I knew long ago-- I realize that many of them won't even see these "love letters" I feel compelled to write.  Regardless, I think it's a worthwhile exercise to reflect on the people I have known at formative times in my life, even those I knew for just a short while. They stay in my memory. From time to time my thoughts will land on such a person, and I am reminded how amazing the wide world is, filled with good people who make positive impressions on you just by crossing your path.

This is an ambitious project, and potentially endless--there are so many people I've admired and cared for over the years.  Some notes will be long letters, others distilled into a few lines or a poem.   I invite you to come along on the journey, and consider your own connections as we go...