Crying At Weddings

Just as you'd expect in the moments before a wedding, the air was electric with joy. 

Bridesmaids chattering with giddy excitement, 

mothers of the bride and groom beaming as their dreams were coming true; 

fathers of the happy couple puffed up with pride, 

and hundreds of guests caught up in the beautiful celebration of love.

Certainly there were many tears. Tears borne from the overwhelming emotions that a happy wedding brings forth; tears of happiness, tears of anticipation, tears of relief, tears of love. Tears of joy.

But as the wedding party gathered at the altar and the ceremony began, one person's tears captured my attention. He was crying - the groom's brother, his best man - with a quavering smile on his face, much like everyone else. But his tears, I noticed, were different.

They were tears of joy and delight, to be sure, but they seemed to be mixed with tears of more complicated, raw emotions

of pain,

of loss,

of the certainty that life will never again be quite the same. 

* * * * *

Later, during his toast, the groom's brother acknowledged his tears. He cracked jokes, made light of his intense emotion, and then helped us understand why he cried. 

He and his brother, the groom, had shared a bedroom for many years. As the night owl of the two, the groom's brother was usually awake as his brother slept, and he often glanced over to see his brother's sleeping face, night after night, year after year, in their room together. 

He spoke of this simple, comforting habit that held his brother's life to his.

A habit that was now, for the sake of his brother's marriage, about to fade into memory.

Dying so that something new could be born. 

And this, at least in part, was why he cried.

* * * * * 

My heart beat fast as he spoke these words. I was touched by his courage and honesty, his willingness to name this vulnerable feeling of pain, in the midst of so much joy.

Because this is the truth of life. Yin and yang. Sunshine and shadow. Death and resurrection.

We can't take one without the other, but in the "positive vibes only" mode of our world today, we often overlook what we assume to be the down sides of our lives. We brush past the darker, more difficult moments quickly, hoping, I suppose, that they won't taint our happiness, won't subtract from the joys of life.

But if we are bold enough, as this groom's brother was, to name our pain and to set it alongside our joy, to acknowledge them together, our lives are enriched by the beautiful synergy of these two complementary forces. 

Now I understood why the groom's brother cried. Why he was still crying.

And I cried too. 

A Sunday Afternoon On The Lawn At The Scioto River

^ Cbus, in all her sunny Sunday afternoon glory. 

Columbus, Ohio, may be a far cry from Paris, France. And the Scioto River that rides along her western flank is no River Seine. 

But when my daughter and I spend a lazy spring afternoon wandering along this luscious green waterfront landscape, I feel exactly as if I have tumbled into George Seurat's famous painting. 

Follow along, why don't you, and I'll explain exactly what I mean. 

^ Helpfully, this bronze buck marks the best place to stand for the money shot. 

I tuck my water bottle into his shadow as I snap my photos. 

The Scioto Mile, as the downtown green space is affectionately known, covers real estate on both sides of the Scioto River. To get the best view of the city, walk to the southernmost bridge and look back toward the east. Ooh, a skyline is as unique as a fingerprint of a city, and I love to get to know a place by staring at her shoulders. 

^ I can just imagine wading through those cattails into the marshy bog at the edge of the river 

and a part of me is tempted to go exploring. 

The west bank of the river feels slightly more rough and ready. The low, wide sweep of the Center for Science and Industry stands at the top of this lawn; the wide steps hint at her Japanese architect and made a wonderful place for kids to romp in the sun. Another fun feature of the west side is that rather than a formal bulkhead, the river bank has been allowed to run free over here and that fringy bit of last year's cattails are proof of the natural aesthetic. 

^ Pale green leaves are just breaking out on the trees overhead, filling the park with a sense of imminent celebration. Spring is, as they say, busting out all over. 

Walkways weave along both sides of the river; we walk north along the west side to reach the other bridge in the center park. We pass an extended Mexican family happily stretched out on their colorful serapes laid across the lawn as some delicious-smelling comida cook over an open fire. We smile at one another and I am sure they must be roasting tamales. My mouth waters. 

^ This building blows my mind. I love it. 

 The second bridge affords views of the eye-popping National Veterans Memorial and Museum. The building is circular, the interior minimalistic, and the roof covered in grass upon which one can take in a new perspective on the city skyline. Next time, I plan to go there too.

^ Hi, lady! I love your foldable boat. 

As we continue across the bridge and over the waters of the Scioto River, I look down on paddle boarders, kayakers and canoeists galore, splashing about. My eyes are naturally drawn to the rustic boat launch where I stop in my tracks to watch a woman swiftly assemble her origami-style Oru Kayak. I've been dreaming of buying one of those clever crafts for my own self, and it is great fun to see her boat spring to life in mere seconds. 

Now we've completed a full circuit of the main part of the park - the walkways extend further to the north and the south - but we'd had enough walking for now and we're ready to relax. Though we've neglected to bring a proper blanket, we are armed with sweatshirts enough to spread out on the lawn. My daughter wants to sit in the sunshine but I prefer a splash of shade so we choose a spot that suits us both. With our books in hand and water bottles at the ready, we settle in.

We are not the only ones with this great idea.

Ten pages in to my book - Untamed by Glennon Doyle - I glance up to find with a shock that the population of lawn sitters has increased exponentially. 

And I'm struck by our shared countenance. Each one of us - at least a hundred - faces the river, watching with quiet fixation as the bikers, scooterers, and skaters whiz by, dogs and children provide endless antics, and beyond them, small boats drift up and down the river. It's a languid afternoon - not hot by summer's standards but sunny enough for an April afternoon to lull us into a gentle stupor. 

I close my eyes and lie back on the grass, smiling to myself as I listen to the man behind me tell his girlfriend (I surmise) about his mom's iconic homemade macaroni and cheese. The image of George Seurat's classic painting swims before my eyes. One hundred and forty years have passed since he captured a grassy lawn along a river filled with people relaxing in the shade and the sun, as boats quietly slip by and dogs wander here and there. 

But even here in postmodern Columbus, sitting on the lawn by a river is still a lovely way to spend a Sunday afternoon.

* * * * *

Read the story of my first trip since Covid to visit my daughter in Ohio, told from finish to start. 

Last Leg

Sweet Spot

Plant Babies

A Sunday Afternoon On The Lawn At The Scioto River

Reading:The Paper Palace

Reading: Untamed

Reading: The Vanishing Half

Deer

Workspaces

"Whatever you are is because of what your ancestors have done." -Li Lu

My mother-in-law curated a well-rounded stash of grocery store bags. 

My grandfather's private garage fridge chilled his personal supply of fizzy drinks.

My mom used shelves to create an adjunct pantry space for her inventory of canned goods.

My father-in-law kept his garage walls freshly painted and sparkling clean.

My grandmother embraced pegboard organizers and a vast army of canning jars. 

A hundred times a day, as I walk in and out of this space in my garage, just outside my laundry room door, I fondly recall how cleverly my ancestors used the practical, workspaces in their own homes and I give thanks for their resourceful inspiration. 

And when someday, future generations look back and consider what I added to the cultivated utility of the home workspace, I hope to be remembered for twinkle lights and photos of wet bears that look exactly like Gracie after a walk in the rain. 

Reading | Crying In H Mart

Crying In H Mart | Michelle Zauner

Michelle is crying in H Mart because her mother is dead. Tears pour down her cheeks not just from grief but from intense regret over the years she wasted defying her mother's influence in her life and denying her mother's - and her own - heritage. Michelle's mom was Korean, her dad a white American, and Michelle grew up a confused child and rebellious teen in the small-town west coast subculture of Eugene, Oregon. Now Michelle can see that their mutual passion for Korean cuisine built lovely, strong bridges over the stormy seas that raged between her mom and herself, and she crafts a beautiful homage to their relationship by describing in glorious detail the food they both so dearly loved.

* * * * *

^ I have not a single drop of Korean blood running through my veins, but you'll almost always find a jar of kimchi in my fridge. 

^ But I don't have to drive all the way to my local H Mart. I buy mine at the neighborhood QFC.

A beautiful thing about this story is that it is true. Crack open the internet and find childhood photos of Michelle and her smiling umma in real life; watch her cook a classic dish on the morning news shows, listen to the latest music videos of Michelle and her band, Japanese Breakfast. Crying in H Mart would have made a remarkable novel, but to know that it is true sends chills down my spine. 

“Food was how my mother expressed her love. No matter how critical or cruel she could seem—constantly pushing me to meet her intractable expectations—I could always feel her affection radiating from the lunches she packed and the meals she prepared for me just the way I liked them.”

Another beautiful thing is that anyone who is a mother or a daughter will wipe away a few of their own tears of regret over the various forces that drive mothers and daughters apart. We can relate to the struggles Michelle and her mom tried to work through, and admire the intensity of their connection. I can understand and feel their pain.

“Cooking my mother's food had come to represent an absolute role reversal, a role I was meant to fill. Food was an unspoken language between us, had come to symbolize our return to each other, our bonding, our common ground.”

But for me, the most glorious, delightful, visceral part of reading this book is how it stirs up my own sweet memories of eating my way through Seoul. Granted, I've experienced neither the depth nor the breadth of Michelle's decades of expert-level immersion in Korean dishes. But I've gobbled Korean BBQ fresh off the grill, cooling the sizzling meat in my mouth with pickled radishes, fish cakes, and of course, kimchi. I've sweated spicy dak galbi through my pores in the scorching heat of a Seoul summer night. And I've slurped up a hearty bowl of bibimbap on a rainy afternoon at a bookstore cafe, savoring the sensations of comfort and care that it inevitably conjures up.

“Save your tears for when your mother dies.”

To be sure, I'm no Korean food expert. But I have just enough experience with Korean food to understand the love it inspired between Michelle and her mom. To enjoy this connection to their heart-warming story makes me not only happy, but rather hungry too. 

* * * * *

Hey! Wanna read more about the books I've read in 2022? Check these out:

Conversations With Friends

Priestdaddy

The Vanishing Half

Untamed

The Paper Palace

Three Wishes

Crying In H Mart

Prodigal Summer

The Pull Of The Moon

Unsheltered and The Bean Trees

* * * * *

For a full list of books I've read in the past few years, click here:

2022

2021

2020

Three Dreams

Dreams can be silly things, and as much as our own dreams may fascinate us, they often come across as tedious to others. 

Rarely do I dare to share mine.

But in the past few weeks, I've been enjoying some fantastically vivid and thought-provoking dreams, and in the interest of preserving them for my own enjoyment, I share them here.

And if you don't want to read them, I understand. Feel free to scroll on.

* * * * *

Layers

Five years have passed since my mom died, and I've finally found the keys to her home. 

In real life, my mom did indeed move out our of my childhood home about ten years before she died, to a calm and cultivated condo in town.  

But in the dream, I realize that I have been fooled by this decoy home.

I am discovering that she'd actually moved just a few houses down from our old lake house, and as I push open the front door, I'm shocked to find that this place is a proper rabbit's warren. Jumbled rooms sprawl this way and that; small flights of stairs lead to a dozen different levels; one room spills into another and much to my surprise and horror, every inch of every surface in sight is covered with stuff. 

At first, I think all the stuff is garbage - old magazines, empty boxes, wire hangers from the dry cleaners, that sort of thing - but as I poke around and begin to sort things out, I find some surprises. On a cluttered table near her front door, buried under a heap of junk mail, I pull out two vintage hardcover books in sweet shades of faded blue; I prop them against an old artichoke finial, and stand back to survey them, astounded at their beauty. All around me, I realize that there are countless lovely objects, obviously collected with great care and eye for detail, hiding under a superficial layer of rubbish.

And in a flash, I realize that this house is teaching me something new about my mom.

* * * * *

In The Weeds

After decades of long distance friendship, my old work bestie and I are visiting face to face. 

In real life, back in our early twenties as young public accountants on the rise, she and I were the jokers, the pranksters, the hilarious comedy team of our office, ready to lighten up every work-related situation we encountered with our own brand of wacky antics.  

And now, many years later, our dream selves are settling back into a living, breathing friendship again, and not quite sure how to proceed.

My friend breaks the ice. "Here, let me show you this pic I sent my sister today." 

Though I didn't know her well, real-life Sister Susan was the closest thing my friend and I had to a third wheel, a soul sister who parried with the same blade of humor as we did. 

Dream-me leans into my friend's phone with great interest.

What I see is a photo of a beautiful, traditional two-story white house with shutters standing at attention, a glossy black front door, and a gleaming brass door knocker. 

Clearly, this is Susan's home. 

And all along the front edge of the gorgeous house, where surely the original photo had captured an elegant bed of manicured evergreen shrubs skirted with a row of flourishing annuals, my friend has Photoshopped in a tangled mass of overgrown weeds, flopping this way and that along the front of the house in complete disharmony. And Photoshopped into the midst of that unsightly mess, as if they'd been tossed tail over tea kettle into the scruffy brush, lie several large plastic children's toys - a playhouse, a doll buggy, a small slide - their bright colors faded from the sun; a red rusted wheelbarrow crash landed on its side; and several other garish castoffs. 

I look from the phone to my friend's face which has lit up with a fiendish smile. "Susan's preparing to sell her house," she whispers, and with a finger, points my attention back to the caption under her masterpiece: "Ready for Zillow."

We both double over in laughter. 

* * * * *

Negative Space

I am chatting with a man I've just met, and we discover a mutual passion for international travel. "Oh, tell me where you've been and what you've seen!" he encourages me. So I launch in. 

Somehow, I manage to describe in accurate detail the actual countries I've visited in my waking life, and some of my favorite real-life adventures. I talk about motorbiking the streets of Vietnam, drinking coconut milkshakes in Malaysia, learning how to haggle with auto rickshaw drivers in India. 

My new friend listens with rapt attention while I wear myself out. Then, politely, I ask, "What about you?"

In a voice that sweeps over me like a cool ocean breeze, he calmly and steadily replies, " My wife and I are interested in visiting not the land of new places but the water. We fly into a new city and travel straight away to the water's edge, where we arrange for a boat or a ship to take us out to sea. And we spend all of our time in the water - swimming, scuba diving, that sort of thing. We visit the water, not the land."

As he speaks these words, in my mind, I see my mental map of the earth transformed. The continents, normally illuminated as the objects of my attention and dotted with the cities, mountains, and points of interest that have always seemed so important to me, suddenly dull and fade away to formless grey. 

At the same instant, the oceans and seas of the planet, normally colored a uniform, flat blue, come alive. Shades of blue intensify in different regions - polar seas take on an icy silver hue; tropical shallows warm to turquoise, the vast deepness of the western Pacific hums dark navy - and the entire body of earthly waters begins to glow as if lit from within.

In shock and amazement, I look back at the man, and carefully, he looks at me. Then we smile, and I know that we understand each other. 

* * * * *

More dreams that I've dared to describe in detail. Who knows? You may just find them interesting. 

Three Dreams

My Mother's Voice

A Dream {About Ranger}

Be Careful What You Wish For

Plant Babies

^ My daughter's apartment, on the average day, is a glorious jungle. 

Multiple monitors and other WFH paraphernalia notwithstanding, her assortment of plants bathe the room in a cool, green glow. Hard to believe that all these hearty specimens were tiny babies back in 2018 when she moved in, and what a special joy it gives me, doting plant grandmother than I am, to come back and visit them, time after time, and marvel at how quickly the little darlings are growing up. 

Of course, my daughter continues to add new children to the mix. In fact, much of my two weeks' visit was spent touring the local plant shops - particularly Groovy Plant Ranch and Stump - for the little green tykes on her current wish list. 

Spoilers: we found everything she was looking for...and more. 

And to go with those tender darlings, she needed pots.

^ Here's the collection of empties we'd amassed by the end of my visit. Now some of these beauties were already on hand, providing housing to plants that needed to move on to a larger pot. But others we picked up along the way.

After all the list-making, shopping and re-shopping, and careful deliberations, we created a master list of who would be placed where, and on the last afternoon of my visit, out came the bags of potting soil and we finally settled the newcomers into their cozy homes. 

^ Ahh! What a glorious gathering of new green friends. 

And I must say, what a satisfaction for me to help my daughter birth her newest batch of plant babies. Can't wait to come back soon and see how the little dumplings have grown.

* * * * *

Read the story of my first trip since Covid to visit my daughter in Ohio, told from finish to start. 

Last Leg

Sweet Spot

Plant Babies

A Sunday Afternoon On The Lawn At The Scioto River

Reading:The Paper Palace

Reading: Untamed

Reading: The Vanishing Half

Deer

Sweet Spot

Wow! Look at all the mountains down there. Is that snow? They're covered with snow?!

Which one is Mount Rainier? Can you see it from here?

There are so many trees. Evergreens! Everywhere looks like a forest!

Look at all that water. I think it's the Pacific Ocean. No, wait. There's more water. And more! And islands?!

* * * * * 

Flying home gives me a very special feeling. 

I love to travel and I rarely get homesick, but I'll gladly confess that when the pilot announces that we are beginning our descent into Seattle, I feel my spirit soar. Pressing my forehead against the window - I always choose a window seat for just this moment - I drink in the unique beauty that makes the Puget Sound such a magnificent place to live. As we swoop low over the city, familiar landmarks fall into place and I marvel that this magical place is my home.

But even more, I love to listen to fellow passengers who are clearly not from here. This week, as I sailed in from the heartland city of Columbus, Ohio, I overheard the reactions of several travelers who have obviously never been up to our little corner of paradise before, and I delighted in their amazement.

And who wouldn't be amazed? After five hours' travel over Midwestern farmers' fields and half a continent of brown, just when it would be perfectly reasonable for a newcomer to think that the land had simply run out of beauty, everything changes. A considerable range of snow-covered mountains ripple out to the north and south; the green conifer forests of the western Cascades sparkle like gems below. Then come the lakes - long, lean Sammamish and Washington, tiny Union - and the shimmering Sound itself, dotted with islands and stretching wide to the Olympic Peninsula where more forests and more mountains unfold as far as the eye can see. Like stumbling upon an enormous secret garden, or an oasis in the middle of a desert, the effect is pure enchantment.

One afternoon a few years back, among a plane full of lucky people landing on a picture perfect summer afternoon, I heard a dad speaking in an awed whisper to his ten-ish year old son, "Look! Mount Rainier is out. That means we'll have good luck on our visit." And though I'd never heard such a claim before, I couldn't help but think he was right. To land in the presence of that massive yet delicately sculpted, snow-covered lady who so often hides her face in the clouds certainly must signal her gracious welcome.

While Rainier did not grace us with her presence this time, my fellow passengers and I enjoyed our dreamy descent into the Puget Sound, as sweet a spot on this planet as you will ever find. 

^ Looking west at Lake Sammamish in the foreground, with a little peek of Lake Washington and Mercer Island between the clouds. 

^ Looking back on Lake Washington toward the east, with a delicious view of the 520 floating bridge and at the bottom of the scene, Husky Stadium and part of the University of Washington campus. 

^ The golden hour of the setting sun - which we had been enjoying for five hours since we left Columbus - brought a special glow to the final moments of our flight and sweet satisfaction to my entire trip. 

* * * * *

Read the story of my first trip since Covid to visit my daughter in Ohio, told from finish to start. 

Last Leg

Sweet Spot

Plant Babies

A Sunday Afternoon On The Lawn At The Scioto River

Reading:The Paper Palace

Reading: Untamed

Reading: The Vanishing Half

Deer

Last Leg

The last leg of my long trip home. I loved every minute of this ride. 

When I was twenty one years old, I moved away from my country lake childhood home and the luscious green gardens of my university to the nitty gritty city of Chicago. And promptly, I became a public transit lady.

What a life. I loved hopping from bus to L train to even a full scale commuter train to weave my way around the city. For a few dollars a day, I could get to wherever I wanted to go, hanging by a strap in a dark subway on a sweaty summer afternoon, snapping a Wall Street Journal out in front of me for a nice browse through the paper on my way to the office, or giggling with my tipsy girlfriends as we headed home together after Friday happy hour. Even after several years went by and I finally bought a car, I left it parked on the street all week long. My good ol' Grand Prix was for interstate travel; I roamed the city on public transit.

How rudely I was awakened when I moved to Seattle. Back in 1986, the city's public transit system consisted of a handful of buses and an underfunded dream. Patiently, I waited and voted and took advantage of the puny local bus system whenever I could. Many, many years passed.

Slowly, inexorably, Seattle's Link light rail system came to life. The first Sound Transit cars began to rumble along tracks near the airport in 2003, and have gradually hiccuped north over the years. When the Northgate station opened in October, 2021, bringing Line 1 all the way from the airport to within striking distance of my house, I felt a seismic shift. 

And so it was that on my return home from Columbus this week, 

I jumped off my plane, 

hauled myself through baggage claim, 

across the sky bridge, 

along the edge of the parking garage, 

and down the hall to the light rail platform. 

As I stepped out into the cool night air to await the next northbound train, I breathed deep and sighed with contentment. Once again, I've become a public transit lady and the city is mine to roam. 

* * * * *

Read the story of my first trip since Covid to visit my daughter in Ohio, told from finish to start. 

Last Leg

Sweet Spot

Plant Babies

A Sunday Afternoon On The Lawn At The Scioto River

Reading:The Paper Palace

Reading: Untamed

Reading: The Vanishing Half

Deer