August 9, 2021

I am sitting on the porch at my mother’s house in Maine, watching my children, brother and sister-in-law traverse the rocks that line the shore.

I have been awake since 6 am, when I brought a cup of coffee to bed and started working because the dog was pacing the floorboards incessantly, perhaps worried about J, who had left to return to Connecticut at a very early hour. She doesn’t like it when things go differently than they normally do. I coaxed her into bed (don’t tell my husband!) where she nestled her soft head into the crook between my hip and arm as I typed emails, then fell into a intensely deep sleep, comforted for the moment.

She’s now down on the rocks with the rest of the crew, barking because no one is throwing a stick she's found. It is for throwing, is what she is trying to impart.

My brother and sister-in-law’s beloved dog, Lucy, died two days ago after a very long and active life, just as they were arriving for vacation. One last trip up to Maine, she seemed to decide. She was present for so many meaningful moments in all of our lives that it feels like the end of some kind of era, which I suppose it is, and I think dogs do this job so very well - mark eras.

The sky is overcast and there is a loud bird singing an extended, loud song. My son probably knows what the bird is, and if it is ordinary or interesting.

It feels a bit too uncertain to get excited about fall, like I normally do at this time of year,, and I think we are all more weary than we used to be of things going differently than they normally do.

The wind is rustling sparse pine tree branches, and it is remarkably quiet except for the occasional interruption of the dog barking - the STICK! - and the kids laughing and the sound of my typing this little missive, to mark the morning; to serve, even in its mundanity, as a bridge between one feeling and the next.

Summer goals 2021

So it goes.

You buy a house, get a new bed to replace the one you’ve had since right after you graduated from college - the one with a chewed bedpost, a remnant of your former dog Cecilia’s (rest in peace, sweet girl) puppy years - and put your clothes in the closets and marvel at the basement play space. You slowly make decisions regarding furniture placement and which rooms are important enough for a window AC unit when it gets too hot and humid to function. You slide books into bookshelves and get to know the neighbors during long talks out on the sidewalk.

But the big mirror, the cool antiquey one, which is unbearably heavy, remains propped by the table in the living room. You (as in me) have no idea what goes into hanging it on the wall above, where it would look great, your mom - who gifted you that mirror upon moving in - says, and she’s right. But your husband, who is good at hanging things on the wall, is worried, too. What if he doesn’t get the hardware right and makes a hole in the plaster? What if it isn’t secure enough and crashes to the floor? It would be preferable to get some help, he says, and since you are not the least bit useful in such matters, you wholeheartedly agree.

So it remains, propped against the heavy table, and you’ll get to it. The months march on and there is a global pandemic, for christ’s sake, and there it sits.

There is a comfort in the “someday” of these items that remain undone. The knowledge that life is too busy -or too inconceivable and difficult to navigate, in the case of the recent past - to get to the minor things, but you will, and those simple plans make up the infrastructure of our life.

I ran into a friend the other morning; literally crossed paths with her while I was on my morning run, and we took advantage of situation, walking together through our neighborhood (I love this neighborhood) catching up.

As we strode, we noted the sudden rush of activity these past few weeks. The gatherings and sports events and urgent need to connect has reappeared with a particular vengeance, because so many of us missed it for so long. Wait a second, we asked, did we learn anything from this pandemic? Beyond the empathy and gratitude, did we learn, on a deeper level, what we wanted to keep? Because right now it seems like…maybe we didn’t?

This is what I think, as I consider the mirror left unhung, the inanimate observer of both our slow and overbooked days: it’s too soon to know. These times were unheard-of. This reintegration is novel, too.

How do you reorient yourself when you’ve barely processed any of it? I don’t know. But I think I’ll start by listing the simple tasks at hand, and broader goals, as I’ve done for many years in this gentler season, when we put away the backpacks, and enjoy the mornings as though they could be lazy, when in reality, we still usually have to get someplace.

Embracing this new freedom - or whatever you want to call it - I’d like to get a few things done in the summer of 2021, and make room for the conversations that will help us shape this next part.

Because the one thing we have learned is that, if you make space for it, there’s time.

summer goals 2021

1. hang the mirror in the living room

2. go into the office for the first time since getting the job

3. try an ambitious recipe from “mastering the art of French cooking”

4. read every day

5. drinks by the creek, in yards, at garage bars

6. make homemade ice cream (at least once)

7. see live music (at least twice)

8. frame photos, find spots for them

9. visit Thornton Wilder’s grave

10. eat something we grew in our garden (fingers crossed)

11. write handwritten letters to a certain 12-year-old at overnight summer camp

12. run a random 5K

13. date night at a new place

14. learn to make a Negroni

15. swim laps

16. don’t worry about it

17. go camping

18. visit the Harriet Beecher Stowe Center

19. get a bicycle! go on a ride!

20. finish “Ulysses”

21. find time to write, then make it regular