Do you ever think of me in the quiet, in the crowd?

If you didn’t know it already, this is my love—my month.

Do you know, October, how I adore you?  Do you ever think of me in the quiet, in the crowd, of the rest of the year, as I so often think of you?*

I wrote an entire “meme” on October once, and it’s a post that, years later, I still love to read.  (Sidenote: Do bloggers still do “memes”?)

In other Octobers, he told me this, and this, and this, and I did my best to listen.

Exactly two Octobers ago, I mused on turning thirty.  Not to worry—it all turned out well.

Always, we must circle back to the original “October comes” post.

And the poetry of past Octobers.

Oh, yes, and the yoga challenges of past Octobers, too.

Last October, in 2011, I only wrote three posts the entire month.  Of them, I wrote of what I loved.

And what will be of this one, this month, of 2012, the fifth time my favorite season arrives and I have this here blog to chronicle its passing?

This is the October I will watch Marblehead moving through the burning, bright change of seasons.

This is the October I will travel to Washington, DC or New York City literally every single week, meaning I will spend more time out of New England than in it.

This is the October I will see a good friend get married, and meet a best friend’s baby girl, and visit with an old and beloved high school friend, and baby-sit my niece for a long weekend so my sister and brother in law can go stay at a bed and breakfast in the Berkshires, on my dime, as thanks for letting me stay in their house for a year.

This is the October when, I think, it will all come to a head.  It must.

This is the October of music.

This is the October of release.  This is, also, the October of embrace.

October comes—that is certain.  What remains to be seen is what we do with its fine, fiery arrival.

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* Stolen lyric from “Where Are You Now?”, a new Mumford & Sons song.  Go buy their latest album.  It is, I assure you, nothing short of wonderful.

Sometimes, the return makes all the difference.

After years upon years of practice, training, tapering, tournaments, championships, ribbons, and riotous celebrations at season’s end, once it’s all said and done, how long do we wear the badge of “athlete”?

I wondered this yesterday, when a woman at the Marblehead Y asked me where I “learned to swim like that.”  She was completing her workout in the lane next to mine, and, while I was taking a break between sets, she leaned over and told me I had a “lovely stroke,” and, yes, where had I learned to swim so?

Without really considering her question and eager to get back to my workout, I replied quickly, “I used to be a swimmer. I used to play water polo, too.”

The woman nodded.  ”Oh, that’s nice.”  We both leaned against the deck, silent for a second.  Then, she said, “What do you do now?”

Relatively simple question, right?  But, I stood there, dripping, chilled, scrunching my goggles in my hand, briefly at a loss for words.

“I…well, I practice yoga,” I said, then quickly adding, “And I’m training for a triathlon.  So, you know, I’m swimming and running, and I need to start biking…”

The woman and I chatted a few minutes more before she pushed off the wall to begin her series of laps again.

As I slipped beneath the water line and started my own slow swim down the pool, I kept thinking how strange it had felt to not really know how to identify myself.  Athletics-wise, I mean.  Because I have always considered myself an athlete of some sort, be it yoga, swimming, water polo, horse-back riding, running.  These days, though, no one sport can claim me.  Sure, I still practice yoga, but I’m down to one to three classes a week, if I’m lucky.  And I wouldn’t go so far as to say I’m a runner, considering I am hitting the pavement just two or three times a week.  And I am even further from tagging myself as a swimmer, given I have now logged all of two visits to the pool in the past week.

But, the woman’s question lingered with me throughout the rest of my workout.  And my own determination to answer it, decisively, acted like a crop I kept swishing across my own flank.

Each time my arms turned leadened, I chided myself with a quick, “Come on.  You used to bust out 5,000-yard workouts.  You can finish a couple of 200s.”  And after every flip turn, as I forced my legs to kick strong and hard to propel me off the wall, I reminded myself of how many hours I used to spend with just a kickboard and a sidekick swimmer to keep me company during those seemingly endless morning practices all those years ago.  And even though my lungs burned, thanks to the fast 30-minute run I’d gone on before I’d jumped into the pool, I told myself I had weathered practices and polo games far, far worse than the relatively mundane, mid-day workout I was pushing my way through.

I can’t say I felt better afterward—truth be told, getting back into swimming shape is brutally exhausting, frustrating, and painful.  But, a sense of accomplishment and relief (read: I didn’t drown) carried me out of the water and across the deck, as I returned my paddles and kickboard.

And, then, I saw it.  Buried at the back of the equipment cage.  The bright, promising yellow of a newly inflated, barely used water polo ball.

More than four years have passed since the last time I picked up a water polo ball.     Prior to this past Sunday, nearly a year had passed since I last pulled my body across the cool, still silence of a pool or pond or ocean.

But without a moment’s hesitation, I reached into that cage, grabbed that ball, turned around and strode confidently back across that deck, and dove right into the deep end of the pool, the ball tucked safely under my arm.  For the next 15 minutes, I just played.  Sprinting a few, quick laps of head-up freestyle, the ball buoyed on the wave of water in front of me.  Batting the ball back and forth between my hands.  Holding it above my head for a series of 30-second intervals to test my leg strength.  Laying on my back and, using the tips of my toes, flipping the ball up into my awaiting hand.

It is truly incredible what the body remembers, almost instinctively.

Sure, my movements felt a little clumsy at times, and I dropped the ball more than I’d like to admit.  But, for those 15 minutes, I remembered how much I used to love my old sport, how good I used to be, how assured I’d felt in my skills, my instinct, my knowledge of the game.

I finally hopped up out of the water, gathering my cap and goggles and locker room key, then picking up the polo ball and spinning it round and round in my palm to get the water off.  After dropping it back into the cage, I headed toward the locker room, suddenly aware of the time and anxious to get going.  The lifeguard gave me a little wave and called out, “That was fun to watch!” as I passed beneath his stand.

Later, the smell of chlorine lingered all over my skin. Each time I reached up to tuck a strand of hair back into its ponytail, my shoulders twinged and tingled, aching, a pleasant reminder.  When I went to toss Grace one of her birthday balloons, I almost palmed it like a water polo ball.

There is a certain danger in returning to what’s familiar, to what you’ve once let go.  I know this danger.  I am someone who often goes back, again and again, to moments and men, to friends, to patterns and behaviors that are not good or healthy.  It is the optimist in me who believes, sometimes incorrectly, that upon my return, everything will be different.

I have feared returning to the water.  I thought I did not have a place there anymore.  I thought it would not serve me well.  All I remembered were the injuries, the emotional baggage, the poison of poor competitors and bad sportsmanship, the overwhelming emptiness of feeling completely burnt out from a beloved sport.

I am ecstatic to discover I was wrong.  Very wrong indeed.  A swimmer—and a water polo player—lives within me still.  An athlete does, too.

Today, my bag is already packed, with neatly folded towels and swim suits.  It is waiting, ready, patient, promising, by my front door, eager to begin again.

I found you, once again.

Part One – The Arrival

The family is in stride this year: jovial, energetic, thrilled at one another’s company, at the chance to show off grown children and tanned legs and lean summer arms and new Mac eye shadow colors.  The children are still young enough for cuddles and kisses and silly beachside games but old enough for “independent play” and “watch your brother” reprimands.

We packed all the right things, the best things.

Even the old glasses and the small living room and the oddly shaped dining room table don’t phase us much this year.  Because, as we look around at one another, with proud satisfaction, we can be certain that we are happy and thankful for one thing: this—a healthy, young, thriving family, full of stories and memories, rich with laughter, wizened, seasoned, hopeful still, even now, all these years later.

I looked around the table—took in my sisters and my parents—and thought how we are all in good places these days, even me, even if I am here alone, yet again: one more single summer.  Sometimes I think how hard it will be for a man to join this group, how strange it will be that he won’t know these days, this family, in this distinct patch of time: My middle sister, so happily mothering her daughter; my eldest sister, settled and in stride with her mid-30s and her growing boys; my mother and father, all fondness and softness and appreciation; my brother in laws, really true brothers to me now rather than “in laws.”

Beyond this sanded world, I can’t help but think of the pressing weight of work, of my life up north, of dear friends who wished me a happy vacation.  I think, with a contented and, equally, resigned sigh that I have let go of the fantasy of him for good.  We hung well in the balance of intrigue, affection, restlessness, hunger, and optimism.  But, I’m no longer holding out hope.  There is an odd mix of sadness, remorse, and excitement that comes along with that acceptance. Because if not him, well, then, who?

The days before me are many, sun-filled, child-filled, wholesome, healthy, happy. I love; and, I love.

Part Two:  The Things to Remember

Me, a doting auntie, saying to five-year-old Jack, “That wave pushed me like a stroller!” And Jack, giggling, responding, “That wave tossed me like a soda can!”

The boys and me putting together a pirate puzzle, twice, because once was one time too few.

The rain and thunder rolling in from the west.

Lightening crackling over the sky like applause, like sparking light bulbs, setting fire to the tips of the waves.

My father asking, “And what of that guy?”, and me realizing I have no response. Because there is, finally, fully, nothing left to say.

The ocean, alit in my hair.

My sisters and I dancing in the kitchen, ribs aching with laughter as my mother and father dipped their hips, too.

A good book finished.  A quiet moment appreciating its escape, its simplicity, its perfect fit for this time in my life.

A day, wonderfully spent, and lived.

Part Three:  The Last Afternoons

It is a simple life we lead here, one of books and puzzles, laughter and long oceanside talks.  It is days of flying kites, chasing children, slathering on sunscreen but always, secretly, hoping for more of a tan.  We awake to an empty beach; we stay astride it until it is empty again.

The boys this year are taller, thinner.  They talk of pirates and cannons, blowing up ships and finding wreckage and buried treasure.  They hold my hand tightly, without inhibition.  Jack makes me giggle with his innocent wit, his growing sense of humor.  We play our own games and tell secrets and whisper of ghosts in the reeds.  He sees the world through cautious but hopeful eyes and imagination. Sometimes, I think he has a very old soul.

We are a family of passions, of opinions, of tradition, of sit-down dinners and standing lunches of left overs.  We grill steaks and shrimp, husk corn and order bags full of greasy, hot, delicious hush puppies.  My sisters pour bottle after bottle of some “skinny margarita” mix.  Someone stirs up mai tais.  Sangria sits in the fridge, ripening.

My father tells me stories of his youth.  My darling niece coos and scuttles toward me across the sand like a curly-headed crab.  My mother shhs and clucks at all the little ones, her grown girls included, then swims alongside me in the ocean, holding my hand tightly, murmuring, “I haven’t said anything memorable yet, have I?”  Little does she know that most all she says and does, I remember.

I feel very at peace this vacation.  Yes, my heart hungers.  Yes, I wonder when and how.  I worry at all I will come back to.

As I floated in the waves one day, I actually laughed aloud at how new and strange and exciting life feels right now, here, in the last months of 30.  I thought: when I return, I will embark on a new job, meet new coworkers, begin mastering a new book of work.  I will save, like crazy.  I will say good-bye to my best friend as she leaves our city, and then I will watch Boston crack and shift all over again.  I will welcome autumn in Marblehead, and who knows what it will look like?  I will throw it all out there, my heart included, on faith, and I will welcome whatever I find.  I thought: This next season, this next phase of life, demands strength, flexibility, courage, charisma, character.

The ocean pulled at my toes.  Across the waves, I could hear my nephews shrieking excitedly on shore.  I bit at the burn on my lip, felt the heat of the sun on my shoulder, ached a little at the pleasant soreness in my legs.  The water surged, then settled, against my neck.

There, alone, entangled in the sea, I promised myself a season of bravery.

Part Four: I found you, once again.

My mother has asked me to remember what’s memorable and omit what’s best left forgotten.

This, I hope she knows, is easier said than done.

Vacations in years past have sent me north red-skinned, irritable, exhausted, and convinced that either I’m crazy or my family is crazy. There is tension, unspoken resentments, afternoon-long errands, whole mornings of solitude.  Some years, I think we’ve actually been relieved to bid our good-byes and climb into our respective cars and get the hell home.

But, not this year.  No, this year, we were spectacular.  Good moods, good meals, great weather, lots of great stretches of beach for the boys’ games and for Grace’s sand-crawling and for bocce games.  This year, we drank less and enjoyed one another more.  Work-outs were actually fun, not painful.  I didn’t even mind my too-small twin bed.  I felt—my entire family seemed—simply contended.

Coming home, I thought, with tremendous fondness, of all my favorite memories of the week.  When I arrived, I immediately climbed the stairs to my bedroom, wondering how my poor cat, who I’d left alone for the week, would greet me.  Would he be angry?  Did he puke on the rugs?  Had he peed in the closet?  Torn my pillows to shreds??

I tip-toed into my room.  I sat on the floor, in the corner, legs crossed, breath held.  Minutes passed, waiting, and nothing.  My phone still showed four voicemails from my vacation week that I hadn’t yet listened to, so I went through them, listening one by one, alternately grinning and grimacing at the voices on the other end of the line.

And when I lifted my head, there he was, wide-eyed, dusty, dirty.  He came to me slowly, uncertainly, his steps unsteady.  And then, when he arrived at my feet, he sighed, climbed into my lap, and looked up at me, and I thought: “Yes, oh yes, I have found you, once again.”

Because that is what we do with the ones we truly love—family, pets, best friends, soul mates.  No matter how tired or beaten or beautiful we may be, we find one another at day’s end, again and again, like the tides bearing the sea into her shore.

It is no small thing…

We first met in those years when we had not yet grown into our long torsos and limbs, when we stood in the shadows of our mothers like yearlings—eager for our freedom but running on shaky, untested legs.

She was loud and commanding, most content surrounded by people and conversation and laughter.  I was intimidated and studious, more comfortable with my books and wandering imagination.  She had already lived two years at boarding school; I had never spent more than a week away from my parents.  And yet, at 18, at college, as young and impressionable freshman, desperate for friends and some sense of home and comfort and stability in a place that foreign and uncomfortable, we fit.  We became fast friends.  We became sisters.

As water polo teammates, we travelled to California, Rhode Island, New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Indiana.  We shared van seats and pillows, towels and tears, bags of candy and gulps from each other’s water bottles, hairbrushes, hilarious stories, and shoulders to rest one another’s weary head.  We won together, and lost together, cheering all the same.

By the end of freshman year, we had already begun planning out how we would decorate our shared dorm room the following fall.

As roommates, we watched bad reality TV, skipped hours worth of homework, dressed ourselves up for parties, bickered like children, kissed boys and hurried home to tell one another all about it, stayed up late sharing secrets, and left the dirty dishes sit for way, way too long before arguing over whose turn it was to go wash them.

It is a funny thing: the making of a friendship.  The most unlikely characteristics become the most endearing: her penchant for losing her train of thought…mid sentence or her ability to make me start giggling, no matter how angry I was, or her willingness to pull out the futon, night after night, and sleep beside me as I battled insomnia and a strange, unshakable homesickness.

By junior and senior year, our tightly braided bond began to unravel, as is the case with any friendship at some point in time.  I could blame boyfriends or new friends, separate sports teams, schoolwork stress, shifting priorities or changing interests.  But, it does not matter.  Every love needs to be tested—how else does it strengthen its roots?

After all, it is not always the day to day interactions and simplicities that bring people close, that show how deeply you need and care for one another.

When my dear friend’s mother died in February of our senior year, I was in the car with my father, who had come to visit me at college in Massachusetts for the weekend.  We had made plans to go to Newport, Rhode Island and then hit Foxwoods in Connecticut.  It was a random and funny little road trip, me thrilled to have my papa to myself and my father excited to take me to my first casino.  He gave me a crisp $50 and told me I could either use it at the cards tables or I could keep it.  We were laughing at my quick response of,  ”Thanks!  I’ll keep it!”—any broke college kid knows how far $50 can get you—when my cell phone rang, and my dear friend told me the news, in a soft, hollow voice.  I do not remember what she said, only that we did not talk long and we both held back our tears.

When we hung up, I told my father to pull over.  I felt sick with sadness and guilt: how dare I sit in the same car as my father, spoiled in his company and attention and generosity, while my dear friend, one of the loves of my life, watched her mother pass away?

The next day, when I climbed the stairs of the house we and four other girls lived in, my dear friend came out of her bedroom, and came down the hall to me, and we hugged, for whole minutes on end, our bodies shaking, our breaths short and thin, our cheeks wetting with tears.  Her chest sobbed against mine.  We said nothing.  I had never felt so very, wonderfully close to a friend before.  And yet, the helplessness one feels in a time like that is unparalleled, almost indescribable.

But, moments later, we were sitting on her bed, laughing at how many bags of peanut M&Ms—her favorite candy—teammates and friends had dropped off and how her bedroom smelled like a florist shop.

This is my friend: strong and resilient, to her very core.  She is her mother’s daughter in that sense.

In the years since—and we are approaching 13 years of friendship—my friend and I have grown close and grown apart, have travelled to the Cape and to Nantucket together for long, friend-filled weekends, have walked down the same aisle for the wedding of her brother and one of our other close friends.  We have visited one another in our respective cities, states apart.  We have looked through photo albums from so many years past and marveled, “remembering when.”

We have changed, greatly.  And yet, in many ways, we are so refreshingly, reassuringly the same.  Her steadfastness is a great comfort, a sure, solid thing in my life of uncertainties.

She is still the one person I know I could call at any time of day or night, and she would answer.  She is unfailingly loyal.  She is the only person whose arm I will trace with my fingers for hours on end, drawing pictures and spelling words and making twirls and twists across her skin, because I know she appreciates it, and it is a treat, and it reminds her of her mother.  She can grate my last nerve just like a sister—but it is because she feels like a sister that I can forgive her so easily, that I can roll my eyes and huff, “Fiiiiiiine!  Whatever,” as she tickles my side and reminds me how I love her.

And I do—I love her, very much.

And it is her birthday today—my dear friend turns 31.  I distinctly remember her at 18.  If I think hard enough, I can remember her at 16, when we were rivals, our high school teams competing against one another in water polo championships.

I remember when we were first introduced freshman year; I remember I felt cool calling her by her last name.  I remember our road trip to the Cape for her 21st birthday.  I remember sleeping in the bedroom that used to be hers, in the old house on Wakeman Road.  I remember talking to her for hours on the phone when she first met the man who is, six years later, still her boyfriend.  I remember how perfectly she fit into my life for a few, short, wonderful weeks in Washington, DC.  I remember how excited I was to have her drive from her new apartment in Kenmore Square to my new apartment in Cambridge last fall—13 years later, and we were finally living in the same place again.

And, I remember her mother, vividly, her laugh, her grace, her gentle sternness.  She was a woman you wanted to please—but you knew she could see right through any disingenuous self-promotion or brown-nosing compliments you tried to throw at her.  Honesty, sincerity, practicality: these she appreciated.  It is no wonder my friend is one of the most genuine people I know.  She is so whole-heartedly who she is—she is her mother’s daughter in that respect, too.

It is my dear friend’s birthday.  It is a day to celebrate who she is, to applaud all she’s done, to cheers her into another year of happiness, health, growth, and fulfillment.

It is a day to remind her she is loved, so very loved.

It is a day to remember that it’s no small thing to know a person for so long, to remember a kindred friend as she was back then, in those early, silly years, to recount the steps, sometimes mismatched, that you took together to reach this stage of life, and to honor the incredible woman and friend she is now.

Happy birthday, Elizabeth!

A letter to the universe.

Dear Universe,

Everyone keeps telling me that things come in threes: one thing will go bad and then another thing will go bad and then it’s just inevitable that a third blow will hit, sooner rather than later.

Well.  I am here to say that you have done your part.  My car breaking down this weekend and now needing more than $1,000 in repairs completes the trifecta. Bravo!  You win!

You don’t believe me?  Let’s spell this out then:  Company being sold, putting my job security in question and ensuring a job (and employer) change?  Check.  Apartment being sold and turned into condos, rendering me homeless?  Check.  Car deciding to flash the “Check Engine” light—which, according to my owner’s manual translates to “Pull over immediately, and get out of the car”—and needing to get towed to a random mechanic in Swampscott at the start of what is a hugely stressful work week?  Check.

Yep.  You’ve got me covered.  You can move right along now.  Thank you!

All joking aside, what gives?  I mean, really.  I pay my taxes on time.  I stop for pedestrians.  I don’t abuse my cat.  I give my gently used clothes to a women’s shelter.  I call my mother and father, almost daily.  I recycle.  I love well.  I give a lot.  I don’t steal or hit small children or do drugs or run red lights.  I try to lead a good and environmentally friendly life.  Hell, I even took the time to stop and listen to a Planned Parenthood representative standing on Massachusetts Avenue the other day and donated $25 right on the spot.  That has to win me some points, right??

And, while we have a dialogue going here, just so we’re clear, what exactly did I do to warrant the last three months of upheaval, unrest, heartbreak, and hurt?

Did I want more than I deserved?  Did I ask for too much?  Did I push too hard? Tell me!  Because, whatever the error, whatever the insult, I never, ever, ever want to repeat it!

…

Now that I’ve gotten all that out of my system…

A moment of truth:

I am, given all you’ve thrown at me, okay.

I know all of the above reads like one long victim’s rant.  ”Ohh!  Woe is me!  Poor me!  You’ve done this to me!  It’s your fault!”  And I admit, I have had many, many, many moments of royal pity-party-throwing at your expense.  (Did you get that bill yet…?)

But, Universe, I want you to see, I want you to know, that I am weathering all you’re throwing at me.  (This is not, I repeat NOT, an invitation to throw more.)  I am taking it in stride.  Stumbling, yes.  Downright face-planting, yes.  Bleeding at the seams, yes.  Waking up and finding myself miles back from where I was the night before, yes.  But, I am still here.  I am, still, keeping faith.

You have not broken me yet.

What?  You want proof?

Fine.  How’s this:

Yesterday, you pushed me close to rock bottom.  Sitting on my sister’s couch in Marblehead, my car broken, my body wracked with exhaustion, my head spinning with to do lists and unanswered e-mails, my heart cracking, and my entire plan for the next 72 hours thrown to the wind because I was suddenly sans transportation, was definitely a serious low point.  (And that’s saying something, given the series of low points we’ve faced these last few months.)  Even my poor brother in law, who is always so steady and un-rattled, looked downright panicked when I tearfully wailed, “I just can’t take this anymore!”

And then, you know what?  It hit me: yes, actually, I can take this, and I have taken much worse, and truth be told, I have no doubt I will be faced with far, far worse in the years to come.

So, I wiped dry my cheeks.  I made some calls.  My car got towed; my brother in law drove me home; errands were run; e-mails were returned; items were checked off the to do list.

Universe, your fist is hard.  But, I am a formidable opponent.

To really drive it home to you that I am, in fact, much stronger than you realize, I decided yesterday afternoon that I would close my computer and turn off my phone and take my creaking body to 3:30pm yoga.  And then, as if that 90 minutes of exertion and release wasn’t enough, I decided to join a sweet friend’s offer of going swimming out at Walden Pond.  In my head, I worried you would punish me for this blatant back-turn on all the worries and woes you’ve sent my way by dropping my iPhone in a puddle or having some yet-identified, bottom-dwelling monster swell up from the sandy depths and consume me whole.  In my heart, though, I knew I needed to forget you—life—for awhile.

I have not swum in years.  But, my muscles, stretched long and loose from yoga, rippled like waves as I cut across the pond.  The silence overwhelmed me.  Every few minutes, my friend and I stopped and treaded, emptying our goggles, trading laughs, catching our breaths.  Every inch of my body hummed, happy.  There, in the middle, resting on the water’s cool surface, I found peace.

On our return journey across the pond, I took a break from swimming and turned onto my back, laying across the water, like a shadow.  I let time stop.  I floated, perfectly still.  The clouds moved above me like angels.  I felt the tears bubbling, but then thought how I have given you so many of my tears these last few months.  This moment?  This perfect evening, with this wonderful friend, hovering above the dark, quiet depths of Walden Pond, was mine, all mine.

Just like this life.

And so, Universe, I am done pointing the finger at you.  I’m throwing out my victim card.  You can keep your trifecta of tribulations.

Because in three months time, I could be working a sweet new job at a kick ass company and living in a fabulous apartment right back in the city I never wanted to leave in the first place.

Or…

Well, actually, who knows.  Who knows where I’ll be or what I’ll be doing.  Yes, who knows.

The point is, I’m not asking you to tell me.

I am quite certain I will get there on my own—even if I have a long, long swim (or several more falls) ahead.

Self-portrait circa 1985.  Practicing falling…in pajamas…and a coat…  But, I lived to tell the tale!