Tuesday, November 25

tin foil

I fed my roommate and fiance' last night.

(That fact in itself is a blessing; worth a thankfulness, a pondering.)

As I packed up the leftovers, I went to the pantry and discovered it: New Tin Foil. It was a brand new box of Reynold's Wrap that my roommate must have gotten, as she has a habit of Bringing Home Useful Things.

New Tin Foil made my heart sigh a little; a loss. An emptiness.

You see, years ago my Granny Goo moved from her duplex into Assisted Living. As she did so, she bequeathed Old Tin Foil to me. Scads and scads of it. I swear, the woman gave me at least five or six boxes.

Most of it was the wide kind and extra heavy-duty. It has saved me from baking pan cleanup for years now! I thought I would never run out.

But Old Tin Foil is gone. Suddenly, irrevocably. And it's nothing, nothing... Tin foil doesn't even function on the level of a kitchen utensil. Let's be honest: it's not even a gadget!

But I still have a wet eye. Old Tin Foil is gone.

It just makes her more gone. Granny Goo.

A little farther away from her bacon-wrapped maple green beans. Farther from our Christmas Eve Ham Sandwich Rolls. (Or as we call them, "...those ham sandwiches. Do we want to have them?")

Yes. Yes, and forever yes.

Old Tin Foil passes away and New has come to take its place, in many ways.

But I will keep Old Tin Foil in my heart. In the duplex. Making sandwiches.


Friday, November 21

Fifty Days

I have sixteen minutes to write, so I will.

I used to think that brides fell off the face of the earth for a year because they were so drastically in love that they couldn't see straight; that they couldn't be bothered with friends. I now know it is because they had tasks to do. So many tasks.

I re-ordered the bride shoes last night; I got it wrong the first time. I bought voluminous petticoats and carefully considered bras. (The ability to breathe? ALWAYS in fashion!) The bridal updo trial salon appointment, made. A second appointment for alterations, booked. It's almost time to order the crowns, order the flowers, make sure the rings are engraved.

It's almost time.

I hope that everything turns out as good as my intentions.

I hope everyone will have a good time at my party. 

I hope the marriage turns out as good as it can be made; can be built.

But at this point, all I want is to take him in my arms at the reception

And dance

The first


Sunday, November 2

Sixty-Nine Days

The wedding registry keeps me informed; I don't even have to think.

Sixty-nine days. Sixty-nine days until I change my life forever. Humorous. 69.

In her book The Year of Magical Thinking, Joan Didion complains, "Was it only by dreaming or by writing that I could find out what I thought?"

So here I am, writing. To find out what I think.

I've been too busy to write.

I've been too private to write.

I remember how annoyed I would get at Wide Blue Eyes, how she would always IMMEDIATELY put forth every single thought that crossed through the transom of her mind, every single thing she thought she heard from God. She would proclaim it to us as if it were hot news, news that was somehow now law that we had to abide by. The spiritual whims of the that clan became the stick by which all our spirituality was measured.

I don't want to be that.

But I do need to know what I think, so I will write.

I remember once a confirmed bachelor explaining a married friend's irresponsibility by saying, "Our generation all wants very much to be married AND to not be married." I think there is truth there.

What if I don't like being married?

What if I am not good at being married?

What if it changes me in a way I don't like; that I lose myself?

Sometimes I think this line of questioning is wholly disingenuous. These thoughts arise from times I am alone, not times I am with him. With him is contentment. With him is home. With him is an acceptance and security I've not had before. I've not ever worked so hard or consistently on a project as I have our wedding. There's nothing I've ever wanted this much.

Other times I realize: We're so busy. I'm barely reading. I'm not writing. He's not taking photographs at the rate he normally does. I like the artist in me, in him. Are we changing for good? Once the wedding and all the hoopla is over, will we get back to being the people we fell in love with?

And then there is this: I WILL change; I already have. I am less accessible to my friends. I will be less accessible to my friends.

But that hasn't ended my friendships with Heather, with Natalie, with Kerry. It need not end all friendships.

I am no longer in a howling well of need. I probably will never go without a square meal or hot water again. I don't lack for hugs or cuddles or encouragement. Not needing, will I somehow lose my edge? Lose my keenness for the spiritual side of life? Prayer? Praise? Reflection? Wonderment?

How much of me has come from my dearths as much as my assets?


So much I can't know.

What DO I know?

I know he and I are honest and of a goodwill to be the best we can be for each other. I trust his heart in this as much (possibly more) than I trust mine.

I know that God is good, and honors all that we give to Him as a gift; the ins and outs of all our days.

I know that marriage is the mystery in which Christ shows for His love for the Church. That I am in awe of the chance to get to play out my days inside that mystery... that somehow I lucked out and got a ticket for the grand theatre performance!

I believe (but do not know, have not yet experienced) that "any two people can have a good marriage if they just make up their minds to!"

I know that my whole life, it is in my nature to take the next adventure. And that this is it. That if I don't take the next adventure, my soul will stagnate and die. So to be the truest to who I am, I must offer my heartsoul up. Offer it to be loved. Offer it to be changed. Offer it up, though I am afraid.

“The Road goes ever on and on
Down from the door where it began.
Now far ahead the Road has gone,
And I must follow, if I can,
Pursuing it with eager feet,
Until it joins some larger way"

~J.R.R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring

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