30 years ago, my sweet red haired Mama and my dark haired Pa brought their first of three daughters into the world. They pulled my hair up into a pink bow on top of my head in my very first photo. I used to fit perfectly on my Papa's arm, head cradled in his hand, feet resting by his elbow.
I was the first grandchild on both sides of my family- after my greek Grandma passed I found a letter she had written me when I graduated college- she said that she had always loved babies, and that she remembered carrying me around when I was born, and how special I was to her.
Funny to imagine myself as a little peanut, sleeping away the days in the house in Seattle where my parents still live today. The backyard was the most magical place, full of tall grass and a large cottonwood tree, a garden to play in and two sisters to keep me company. I remember disliking Kindergarten, (which I only went to for half a day.) I was much more interested in eating slices of apple and cubes of cheese and lining up my stuffed animals on the bed so I could talk to them (mostly dogs and bears.)
My parents had chickens when I was an infant, in a coop behind the house. Apparently my father was tasked with picking out the brood- and when he returned with a box full of chicks he exclaimed proudly, "don't worry Karen, I kept all the big ones." He was a well meaning man from Brooklyn, but they ended up with a flock of roosters. Mom says it was a little crazy, their first baby and all those damn roosters running around, and a cat that could literally jump off the walls (which they named Kareem after Kareem Abdul Jabbar.) Needles to say, the roosters met with their bloody fate, and they had a big chicken dinner one night.
I could bore you for hours with tales of my upbringing- summer trips to Virginia, fishing on the pond and the old house on Oxford Road, sweltering nights at the apartment in Carnarise, where Bubby made turkey dinner and noodle pudding. I'll save the lengthier version for the book I'll write someday.
In essence, three decades passed, rife with the trials and tribulations of schooling and the arts, the formation of enduring friendships, naive and tender attempts at love, and the travels in-between.
I was looking through some pictures today, of the California coastline on summer road trips, portraits of friends that I've known since we were teenagers, photos of meals that I loved, old houses that I lived in during my twenties in Seattle.
I talked on the phone with my friend Carolina, who just kept repeating, "We're thirty. Lindsey, we're THIRTY!" Once, for a laugh, she climbed inside her duvet cover when we lived in the dorms, then ran around the room.
The other day I spoke with my Uncle Bill, who sent me the fabulous book of essays. "Pulphead," by John Jeremiah Sullivan, and had this to say about growing up.
"Basically in life you come, and you go, and the rest is what we have in between. We don't remember the coming, and none of us knows we we will go. The best thing to do is enjoy your life in the present."
This is echoed by Henry Miller, who wrote this at the beginning of his essay "On Turning Eighty," in the book Sextet.
"If at eighty you're not a cripple or an invalid, if you have your health, if you still enjoy a good walk, a good meal (with all the trimmings), if you can sleep without first taking a pill, if birds and flowers, mountains and sea still inspire you, you are a most fortunate individual and should get down on your hands and knees morning and night and thank the good Lord for his savin' and keepin' power.
If you are young in years but already weary in spirit, already on your way to becoming an automaton, it may do you good to say to your boss- under your breath, of course- 'fuck you, Jack! You don't own me.' If you can whistle up your ass, if you can be turned on by a fetching bottom or a lovely pair of teats, if you can fall in love again and again, if you can forgive your parents for the crime of bringing you into this world, if you are content to get nowhere, just take each day as it comes, if you can forgive as well as forget, if you can keep from growing sour, surly, bitter and cynical, man you've got it half licked."
The other wonderful quote that I came across this week was in the book Long Quiet Highway, written by Natalie Goldberg, about her journey with writing, and Buddhism.
"Suzuki Roshi once said about questioning our life, our purpose, 'It's like putting a horse on top of a horse and then climbing on it and trying to ride. Riding a horse by itself is hard enough. Why add another horse? Then it's impossible!' We add that extra horse when we constantly question ourselves rather then just live out our lives, and be who we are at every moment."
I find some humor in the fact that while most of my close friends are becoming more educated, I seem to be becoming more under-employed. I am tickled that almost unknowingly, I stumbled into a life I always wanted. I live in sunny house, with a new coat of paint in the living room that left my roommate and I drinking wine and running around the house at 2 am in excitement. I have a dog and a boyfriend, parents and sisters I adore, and dear friends in many corners of the country.
On my birthday last monday, my sisters and I made a stack of sandwiches and headed out to Hamilton Pool with my boyfriend Steven, all crammed in his beloved purple truck. We drank club soda and munched on chips, and spent the afternoon swimming in a gorgeous natural swimming hole about 30 minutes outside of Austin, a dome-like pool with a collapsed ceiling, where you can lie under streams of water that fall from the cliff above. We ate BBQ and pecan pie with ice cream and some Shiner beer for dinner, then finished off the night at my house, with homemade carrot cake and a backyard bonfire, and company of roommates and a few friends.
It was, in fact, a pretty perfect way to start a new decade.
Both of my younger sisters were here to visit, Shelley via airplane, and Melissa in her car, en route to a new job at a farm in Culpeper, Virginia, about 45 minutes from my Grandpa in Charlottesville. There was something very comforting about waking up with them in the house, Guthrie trying to spoon with Shelley on my bed, Melissa asleep on the couch.
I felt an equal degree of sadness and excitement as Shelley and I watched Melissa drive away a few days after my birthday. Seems like a long time ago that my parents first held me in their arms, a long time since we were just little girls. I felt nostalgic for old memories we share, and grateful that we have all (my parents too) grown so much in the past few years. It seems that finally, blessedly, we are ready for what comes next, ready to grow up.
I think my goal for this week is to not stack horses on top of each other. Less questioning of the self, and the path, and more riding for the sake of the wind through the trees, and the sight of a fetching bottom to enjoy.
With that, I wish you all a happy birthday, and promise to write again soon.
