August 13, 2008

In the Stillness

The other weekend was my high school reunion, which, honestly, I was rather "meh" about. One wonderful thing it did do was bring my dear friend Laurie into town. We stole away with our families (she also has a husband and two kids) for a few days of camping at the coast before the reunion began.

Laurie is that friend who enters into your life just as you are beginning to feel out who you are and stays with you through all the changes of college and marriage and parenthood. We met in eighth grade, but only really became friends late in high school. She was relaxed and non-cliquish--in other words, my opposite. I spent much of my senior year letting her lead the way to the many adventures she dreamed up for us.

Some of my dearest memories with her are of our times at the coast. We'd blow off whatever obligations we had and make the one hour trip past the farms and through the coastal forest. Sometimes we'd play on the beach, but often we'd just walk, letting the sound of the pounding surf envelop us. On a northwestern beach the grey of the sea and sky often drift together, smudging the horizon until you feel you are looking into infinity. Surrounded by the mist and the ocean's roar, we would talk about things that when you're seventeen seem too real to share most of the time: Our uncertainty about what we wanted in life. Our hope of one day finding a partner whom we could love unreservedly. Our ambivalence about motherhood.

It's been over a decade since Laurie and I last visited the ocean together. This time we arrived in cars stuffed full of families and gear. If that weren't enough reminder of our old age, we shared the campground with a clutch of teenage girls--likely dragged camping by their parents--who spent long stretches of time in front of the bathroom mirrors applying makeup and brushing their hair. As I squeezed between them to wash my hands while they faux-argued about their beauty ("You're so pretty." "No, I'm not! I'm a hag." "Whatever. You're gorgeous. I'm hideous."), I admit I rolled my eyes internally. But it was a sympathetic eye roll, because I remember well my own teen self in a camp site bent over the side-view mirror of a car doing my bangs with a butane curling iron. That is the overwhelming memory of my teen years: the constant primping and prancing, the frenetic pressure to hide my flaws, fit in with the crowd, make everyone think I was okay because I thought the moment I stopped and said, "I'm fine the way I am" would be the moment they'd start judging me. It would be years before I learned about the quiet strength of self-acceptance.

My teenage self would sneer at the me of today. In the campground bathroom she would take in my pigtails, lack of makeup and squishy midsection and decide I had let myself go. She would pity me for being a mother by adoption instead of by birth. Hearing I once again live in my hometown and work at a fairly low-paying job would cause her to furrow her brow and wonder how I could have settled for so little. She would see the peaceful stillness of my life and mistake it for surrender.

That weekend as I watched our families romp on the beach where Laurie and I used to stand and dream, I thought about how our lives are everything and nothing like what we wanted for ourselves back then. After high school we found that the inner push for social acceptance morphs into a drive toward marriage, job, children. We braved unexpected depression and infertility and uncertainty about careers. We found mothering as demanding as we feared and more gratifying than we could have imagined. We married men who make us laugh and who adore us through it all. We learned to find joy in the moments presented to us.

I stood and let the wind lift my hair as the sounds of the children's playing competed with the ocean's roar. I caught Laurie's eye and she stopped to share a smile. Surrounded by all we wanted and all we didn't know to want, we were still.


Whitney said...

Thanks for commenting on my blog. I'm excited to read your blog & see what life is like for you with 2 adopted children. :)

Ariella said...

You wrote "My teenage self would sneer at the me of today... She would see the peaceful stillness of my life and mistake it for surrender."

I often think about all I "wanted" to be, and how I am sure the brilliant rock star I invesioned becoming, wouldn't be any happier, or content with her life than I am. My peacefulness might be taken for surrender at times but I am happy to say it rages on, but for a new cause. Not thinner hips or shinny hair but for a better world a healthy home and a loving family.

As always thanks for another brilliant post that makes us think.

Megan said...

Excellent post. Thank you.

luna said...

this is truly a gorgeous post. I felt like I was staring out at the ocean too, which is one of my happiest places to be.

Kendra said...

This is wonderful. I don't have a Laurie -- I very much wish that I did!

P.S. We talked to a possible birthmother this evening!!!

Brown =) said...

I love this post :)

Heather.PNR said...

Thanks, everyone.

@Kendra - Wow! Let me know how it goes. Those first conversations with expectant moms always set my nerves racing.

hope548 said...

Beautiful post and so well-written. And how wonderful to have a friend like that!

Meg Weber Jeske said...

Beautiful post. I had a friend like that once, named Heather actually! We met in high school, were best friends for 10 years until she died suddenly when we were 24. We spent a lot of time at the ocean together. Reading this post made me nostalgic and miss her...and made me happy to have a new friend named Heather!

Kohana said...

"She would see the peaceful stillness of my life and mistake it for surrender."

This line in particular, really struck me. In youth we are so assumptive. Things can turn out to be so different than we imagined them, and honestly, I'm really grateful for that!

cynthia said...

beautifully spoken- very poignant.

Brandi said...

Wow. Just wow. Made me think about my teenage self; primping at a campground bathroom. I know she would think horrible things about me...just the fact I lived past 30 would cause her the vapors (live fast and die young ya know), and being married to one guy for 17 years, who wasn't rich? I just smashed all her plans.

But, she couldn't have known, of course, what adventures awaited.

Thanks for this post. I needed it without realizing I did.

(A)Dad said...

hey you, I'm very proud of who you are and love you for it. Thanks for making me cry tonight. It was a good cry.

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