Thirty Years

On this glorious fall day, we are almost lured into forgetting that cold is coming. I have the idea that in the days leading up to a momentous occasion such as a thirty-year anniversary, women go shopping and to the spa, get mani’s and pedi’s and recline while sipping tea together and planning out the details of the get-away with multiple girlfriends and singular focus. I, however, am the anti-thesis of well planned. Usually, I’m a super big mess while packing. It’s best that I can be alone during this time when the whole house looks like something violent just transpired (perhaps a wild love scene, or a gas explosion), and to make matters worse, I run my deadlines for work right up to the minute James is pulling away from the curb, trying to do work and be all that I think I need to be. 

Not this time. Though I’m still a long way from the ideal plan spelled out above with relaxation and girlfriends, I’ve made some defining administrative decisions because I’m a big girl now. My list includes:

1. Let romantic ideals blow away, chaff in the wind. 
2. Perfection be damned. If the clothes are rolled and stuffed in, not folded and hung, okay.
3. I’m active and eating well. Some clothes will fit, and some won’t. No melt downs or hateful dialog w/ self are needed or allowed. 

We’re celebrating our 30^th and that’s a pretty big deal, but hopefully we’ll have more. I hope so, because we have to share this anniversary with my clients, a writing studio I’m guiding in Canon Beach, Oregon. James is happy and content to be coming with me to Portland in the days prior to my winding drive through the dense forest and over to the coast. He’s on MEA days so he is finishing his tasks gently, play some golf…all before we go. He’s packed. Notice the difference in his approach and its wonderful effect on me too. 

I feel like a mess, but the kitchen is clean, the fridge empty, bathrooms scrubbed. I want to touch base with Sis and have my office in some semblance of order. This is routine. I like coming home to a clean house, but that’s not why I do this last-minute scramble at the expense of ruining my freshly manicured nails. The tidying is driven by the “just in case” riding in the backseat of my mind. If I should die, I don’t want to leave a mess for anyone worse than it will already be—always the interminable Pleaser. 

What business is yet unfinished, which manuscripts are still in rough form and will be misconstrued, misunderstood without my defense—the whole of my life is in danger of being misrepresentation should my plane goes down, or I keel over. Maybe I can tidy up my files in CB. Oh, hello. I know you: the grandstanding Performer, the more difficult voice to hush. 

After a couple of meetings (I’ll meet w/ Loren via Zoom in the airport), I’ll finally be free of my daily burdens for a few days. I sent Mom and Dad an anniversary card. Nothing too exciting, but I want them to know I am holding them close. 

We arrive in PDX, by far the most hospitable, easy-to-maneuver airport in the US. We caught the train to downtown with a mere four-minute walk to the Westin. Siri has trouble keeping her bearings with walking directions and got turned around. She and James are not at their best during these moments, and my ability to use landmarks is worthless in jungles of concrete. We go around an extra block or two before finding our way to the Westin, but when we do the lobby smells clean of white tea tea aroma, like home. We take the elevator up to the penthouse floor to our honeymoon suite #1910. Floor to ceiling windows of lighted skyline create a backdrop to our welcome package. A bottle of Michelle champagne chilling on ice, designer mini cupcakes on a narrow platter, and a fancy box of salted caramels with a nice hand-written note. 

James, Happy Anniversary, my love. Here’s to another thirty, and to this day lived well. (Hugs to you too, Westin.)

We remember anniversaries together and whisper our secrets. Today has been long and happy, full of adventure, lovemaking, delicious food and wine. James bought me diamonds and pearls—in the Pearl District. I hold my new ring up to the morning sun and it reflects back light and soft blurred images. How like our marriage is this pearl: not only the sand and hardship creating something beautiful over time while hidden under an ordinary exterior, its beauty, hardly recognized for lack of taking the time to sit and really look and enjoy. 

***

After several days of guided writing and back-to-back one-on-one sessions, I’m beginning to feel the fatigue of it all. All that unused real estate of the scrumptious king-sized bed in my suite woos. Why did I not schedule an extra day to rest, to tell the world to “please hold” while I splay my five-foot self out like a star fish making sheet angels (instead of snow angels) from every angle without touching the edge of the mattress late into the morning …after writing into the wee hours, with a glass of wine and good cheese? The massage w/ Jessica Rainey was delicious; the sunshine as much so. The coastal wind proves too brisk after a massage, so I came to the south side of the resort and am soaking in warmth. 

My students and I said our goodbyes after our days together and I checked out with time to spare. I could have walked the length of the beach again, but I was ready to drive. Full to the brim. The day was sunny and gorgeous, but I didn’t want to stall and be caught in Portland’s late afternoon traffic or be wind-whipped and sandy. I was ready to come home. 

I pray a parting blessing over this area and the people remaining to teach and be taught—all to be formed in and through the events of their lives. I prayed for those who have come and labored so diligently on their academic work and with aligning their wills with the Father’s. I have had to pray a portion of Thomas a’ Kempis’ prayer many times these past couple days: “. . .And give me grace, also, to withdraw myself from those who flatter me, and patiently to tolerate those who grieve me so that the way I have begun will bring me to a good and blessed ending.” (from The Imitation of Christ)

I settle in at the airport to read a fun book while nibbling on Beecher’s cheese, crackers, dried cranberries, spiced nuts, sipping dark coffee. I revel in my work, find it so deeply satisfying that I struggle to think of it as work most of the time. I like the space to be alone to pray and just be. And now I want to be with my Jamé. Even this short distance of travel seems arduously long. We’ve checked in every day, talked every night because he likes that. I no longer fight this like I used to, wishing I could be entirely present in one space for several days without having to attend to those at home. He’s been sending me sound bytes of songs each day that I’ve been away: “You and tequila make me crazy.” 

James was snoozing when I came down the escalator of the airport at midnight. He’d been there a while waiting, my faithful and truest friend. We rode the elevator up to the fifth floor of the Baxter where our little apartment was dusted, vacuumed and tidy, smells so nice. The bedlinens are fresh and the covers turned back. I love that about this man I’ve been with far longer than half my life now. Tomorrow I will venture into my tiny office where outside my window four giant evergreens stand sentinel, grounded and dominating, waiting for my return. After being gone ten days, I’ll see that the trees along Main Street are now penciled sketches rather than soft canopies of color. The red brick buildings are all hard lines in full view and far beyond the blue mountains flaunt their snowy peaks, but for tonight, I fall into a deep, sound sleep enveloped in my most contented place, “the touch of the long married.” 

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              ^[1] From the inside of a chocolate bar that James gave me, after receiving from one of his school children, June 2016.