In the Middle (Barbara Crooker) and Sky in September (WS Merwin)

I am sitting here in a huge, sterile hotel outside of Chicago on the eve of my 50th birthday feeling just a little sorry for myself as I begin a four day board recertification course. Ok, it was my poor planning, amidst other things, that is mostly to blame for this slightly depressing scenario, but at least I won't have a lot of distractions....AND, my wonderful friend here in Chicago is strapping on her purple party shoes and taking me out on Friday to celebrate! So, I have a remarkable opportunity here to contemplate how I feel about turning 50 without many interruptions, as the sun goes down on this beautiful fall day. Guess what? I feel pretty good. I find that a bit remarkable, but true. Our son is thriving and blissfully happy at college (hopefully he is going to class..), so we are hard-pressed to be too sad. He even communicates occasionally and he will be home now and again. The girl left behind has taken to her third floor hideout, and we are being diligent parents and trying to put the spotlight on her a little more than she would like. What we find, as we begin to see her without her brother around, is an incredibly funny, intelligent, thoughtful young woman with a biting wit who makes us want to either fling her out the nearest window or howl with laughter. She is exhausting, but well worth the effort. Chip and I have found joy in our new patio and in each other as we all come out from under the big personality of our son and the constant presence of his many large friends. Chip is well and improving slowly but constantly from his back surgery, and I am feeling pretty good, managing the new oral drug regimen with just blisters on my feet on week 2 and a bit of foot pain--but somehow I feel more able to handle it, even if I can't walk too well for a short time. My waist line is certainly suffering a bit, but I don't seem to be. Maybe 50 is ok. Maybe I can believe the wonderful pastor of my fab new church when she emailed me and said that 50 is the biblical year of Jubilee when all debts are cancelled, the past is forgiven, and liberation lies ahead. Now how about that! Liberation! Maybe I should stop telling my husband that I want my own house... Bottom line here is that this stage seems to be ok. Maybe a few more aches and pains, but maybe a little more ability to take time to appreciate what's right in front of me--a devoted, adorable husband, a remarkable, infuriating, fascinating, hilarious 16 year old, a wonderful old nutcase of a dog who has been with me through all the thick and thin (at this point, it is a little hard to know if it was our thick or her thin), and a wonderful group of friends and family that keep us laughing. I have babbled on a bit too long tonight, as I have few responsibilities in this hotel, but how about a few poems. A dear friend sent me the first poem about time and aging, and the second wonderful poem about September light is from our new poet laureate. Check them out.
Cheers

In The Middle (Barbara Crooker)

of a life that's as complicated as everyone else's,
Struggling for balance, juggling time.
The mantle clock that was my grandfather's
Has stopped at 9:20; we haven't had time
To get it repaired. The brass pendulum is still,
The chimes don't ring. One day you look at the window,
Green summer, the next, and the leaves have already fallen,
And a grey sky lowers the horizon. Our children almost grown,
Our parents gone,it happened so fast. We must learn
Again now to love, between morning's quick coffee
And evening's slow return. Steam from a pot of soup rises,
Mixing with the yeasty smell of baking bread. Our bodies
Twine, and the big black dog pushes his great head between;
His tame is a metronome, 3/4 time. We'll never get there,
Time is always ahead of us, running down the beach, uging
Us on faster, faster, but sometimes we take off our watches,
Sometimes we lie in the hammock, caught between the mesh
Of rope and the net of stars, suspended, tangled up,
In love, running out of time.

Sky in September (WS Merwin)

In spite of the months of knowing
And the years
Autumn comes with astonishment
Light held up in a glass
The terrible news in a haze
Caught breath in the warm leaves

In spite of the gathered dust and the vast moon
The day comes with a color
Its words cannot touch
So it is when I see you
After the years when the ailanthus leaves
Drifted unnoticed
Down the gray wall

They have disappeared and nothing is missing
After their rocking and clinging
They have vanished with the thieves and shuffles
And the words of the dealers
Taking nothing
They have fallen like scales from the eyes
And at last we are hearer together
Light of autumn
Clear morning in the only time

Fall (Edward Hirsch) and At Blackwater Pond (Mary Oliver)

Yes, we are back from taking our son to college for the first time, back from a week basking in the glory of being waterside in Maine, back from paper plates full of the tenderest lobsters, back from rocky coasts disappearing into Vermont hills, back to a house turned upside down with one child gone and another moving upstairs leaving a swath of destruction in her wake! We really thought we would feel so unbearably sad when we dropped him off, but the reality was quite different.  When we finally, finally arrived (after 900 miles or so), the boy was so excited, so happy, so READY, that we could do nothing but laugh, share his excitement, hug him and skedaddle.  Now we are home and it still feels ok....so far.  I am sure that his absence will make itself a nice little hole in our hearts, but for now, he is so delighted with his new found home, that it just feels right.  Maybe I have figured one thing out--here it is:  our bond with this boy has not been severed by his absence.  In fact, perhaps we're even more aware of it now that it feels so precious.  Anyway, we are doing fine so far. Oh, and I wanted to recap a part of our trip home because it was just the perfect ending of a glorious week.  we spent our last night on the road at the house of a dear friend in Rochester, NY.  Now I was born in Rochester because my father was the headmaster of a little co-ed private school there called Harley School.  This was his first headmastership, and I was just a little thing when we lived there and I have little memory of the place (dad was there from 1959-1963).  Anyway, our host told us that Harley School was about a minute down the road, so in the morning, Chip and I walked into the school (which was not yet in session), and asked whether they had pictures of old headmasters on the wall somewhere.  The woman said that they certainly did, and then she asked me why I wanted to know.  We told her about dad and how much my parents had loved Harley, that I had never been here, and how much we just wanted to see his picture and look around a little.  Well, people came out of the woodwork to welcome us, give us a tour, meet the headmaster, and shower us with t-shirts and sweatshirts and bags with Harley emblazoned all over them!  This was one of the sweetest 45 minutes I have ever spent.  There is just something about a school....and perhaps something about an old headmaster too.....  lovely all around. Well, I'm feeling a little sad that summer is drawing to a close, I am always struck by how much I love the subtle change in the light and the air and the smell as autumn comes.  There is something exciting about this time--I will miss football games, but I will revel in Will's new love for all things Maine, and I'll know that he is experiencing a crisp, gorgeous, full-throttle Maine fall.....lucky boy!  Now we can focus on the other kid, even though she is hoping that we won't!  Too bad honey, here we come, and the third floor won't stop us!   Here are a couple of poems that capture something of my favorite season.  enjoy! FALL (Edward Hirsch)
Fall, falling, fallen. That's the way the season Changes its tense in the long-haired maples That dot the road; the veiny hand-shaped leaves Redden on their branches (in a fiery competition With the final remaining cardinals) and then Begin to sidle and float through the air, at last Settling into colorful layers carpeting the ground. At twilight the light, too, is layered in the trees In a season of odd, dusky congruences‐a scarlet tanager And the odor of burning leaves, a golden retriever Loping down the center of a wide street and the sun Setting behind smoke-filled trees in the distance, A gap opening up in the treetops and a bruised cloud Blamelessly filling the space with purples. Everything Changes and moves in the split second between summer's Sprawling past and winter's hard revision, one moment Pulling out of the station according to schedule, Another moment arriving on the next platform. It Happens almost like clockwork: the leaves drift away From their branches and gather slowly at our feet, Sliding over our ankles, and the season begins moving Around us even as its colorful weather moves us, Even as it pulls us into its dusty, twilit pockets. And every year there is a brief, startling moment When we pause in the middle of a long walk home and Suddenly feel something invisible and weightless Touching our shoulders, sweeping down from the air: It is the autumn wind pressing against our bodies; It is the changing light of fall falling on us.

AT BLACKWATER POND (Mary Oliver)
At. Blackwater Pond the tossed waters have settled
after a night of rain.
I dip my cupped hands. I drink
a long time. It tastes
like stone, leaves, fire. It falls cold
into my body, waking the bones. I hear them
deep inside me, whispering
oh what is that beautiful thing
that just happened?