Just Stay

The front porch, where 8 rockers are not enough to hold everyone, so people spill down the cascading front steps, leaning in to hear the conversation or to laugh even if they don't know what was said, is home. Cousins and aunts and uncles and brothers and sisters and moms and dads and grandparents, ages ranging from 18 months to 85 years. Across the street is the beach, hidden more these days by piles of dunes and sand that have been dredged up for protection. But you can still see the blue and blue - the hazy line of ocean meeting sky and you can imagine the waves because you can hear them, and the gulls. You can smell the salt in the air and it settles in you like sugar in a glass of ice tea. You can feel the ocean drumming like a heartbeat against the beach. Here is my home. 

I don't live here all year, except perhaps in my mind. It becomes my vision board whenever I try to "picture something happy." Instead, we have rented the same house for nearly 50 years. It provides an escape in a way no other can. And in a year like no other, we needed that escape. For too long we were parading along, marching in step with expectations and rules and regulations and trying to keep our game faces on and our heads above water, with kids and jobs and colleagues and family and the grocery store clerk, who really couldn't see us behind our masks. That used to be a metaphor, but now it is meant quite literally. But now, here, we can let down our guard and our masks. Here we can watch the children and feel ourselves becoming children again, awed by the wonder of the sea. 

It's okay to just sit. The porch collects people like shells washing up on the shore. In the early morning, the sun-up risers gather their coffee and cereal and just sit. In mid-day, you wash your feet under the porch and climb its steps to take some rest from the bright, hot sun. In the late-night, the drinkers and partiers and insomniacs gather their wits and share stories of the night and the past.  I have spent time with each of these crowds and had conversations that I thought would never end. They did. I have spent time sitting silently in the new dawn next to my father as he ate his raisin bran covered with a pint of blueberries, me rocking a newborn who would not go back to sleep. I have spent time climbing those steps with a sandy, sweaty toddler, crying from hunger and exhaustion. The toddler, not me. I have spent time smoking cigarettes after bar-hopping around the island, discussing the people we met or met again, and philosophizing about life, still young, wondering what our lives would be like. The porch holds all these ghosts of ourselves and each other. All these memories too. 

There are other places in the house too. My aunt holds court at the dining room table, newspapers from Washington, Boston, and New York spread out before her. She reads them all and then gossips about politicians and Hollywood stars as if she had drinks with them the night before. In the kitchen, Aunt Jeanne is either making a new pot of coffee or cleaning. Always. In the living room, the TV blares the Phillies game, even if it's a re-run. If you didn't get to see the whole game last night, whether you were putting kids to bed or going out for a drink, you can watch again. Because who wouldn't want to do that? And what is really wrong in the world if you can watch a team play and win or lose, go home happy. Upstairs there are beds for anyone who needs one, and there are some downstairs too. If you need to change a baby, make a phone call, or take a nap, you can find a spot. The house holds everyone.

The sea is what draws us. The sky and the sun and the sweet music of the ocean, that seem to settle into our bones and calm our hearts and minds. The moon too, I guess. 

So when we all came back, over 50 of us, toting bags and beach chairs and photos and kids, some we had never had the chance to meet before, we were greeted by the porch. We added a party tent this time for the overspill and tables and chairs. We had food and music and a slide show. And what we wanted more than anything else was for our kids to experience what we had while growing up in this house every summer. Cousins galore, family that never seemed to end ("This is your other cousin..."), laughter that echoed through the house, and love. Love like an ocean that surrounds you and buoys you and plays with you and soothes you to sleep. And that's what happened. After birthday songs and cutting the cake and passing the babies and the old photos around and exchanging numbers, we had to turn and say goodbye. After a whole day of reminiscing and sharing and "How old is she?" and "Where are you now?" we had had our fill. We would see each other in the morning! But what my son said instead was, "Just Stay. Just stay... " And this is what love is. His brothers dragged him out and brought him home to our rental down the street. I wish I had stayed. I wish we had all stayed longer. But we had planned and partied and we were tired. And we did gather the next morning and spend another day together. When it was time to leave, we felt the same way. Just Stay. Just. Stay. I don't know who was saying it, if it was coming from my kids, or the ocean itself, or from somewhere deep inside. But it was all we wanted, to Just Stay. 

Summer is halfway over now, and all I want to do is Just Stay. I want to stay right here, without worries, without getting ready for anything. Without worrying about what's next. Just Stay. 

Tucked In

I need to be tucked in. I remember my mother tucking me into bed and I needed the sheets and blankets tucked in 'all the way around me.' It is funny now because my own kids didn't like to be tucked in that way. Annie would kick her way out of the tightest swaddle from the time she was four days old. I still like to feel tucked in. I wriggle my way into bed, with my side having perfect hospital corners, while his side is all a mess. I can turn just slightly so the blankets form an edge around me and I am tucked in. I even have an idea for a blanket edged in elastic so that when I'm on the couch I can have that feeling of being tucked in. Maybe that's already a thing.

I wonder what makes me crave that Tucked In feeling now. Perhaps it is the craziness of the world that I want to cut myself off from, to create a barrier between me and the rest of the upheaval. I want to feel like I'm in a quiet oasis in the midst of the chaos. Months after 9/11, I remember hearing the term Cocooning, which described what many were doing to insulate themselves against the world outside. People and families avoided travel, eating out, and outside entertainment, and even built rooms in their homes to provide for their own enjoyment. Now we have our own version of this cocooning called COVID. But I have to confess, there's a piece of it that makes me feel Tucked In. I need to create a nest, a retreat from this world for a while. 

I remember a lot of things about 9/11. I remember I was with my young mothers' group at a little old school cafeteria in Cherry Hill having our morning coffee. The babies and toddlers were scattered in classrooms around us with various volunteers. Jay was in the 2-year-old room, Annie was with the babies, and I was 5 months pregnant with Matt. We were all talking and chatting when one of the girls' husbands (cause we were all still girls back then) called to tell her that things were not right. Little did we know how not right they were. It's odd now that I remember that innocence with a sense of nostalgia. We found a television somewhere and realized we needed to go home. We began to have a real sense of the urgency of the moment as we made our way to gather up the children and take them home. We began to panic as we turned on the tv and saw what was happening. It seemed like the longest day ever. That night I gathered with another group of women and one said to me, "You must feel awful bringing another child into this world." Her comment really hit me hard, it felt like someone slapped me in the face. It hurt too because so many people felt they could make comments about me having so many kids in such a short time. But this was worse, this was an accusation that I was inflicting something on my child. I wanted to believe that our world was better than that, better than what had happened, and better for the hope that mothers held in their hearts and passed on to their children. I wanted to hold onto that innocence. I did bring that baby into the world and then, a year later had another baby.

Yet, this past January 6, 2021, I repeated the same phrase I had heard all those years ago to those very babies! I texted my children saying, "I'm so sorry that this is the world you are living in." My kids immediately reminded me that my words were upsetting, as unsettling as the words I had heard so long ago. "Mom, don't say that!" they said. That was just what I needed to hear. I was giving up hope if I thought that I should apologize. It was almost another slap in the face to get yourself together! Don't give up hope! All is not lost! But it sure felt that way for a moment. Of course, now, after a few weeks have gone by, we feel like we can once again breathe without being bombarded by lies and arguments and violence. We can once again hope. We can once again feel encouraged that things are changing, are better, and are going to continue getting better. And I am so filled with hope by my children and other young people around me, around the world who are working to change the world and make things better for everyone. Amanda Gorman offered us quite a light to see by and a reminder to keep hope alive. What an amazing gift to our world! Think of it - those babies who were born right around 9/11 are preaching to us about the hope we need right now to face the future. Her words were a balm of hope and light and love for us and our nation.

So do I really need to be Tucked In right now? Yes. I'm teaching and it's hard. I'm raising young adults and it's hard. I'm trying to stay mentally and physically fit and it's hard. I'm trying to eat and breathe and feel and all of that is hard. I'm trying to get along with people who see things differently than I do and it's hard. While I'd love to tuck myself into bed and just get up when this is all over, I won't. I'll hold on to hope. I think what I'll tuck myself into, though, are the words of hope. The words of the poets, the words of poems and stories and good books and podcasts and music. Words of encouragement, of lifting up, of peace. Tucking myself into those feels so good. I can wrap them around me and feel the love.