Neruda

I've been in the habit lately of reading poetry before bed. Some writers' words are fluid and neat, with few breaks in thought. Others remind me of running over hot pavement, with expressions that are sharp, short, and emphatic. My favorite of all are the words with palpable passion, with texture and vivid imagery about the things that I too think about. This week I've been married to Pablo Neruda, and I've always felt like his thoughts are the ones in my own mind that I can never articulate or punctuate.

Because sometimes, someone else's words are better than our own. Here's to one of the best and brightest every scribbled on paper.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.

Write, for example, 'The night is starry
and the blue stars shiver in the distance.'

The night wind revolves in the sky and sings.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

Through nights like this one I held her in my arms.
I kissed her again and again under the endless sky.

She loved me, sometimes I loved her too.
How could one not have loved her great still eyes.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
To think that I do not have her. To feel that I have lost her.

To hear the immense night, still more immense without her.
And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture.

What does it matter that my love could not keep her.
The night is starry and she is not with me.

This is all. In the distance someone is singing. In the distance.
My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.

My sight tries to find her as though to bring her closer.
My heart looks for her, and she is not with me.

The same night whitening the same trees.
We, of that time, are no longer the same.

I no longer love her, that's certain, but how I loved her.
My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing.

Another's. She will be another's. As she was before my kisses.
Her voice, her bright body. Her infinite eyes.

I no longer love her, that's certain, but maybe I love her.
Love is so short, forgetting is so long.

Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms
my soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.

Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer
and these the last verses that I write for her.

 

For My Marmie

There's something about a mother and something extra spectacular about mine. Mothers know how to love you the best and comfort you the most. And they always make it seem that whenever you leave the nest, wonderful things are waiting for you. I hear my mother's voice when I think of what Marmie March says to her daughter in Little Women, "Jo, you have so many extraordinary gifts; how can you expect to lead an ordinary life? You're ready to go out and find a good use for your talent. Tho' I don't know what I shall do without my Jo. Go, and embrace your liberty. And see what wonderful things come of it."

Something that makes my mother perfect for me is that she knew what I needed at different times in my life. When I was little, she knew I needed lots of one-on-one time snuggling and talking. And let's be honest, not much has changed. When I was in junior high, and too nervous to eat in the lunchroom, she knew the perfect place for me was eating with her in her classroom. She never seemed to worry that I wouldn't eventually blossom, but acted instead like it was the bright spot in her day. Even now, my mother knows when to invite me home for a dinner pregnant with good conversation and the best flavors so that she can remind me that, yes, everything will work out for me (the big fear of my 20s). She knows when I've needed some coddling; she knows when I've needed a cheer.

 

My mother, for the record, is many things. She's a loyal friend, a disciple, a caring neighbhor, a fierce athlete, an explorer, a world traveler, and a wonderful grandmother. But, in honor of this Sunday, the mother in my mother is what I choose to celebrate. So here's to my Marmie, who has spent her life making everyone else's a beautiful thing.

Moving On Down

Last weekend, my friend and I made our way through the national parks in Southern Utah. I was surprised at how much the desert colors reminded me of a favorite t-shirt washed a hundred times: muted, blended, comfortable. At Dead Horse Point, we stood on what felt like the top of the world and looked out at endless, deep canyons. In the middle of them all runs the Colorado river, and per usual when I see rivers that size, the last line of A River Runs Through It crossed my mind. "I am haunted by waters..."

As someone who loves efficiency, I couldn't help but notice the roundabout route the river takes on its way to the ocean. It curves around rocks in big, horseshoe-like shapes and winds down canyons, over rocks, and through dams. And as far as we know, the river doesn't put up a fuss. It chooses to go around the things it couldn't go straight through and has kept moving despite hundreds of extra miles it takes to reach its destination had it been on a more express route. Staring out at it all, I could see the parallels to life. There have been times where I wanted to skip B, C, and D in order to get somewhere a little faster (both in literal and figurative journeys). I complained about unneeded loops, and I grumbled at the extra distance. But, like the river, I need to simply go around that which I can't go through and gracefully accept a new route if my persistent efforts with one don't lead me somewhere. And, most importantly, I need to remember that no matter the length of the journey, the destination is the same.

So here's to looking up, admiring the view, thanking the deep blue sky, and moving on down the river.

Marathon Monday

I have thought a lot about what to write this week. In my last post, I congratulated the 2013 Boston runners and spectators on the upcoming race. Little did I know how much they would deserve those cheers and praises. My personal part in the day is hard to tell since others went through much more. But, in short, I was a few blocks from the explosions but soon to be headed in that direction (had the trains been running a few minutes faster, it could have been a different day). I was also one of the few people who knew immediately that my sister in the race was absolutely okay. I didn't experience the same terror that others unfortunately did.

One thing I do share in common with everyone there is a deep gratitude and pride for the people who act in a crisis. That day, I was with my brother who happens to work in Boston law enforcement (we'll leave it at that). One of the most powerful experiences—and something I hope I never forget—was to see him go from a guy with sunglasses eating a hamburger to someone who literally launched (you should see him walk) into action. Yes, he has been trained and is often involved in dangerous situations, most of which we never know about. Still, no amount of schooling can give someone his pure feelings of responsibility. That comes from years of simply being a good and moral man. Like many others on Marathon Monday, he showed no hesitation to be in the middle of it all; he sacrificed sleep, time with his family, and his own safety for people who will never even know his name.

 

So, as cheesy as it may seem, here's to heroes, whether they are homegrown (in a cowboy hat) or those thoroughly trained. Here is to the only people who can make a dark situation seem hopeful.

Scream Out a Number

Next week, my sister Amie will wake up on marathon Monday and run 26.2 miles on the historic streets of Boston. And lucky for me, I will be there to cheer her on at every mile. I will scream and shout, and yes, I will probably cry. For one whole day, my life will be completely secondary to the happiness and success of hers. And for that, I am thankful.

While seeing thousands of runners living out their athletic dream is pretty big, a close second is the sight of thousands of bystanders who come to cheer the runners on. I've been told that many of these people do not have someone in the race but simply show up to scream out from the sidelines the numbers of people they don't even know. They are there to throw their positive encouragement on the runners like you'd throw rice and rose petals at a wedding—liberally and without constraint. I have to say, I find this sentiment powerful—to cheer someone else on, someone we may not know, with all the genuine feeling of our hearts. To forget for a minute, an hour, or a day about our own big hills and long stretches and completely focus on helping someone else get through theirs. To me, it is a reminder that we are part of a larger world that gains nothing from our negativity and everything from our friendly and positive push.

 

So here's to the 2013 Boston runners and to every moment we spend believing that the success of a friend, or even a stranger, is as big as our own.

Letting Go

One of the most difficult transitions into complete adulthood, for me, has been deciding how much I'll let what other people think affect me. I realize this is not a new idea (case in point, Oprah articles and bookstore self-help books). Still, it's hard to master, and there is inevitably a moment in our lives where we can no longer hold on more tightly to the opinions of others than we do to our own personal judgment, dreams, and feelings.

Really, it is as simple as letting go and letting live. One day, we will make a decision that someone close to us does not agree with. And in that moment, we will stop and consider, hopefully carefully, what they are saying. But, though torn, we may turn and continue walking forward because we firmly believe we are headed where we want to go. That moment of walking alone without the rally of everyone around us is frightening. And if the decision goes sour, a little embarrassing too. But in the loneliness of some of our decisions, we also come to know and trust ourselves more implicitly, owning our own lives more than we ever have before. Maybe it is time to sign our names next to not only our victories, but by our decisions that seem less certain too. In both losses and wins, great people are made. In both company and solitude, solid character is formed.

So here is to believing in ourselves with a robust confidence that might appear unmerited. Here is to signing our life decisions in pen, accepting that we are here to learn, to live, and to love.

Foundations

My brother Tucker paid me a high compliment this week. In telling him that I may go back to school to get an MBA, he responded, "Well, Kell, you know you never do anything half ass, so I'm sure it'll work out great." I thought a lot about what he said and appreciated how he viewed me. He believed I lived "pedal to the medal"—not necessarily in the context of speed, but in commitment.

And at the end of the day, it's true, and I'm willing to pay myself that compliment. I am committed. I am committed to my family. I am committed to my friends. I am committed to health. I am committed to searching out, and refining within myself, genuine goodness. But when this philosophy starts to fall apart for me is when the future is so uncertain that I'm unsure where my footsteps should lie and how safe it is to tie myself to so many unknown variables. But the truth is, I can. And the ingredients to do it are this: faith and hope. Sometimes these two principles to me are like clouds, these light, happy, fluffy things we talk about to keep us from giving up. But really, they are the earth instead. Hope and faith (coupled with commitment) are the foundation of a fully lived life. While we can't see them, touch them, or taste them, they are more solid than anything we can currently reach out and hold. And most importantly, they are as solid as we decide them to be.

So here's to my commitment to a future that is new and unknown, but always grander than I imagine. And here's to walking toward it all on the unshakeable foundation of faith and hope.