Observing the Change of Seasons

Fall Leaves in New EnglandThere’s something comforting about the change of seasons. As we progress from one stage of the year to another, there’s a innate sense that this part of our journey, a few steps that we’ve measured in linear time, is coming to a close. There’s a feeling of completeness. I imagine that God designed it this way for a reason.

Summer vacations are a wonderful respite from the insane pace that marks our professional lives, but removing the air conditioning units from the windows is sort of a seasonal rite of passage in New England. Homes are rarely built with central air here because it’s only needed for about six weeks out of the year, so window units go in at the end of spring and come out at the end of the summer.

As we arrive at the end of fall, I clean the grill for the season as the evenings become too cool to cook out. By the end of October I’ve cleared our deck and stored the outside furniture away from the inches of snow that will eventually cover where it once sat. I also did this in when we lived in the South, although I often wondered if there was any point. In the South, everything is continuous, climate controlled. The months blend together, lose their variety. A blandness is pervasive as weeks and months and seasons pass seamlessly into one another with little noticeable difference. In New England, even during the dreaded winters that sometimes seem to last forever and threaten to extinguish the lives of those of us crazy enough to live here, there is a sense that things are as they should be. Air conditioners and deck furniture have given way to snow-blowers. Each season has it’s tool.

As I write this, dusk is falling earlier, and the trees surround us with shades of gold and red. Leaves are painting designs on the pavement, and the nights (and now days, as well) are crisp. Pumpkins adorn stoops. It is time for apple crisp and cider.

And, despite the senselessness, and occasionally the tragedy, of the world around us, seeing this somehow means that all is well.

 

Sharing Perspectives

Picture of a seagull at the ocean.Karen and the girls were recently out of town for a week. When these sorts of trips occur, because I’m an introvert, I look very forward to the uninterrupted quiet time in the evenings. Usually, it’s quite the utopia for about the first two days, after which I find myself missing the controlled chaos that accompanies having children.

While she didn’t show the signs early, our youngest has turned out to be another Daddy’s girl. She can barely control her excitement as she rushes to greet me if I’ve been gone for even an hour. This is actually nice timing, because our oldest has entered a phase where she’s stand-offish about that sort of thing, so at least there’s balance. On this last trip, our youngest would wake from her afternoon nap every day, find Karen’s phone and bring it to her, insisting that she wanted to talk to Daddy. As Karen was quite busy with the purpose of the trip, she would start the FaceTime call and let our youngest carry the phone around for a bit to talk to me.

Two things struck me about these conversations. The first was that her end of the discussions consisted entirely of “Hi, Daddy” with various inflections for 30 minutes. The second was that, as she toddled around other people in the room, under tables and around chairs and other obstacles that I would otherwise not even notice, occasionally holding the phone so that the camera pointed forward, I had the opportunity to see the world from her perspective. She was sharing her point of view with me, without even realizing the extent to which she was doing so. She was allowing me to engage in her world even as she tried to engage in mine. She hugged the phone at the end of one of these conversations, the closest that she could get that day to her daddy across the miles of distance between us.


Last week was our family vacation for the summer. One afternoon we were walking along a rocky coastline in New Hampshire, and Karen took our oldest to look for shells. I sat with our youngest, now in the developmental stage in which her words are just beginning to form, and she grasped two of my fingers in her small hand as we watched the waves break on the rocks for a few moments. She took in the majestic scene before her with wide eyes, soaking in every detail. “Birdie,” she pointed out as the seagulls flew overhead.

“That’s the ocean!” she finally exclaimed, missing the occasional consonant.

There was no distance between us in the moment, and we were sharing the same experience, the same perspective, as it occurred, the first such moment that I can recall.

We did a lot of fun and relaxing things that week, but in that moment, my daughter and I were not sharing our worlds with each other. We were inhabiting the same one, together. That moment was priceless beyond words.

First Day at the Theatre

There’s very little that I remember with any degree of clarity from my early elementary school days. 4th and 5th grades, sure, but prior to that, not so much. That’s why the vivid recollection of one specific field trip is such a notable exception.

I remember looking forward to the trip with so much excitement as my parents signed the permission forms in the days preceding the event. I remember boarding the bus with my friends and driving the short distance to the nearby college in the adjacent town. The college had a quality theatre program, and I was going to see my first play.

Now, I can’t say that I remember the plot of the show. I remember being quite unsettled by the villain, and one line in particular as he prowled the front row, cracking through what I now know to be the fourth wall as he questioned:

“Do you know what’s in my secret formula? Well, of course you don’t!”

In short, I returned from that trip with a sense of magic. I had never seen anything like live theatre, and, obviously, it stayed with me as I’ve pursued that calling in various professional avenues from college forward, even though I’ve never made it my living exclusively. I’m so thankful that I was afforded the opportunity to experience that show. My experiences with the theatre have been amazing ever since.

This week, I was given an even more profound opportunity, a more amazing one. I had the opportunity take my daughter, with her pre-school class, to her first play.

The show was Peter Rabbit Tales, and she is already quite familiar with the original work of Peter Rabbit. She was thrilled, so excited as we counted down the days. I drove her to school, joined the caravan of vehicles that went to the arts center, and watched the traveling theatre group’s performance. Even more than the show, however, I watched my daughter’s face as she sat, literally on the edge of her seat, her eyes almost unblinking, never wavering from the stage.

I wonder if the enrapt expression on my face was similar that day so many years ago when I watched that play. I wonder if this experience will have the impact on our daughter that day had on me. I know that she has been impacted by experiencing this art in person, and I know that it was an enormously positive experience for her.

An experience in which I was able to take part.

This was one of the most amazing experiences that I’ve had as a parent, more impactful even that my first play. I am thrilled to have been able to join my daughter for her first play.

Against Doctor’s Orders

A few years ago, in what seems like a far away time, Karen and I had a really great apartment on the top floor of a building of really great apartments. The apartment had a sunroom. I was usually home from work early in the afternoon then, and I would often sit in the sunroom to read or pray or think. I remember watching the parking lot below, and seeing people returning from work later and later into the evening. They always looked tired, weary. I always knew that I really didn’t ever want to be one of those people.

I was…so naive.

At some point over the last three years, the un-thinkable happened. I became a workaholic. I know that it happened during our brief adventure in North Carolina, when I was freelancing for a living and keeping my skills up to date in a career that changes at a pace that is simply ludicrous. I was, however, prepared for this from much earlier in life.

My background, after all, is in theatre. For those of you who think that artistic pursuits are somehow cushy or marked by a lot of flexibility in time, permit me to dispel this myth. I worked 60-hour weeks in theatre. There was no such thing as being ill. We joked that missing rehearsal was only acceptable if you were dead, and that required a 24 hour notice. Even earlier than this, though, I observed my father working very hard. My mother chose to stay at home when I was young, and he took his responsibility to provide for his family very seriously.

Both of these experiences gave me a work ethic, and I’m very grateful for that. The thing about working for yourself, however, is that you work a lot.  60-hour weeks were again often the norm. And, while I love what I do, my family suffers.

Turns out they’re not the only ones.

I have a day job again since we’ve returned to New England, and I seriously intended to let that reduce the number of hours that I spend working. Of course, there’s always a side project popping up, but, for the most part, I was looking forward to a 40-hour week again. Occurring simultaneously, however, is our oldest daughter’s first year of school. This means that she’s bringing home various sorts of bugs and illnesses to which Karen and I succumb. A few weekends ago, she brought home the flu. The nasty bug made it’s way through the household, but didn’t stop there for me. Within two days, the doctor advised me that I had pneumonia. I had never had pneumonia before. I’ve heard that it’s bad, but I gathered that it can be treated like everything else. So, I dutifully finished my course of antibiotic, took a total of two days away from work, and dove back in. Then went out of town for a weekend with the family. Then worked a small theatre weekend project. Then went out of town again for a conference.

And then, basically, collapsed.

When the doctor said that it took a long time to recover from pneumonia, he wasn’t kidding. This recovery is taking a long time. Of course, had I listened to him to begin with and taken a week out from work instead two days, I likely wouldn’t be quite so hesitant to get off of the sofa now, nearly three weeks later.

So, I knew that I work too much, but it turns out that I really work too much.

The good news is that I’ve had a lot of time to catch up on my reading, which has been nice. It also means that I’ve had time to journal, and to reflect on things. One of my realizations has been that, in the evening when the kids are in bed, I’m a bit lost when I don’t have work to do. I have been for some time. That’s a sad state of affairs.

Being forced to slow down has been a good thing for me. Difficult to cope with, but a good thing. I hope that, when I’ve recovered, that I can stay…recovered.

We’ll see.

Layered in Snow

Layered in SnowA few weeks ago, before an uncharacteristically warm few weeks in New England, I was driving home on a route that had been my evening commute for some time when Karen and I lived here previously. As it was still winter, there was a good deal of snow still piled on the sides of the road…I’m guessing a couple of feet, or so…when I stopped at a traffic signal on the final stretch of my drive home.

My drive home now is nearly identical to my drive home then, and, as this particular traffic signal takes a bit longer than one would expect to change, I have often found myself observing the surroundings on either side of the intersection. I did then, and I do that now, and those snow banks sparked memories for me.

I felt as though, even after having been gone for two years, that our old lives were hibernating in that snow, suspended somehow as though we had never been away. I had been so homesick for this area for our most recent two years in the South, and, upon our return this summer, we fell so easily back into the rhythms and routines that had marked our lives before we left.

I can remember when Karen and I first explored this town. We drove around, looked at an apartment, had a picnic on the common and discussed if we could live here. It was small to me, but there was something about it. We took the apartment, and stayed. When we knew this summer that we were moving back to New England, there was very little discussion…indeed, almost the assumption…that we would live here again. In our short time here, there was so much about our family that solidified in my mind. Somehow, it felt as though that would all just resume when we returned.

Except that so much has changed in two years. Our daughter isn’t as young as she once was, and Sunday afternoons of Daddy-daughter time watching Kipper and Thomas the Train aren’t so much her speed at this age. She’s moved on. I’m not working the theatre gig I worked on weekends when we were here previously. We have two children now, not just one. Our faith community no longer holds a service on Saturday nights. And those are just the differences that I immediately noticed.

Life isn’t static. It doesn’t sit still. We can’t just resume where we left off, as much as I would sometimes like to do so. Because it’s not as though Karen and I didn’t experience some really difficult times when we lived here before. We did. Like most of us, though, I tend to hold on tightly to the positive memories and lightly to the bad, a coping skill which lets nostalgia get the better of me.

So, I guess I’m only doing what all of us do, walking in that dissonance between knowing we can never return to the past while still holding onto it in the knowledge that it shapes who we are in our present. Those years weren’t as glowing as my memories would have me to believe, but each of their combined experiences, good and bad, have come together to make me who I am now at some level. All else being equal, I would much rather walk in this dissonance than forget that past altogether.


I walked downstairs to the kitchen for a lunch break last week. Our youngest was down for a nap, Karen was working quietly on a project, and our oldest daughter, as though in a flashback to weekends of two years ago, was laughing joyously at an episode of Kipper.

And I smiled.

Perhaps we haven’t diverged quite as much as I thought.

Image attribution: niXerKG under Creative Commons.