the clan.
You don’t choose your family. They are God’s gift to you, as you are to them.”
- Desmond Tutu
Today (after work) Joel & I are roadtripping to Western NY to spend the week celebrating with the Nesbitt clan (mom’s side). It is our 80th family reunion, and “Clan” is a totally appropriate title. There is definitely an established hierchy. Aunt Doris is 91 and Uncle Bob is turning 90. And I can barely keep up with either of them.
There’s usually about 60-120 people gathered around Uncle Pete’s pond, under the pines my Grandpa planted, at any given time over the 4-5 day hang out. And probably close to 200 that filter in and out over the course of those days. Not all are blood related, some are the “Nesbitt-want-to-be’s” that we have grafted into the family.
I mean, most people celebrate the 4th of July by having a cookout and watching the town fireworks display. Well pish, posh. We have a potluck dinner one night, a chicken BBQ another, pancake breakfast (over the fire) and the normal 4th of July grill out as well. Oh, and there’s the three tables of desert which is overflowing at all times, and two huge steel bins, one filled with soda pop and the other with sweet cherries. We also do our own fireworks, usually courtesy of my cousins Nick and Steve. There’s the annual softball game, the annual volleyball game, the annual egg toss, and annual water relay fight. There’s the “King of the Mountain Raft” game that continues in the pond for everyone between the age of 10 and 18, which has been going on since my mom was little.
There is also morning prayer around the flagpole, and just a lot of praying going on in general, as everyone spends the days catching up with each other, laughing and crying. And the sharing always results in a few people stopping to lay hands and pray for another.
It’s a beautiful thing.
Photographic documentation to come.
99
99 bottles of beer on the wall,
99 bottles of beer days til we wed.
Not that we’re the cheesy couple who counts down til our wedding day, but last night Joel brought me stargazer lillies in celebration of there being 100 days til we get married. So today makes 99. But when I think 99, all I can think of is 99 bottles of beer on the wall. I was trying to come up with a way to make it into a wedding song. But no dice.
oh the ocean.
A view of the ocean just yards in front of me.
The scent of the sea and beach plum roses.
The sound of waves lapping on the shore, hitting the rocks to the right.
I feel… right.
Steady. Centered. Free. Capable of any and all. I don’t know why the ocean has this effect on me, but in all the years, and all the different coast lines – South Carolina, The Dominican, Thailand, Maine, California, North Carolina, Hawaii, Massachusetts – the effect is the same.
It reminds me of God.
It is deep and vast, dark and mysterious, strong and unpredictable. It also has current patterns and tides, and as I dive beneath it I am able to make all sorts of discoveries. And sometimes – as I witness large swells rising up, only to dissipate before breaking into white anger – it seems just plain merciful. More often than not, it is soothing to my soul. Just the sight, smell and sounds. No matter where I go in the world, the feeling of the coast is largely the same. Different temperatures and sea creatures and wave height. But it’s still salty and wet and the most refreshing thing in the world.
welcome, summer.
it’s cold.
and rainy.
and dark out.
it’s summer in new england.
oh we do have perfect weather on occasion.
and when we do, we celebrate.
with red sox games and trips to rockport.
with home-cooked lobster dinners and blackberry ice cream cones.
with beach climbs and garden walks and hammock swinging.
here’s to life:
live it to the hilt.
together forever.
as of may 2, 2009… we are officially getting married sometime in the near future. i can’t wait to have my best friend with me for all the adventures ahead. it’s good.
intimacy.
Just as in earthly life lovers long for the moment when they are able to breathe forth their love for each other, to let their souls blend in a soft whisper, so the mystic longs for the moment when in prayer he can, as it were, creep into God.”
– Søren Kierkegaard
