This weekend I went back to Yale for my tenth college reunion. We went back. To that beautiful campus. To those beautiful years.

We logged many hours reminiscing and reconnecting under a vast white tent on Old Campus. The weekend was stuffed with familiar faces and rich conversations and contagious laughter and even beer pong. Many things, so many things, made me smile.

One thing? Seeing my books displayed in the lobby of the hotel.

But one of the most amazing things about this weekend had nothing to do with parties and people from my past. That amazing thing? My two little girls. Husband and I took them to Old Campus on Saturday morning when it was very quiet and pretty empty. We plopped our creatures down in the candy green grass and let them roam and explore. They ran and ran and jumped and giggled. They sniffed out the little white flag above. Which made me smile because we surrender to these little ones countless times a day.

The girls insisted on playing with the stakes of the big white tent even though we told them that it wasn’t safe.

They spotted a mysterious beige object outside of Connecticut Hall. And had great fun banging it like a drum before we read the faded writing on it and realized that it contained some kind of poison. (Why are kids magnetically attracted to danger?)

They ran. At times together. At times separately. They skipped toward each other. And in different directions.

We walked along stone paths and checked out the trucks unloading lunch.

We walked through archways between Here and There. Then and When.

I watched Baby stroll down Elm Street, the same street I walked so many times clutching books and gummy candy. And dreams.

The girls looked for animals.

They chased squirrels.

And each other.

Toddler ran so fast. Leaving a mess of golden curls in her wake.

She stopped every now and then. To take it all in perhaps.

But then she kept going.

Yesterday, Husband let me sleep in. He took the girls on a “safari adventure” around campus. He snapped this shot of his two little women at the Women’s Table, the scene of some delightful debauchery of latter day. The scene of so many stories. And good ones.

He caught the girls being silly. Doing their job. Having fun.

And today. I’m home again. On my new campus. Today I look at this picture of my girls, my creations, on the campus I love deeply, the campus that in so many ways created me, and I am flooded with memories and affection and awe. Today I look at this picture and tears, sweet blissful Bulldog tears, come.

And to them, I surrender.

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• Have you taken your kids to your alma maters or other seminal places of your youth?
  
• Do you remember visiting your parents’ schools when growing up?
• Do you agree that it’s important and necessary to surrender to our kids and our emotions from time to time?

**”Do you ever feel like a book comes into your life at a time when you really need it?  It’s like some force in the world told me that I needed to read Aidan Donnelley Rowley’s book, Life After Yes, at this point in my life… can’t rave enough about this book and I encourage you to go and find your own copy asap!!  I am eagerly anticipating more from this author in the future!!  This book whole-heartedly deserves the Five Star CRAZY AMAZING review!” Click here to read the rest of the review over at Crazy for Books.**

**The second installment of the online Life After Yes book club is up over at Motherese. Yet again, Kristen provides an incredibly thoughtful analysis of my work and asks wonderful questions (that I am tempted to answer!). In the event that you missed it, also check out last week’s discussion. I cannot tell you how meaningful it has been for me to witness such rich conversation about my book.**

“The pessimist complains about the wind; the optimist expects it to change; the realist adjusts the sails.”

William Arthur Ward

I don’t know much about sailing. Or about William Arthur Ward for that matter. But I do love this quote. And I am very interested in the topic of optimism. What is it exactly? Is it something we are born with? Something we absorb as we navigate our days? Is it something we must choose, embrace, practice at?

I don’t know.

But I do know that these questions matter to me. I do know that I want very much to be optimistic. More than that, I want very much not to be pessimistic. Last week, at T’s Yale graduation, Bill Clinton was the Class Day speaker. And Slick Willy didn’t disappoint. He charmed us all with his trademark mix of wit and wisdom. He implored the graduates – and all of us really – to get real about the big problems we face in this modern world. But one thing stuck with me in particular. Something about pessimism.

Clinton said, “Cynicism and pessimism are cop-outs. Excuses to take a dive. Self-fulfilling prophecies.” And as he said these words, I sat there in my folding chair on good Old Campus, nodding. Nodding fiercely. I do not want to be a pessimist. I do not want to be a cynic.

But are these things up to me? Per Clinton, it seems they are.

Is optimism innate/inherited? Are each of us genetically or physiologically wired in such a way that we are more or less likely to see life’s silver lining? Do we inherit our powers of positivity from our parents? Is it hard, if impossible, to transcend the levels of optimism we witnessed and absorbed growing up?

Is optimism contagious? Are we more likely to see the sunshine in our days when surrounded by others who are optimistic? [Once upon a time, a young (and super-cynical) girl who wore tons of black and whose default face was a bitchy scowl met a young (and shockingly-optimistic) boy who didn't care what he wore and was prone to smile. They met in a bar of all places! And days passed. And months. And years. Seven-ish years later, that same girl has two girls of her own and is much much more optimistic about life. And she wears color!]

Is optimism a choice? Whatever its source, can we choose to add more optimism to our selves and to our stories? Can we make efforts to alter the ways we see things and process them? Can we train ourselves to see sunshine instead of storms? Can we, with devotion and diligence, avoid Clinton’s cop-outs of cynicism and pessimism?

Again, I don’t know. But, hey, at least I’m asking, right?

Today, I would say I’m a realist. One who suffers soggy moments of cynicism and poisonous bouts of pessimism. But one who is committed to optimism. Optimistic about optimism.

Today, I am awake. Alert. Aware of the robust reality of existential wind. Poised for change. Even cruel change. Always adjusting the sails of my own expectations.

Because I must. We all must.

(How can I possibly look at this sunshine-soaked picture of my three creatures in the fountains outside the museum where I celebrated my wedding and be anything but optimistic?)

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• Do you think optimism is a choice?
• Do you agree with President Clinton that pessimism and cynicism are self-fulfilling prophecies and cop-outs?
  
• Where do you fall on the optimism/pessimism/realism spectrum?
• Are you more or less positive about life and love than you used to be? What has affected your outlook?
• Are you suspicious (like I am) of people who seem optimistic all the time?

** Today is the very first day of the LIFE AFTER YES book club discussion over at Motherese. Click and come on by!**

** For a chance to win a signed copy of LIFE AFTER YES, please click over to BlogHer at Home and leave a comment! (Thanks, Nic!)**

Rumor has it that a certain something helps tremendously in the optimism department. That something? Book sales

I woke up this morning and realized something: I am really really tired. Exhausted.

Exquisitely exhausted.

It’s been a long and lovely week. On Saturday, I headed to New Haven for Sister T’s graduation. Cozy on Yale’s campus, I felt very much at home.

I walked the streets of my past, noting the gorgeous green of the ivy. In the bold May sunshine, I watched my littlest sister graduate.

As we walked from Old Campus, I hung back to get a shot of the graduate. Flanked by sisters. It’s all about sisters.

Oh. Forgot to tell you. During the ceremony, there were a few fun celeb sightings. (I spy Steven Spielberg.)

We made our way to Pierson College. Where four of the five of us Donnelley girls spent our undergrad years. I studied the familiar swirls of a welcoming gate and the beckoning blue of a happy sky.

We posed for pictures. Five daughters. One Mom. The Donnelley girls. Here are our feet.

On Monday, after a whirlwind of commencement activities and a couple of late nights, we came home. On Tuesday, there was a soccer class and a science class and a wonderful luncheon at the Natural History Museum. There was a tearful dedication of a plaque to a certain beloved man of nature. There were construction meetings. There was a panicky and very last-minute trip to Bergdorfs to find the perfect LBD (little book dress). At 8pm, as the store was closing, said dress was purchased.

And yesterday, after an afternoon of signing stacks of Life After Yes at BookExpo America for scores of splendid strangers, I donned my little black dress and indulged in a contemplative moment before my book party. I stopped and said to myself, This is really happening. This is my Now.

We made our way there. To the Library Bar at the Hudson Hotel. A stunning spot with vast portraits of cows and countless books. And perfect peonies from a good and loyal friend.

In the center of the room, there was a beautiful blue pool table. Which kept the boys busy and in good spirits.

Before the guests arrived, my man snapped away. He captured the sublime setting.

He got candids of his wife. Like this one. Note that the only reason I am including this shot is because I kind of like the way my arm looks

It was meaningful, magical, to be surrounded by so many old books while celebrating a new one.

I like this picture. The juxtaposition of books and cows makes me giggle. It was a night of sweet smiles and friends and family and love and laughter. After the party, I stayed out for a bit with the girls. C, T, and I went for a late night meal. Like old times.

And when I got home, I paused before the mirror in our lobby. I did something strange. Something I have been known to do. I looked at my reflection. I looked at my dress. At my side-swept hair. At my vast smile. And then I took a picture. To have evidence. To memorialize a moment, a fleeting and joyful and hushed moment, with myself.

And then I took a few silly ones. Because in that moment I was feeling good and silly. And I decided there was nothing wrong with that.

And, home again, I slipped out of that black dress and into pajamas and crawled into bed with my snoozing and supportive man. Before nodding off, I kissed the back of his head. And then I slept. And continued to dream.

And I woke up this morning and realized something: I am really really tired. Exhausted.

Exquisitely exhausted.

The truth is I need a nap. And today, instead of racing and chasing and checking my Amazon ranking in ten minute intervals, I am going to take that nap. And if I have my way, there will be a little girl on either side of me cuddled up. And maybe even a cat or two purring at my feet.

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Have you ever experienced exquisite exhaustion? Do you think it is silly (and narcissistic) that I periodically snap pictures of myself? Do you ever do this? Do you need a nap?

Bright College years, with pleasure rife,
The shortest, gladdest years of life;
How swiftly are ye gliding by!
Oh, why doth time so quickly fly?

The seasons come, the seasons go,
The earth is green or white with snow,
But time and change shall naught avail
To break the friendships formed at Yale.

In after years, should troubles rise
To cloud the blue of sunny skies,
How bright will seem, through mem’ry’s haze
Those happy, golden, bygone days!

Oh, let us strive that ever we
May let these words our watch-cry be,
Where’er upon life’s sea we sail:
“For God, for Country and for Yale!”

“Bright College Years”

(Written by H.S. Durand, 1881 and Composed by Carl Wilhelm)

Ten years ago, I graduated from Yale. I remember the day. The weekend. The profound perfume of pride and sadness wafting through the New Haven air. I remember wanting so badly to stay, to pause time, to soak up the sentiment I feared I wasn’t appreciating in full measure. But I also wanted it to be over. To move on. To enter that fabled real world that beckoned.

Today, it’s my youngest Sister T’s turn. She will don that standard issue polyester. In that cap and gown, she will walk. She will receive that heralded document, that diploma. She will shake a dean’s hand and smile big for photographs. At lunch, we will toast her insane 3.99 GPA which she managed to achieve – and maintain – while watching Dad get sick and say goodbye. We will also raise a glass to more intangible things. To bright and bygone college years. To heaps of happiness. To a good life beyond Ivy.

And so. On this day, I’m a proud Yalie and a proud big sister. Overwhelmed, exquisitely overwhelmed, by love and legacy and loss. At once aware of the monument that is this (fifth and final) moment and oblivious to its ultimate and unwieldy weight. For T. For me. For my family.

This post is for God, for Country, and for Yale.

But mostly?

It’s for T.

Congrats, baby sis. We are all so so proud.

And so is he.

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• Please congratulate my littlest sis on her big day! Any words of wisdom to pass along?
• Do you remember your own graduation day? How did you feel? Were you ready to move on?
  
• I still owe T a graduation gift. Any stellar ideas?

(Apologies in advance. Because this post is unedited. These words will lack the telltale gloss I apply after composition. And maybe because of this, because of their tattered edges, they will be more real?)

I live in a bubble. A bubble full of fancy educations and success stories. Of fast cars and summer homes. Of big diamonds and tiny dogs. Of wealth and health.

I live in a bubble. And in this bubble, sleep is lost over private school admissions, SAT points, waist size, comment count, book sales, and broken iPhones. In this bubble, there is bartering of existential truths and bantering about insecurities.

I live in a bubble. And it is cozy and clean. It is my world. And I love it. It is what I know.

There is life outside my bubble. There are kids who are awakened in the night to the staccato of gunshots, to an avalanche of tears, to the breaking of hearts. There are kids who are given no chances, no opportunities, no snuggles. There are kids who are told they are dumb, dim-witted, good for nothing. There are kids who are lost, failed, trampled upon by broken families and systems and hopes.

I glimpsed this life and these kids at Community-Word’s Writing Our Future benefit at the National Arts Club last night. My new friend, the brilliant Michele Kotler, started Community-Word Project over ten years ago. A bit about this phenomenal organization:

Community~Word Project is dedicated to helping at-risk young people become critical and creative thinkers who are prepared for the challenges and opportunities they face in these rapidly changing times. We work in struggling communities in New York City, reaching young people in the one place they must be every day, the classroom. Community~Word Project residencies, which are at the heart of our work, transform those classrooms into learning environments where children are not taught what to think, but how to think, where young minds are not filled, but formed. Since our founding in 1997, Community~Word Project has served over 10,000 young people.

Now I have been to my fair share of charity events. But last night? It shook me. Woke me up. Made me see the outline of the bubble in which I reside.

The best part of last night was the kids. These kids stood up on stage and performed the poems they’d written. Poems about family and sky and laughter. And I sat there in the audience. With my newly highlighted hair. In my perfect black outfit. In my brand new shoes. Clutching my designer bag and iPhone.

In my bubble.

But I sat there. And I listened. To the words that carried my way. Words spoken by young voices. Exquisite words. Words that smacked of struggle and salvation. Of life and love and longing.

These words pierced the bubble. They found me. Burrowed into my consciousness. I don’t want them to leave.

As I walked outside into the April air, I saw them. The limos. Waiting for those young kids on their big night. Michele told me this would happen. That it was important that these kids felt extra special on their big night. I hope they did.

And now. I am home. In my picturesque neighborhood. Facing a busy day in my bubble. I must get Toddler to her amazing Preschool. And then take Baby to her gymnastics class. And then I must race to the Museum of Natural History for the Spring Environmental Luncheon. And then I must hightail it to my new home to accept delivery of our new kitchen. Then it’s time to prepare to for my Happier Hour.

I live in a bubble.

In this bubble, I feel fortunate. That freedom surrounds me. That opportunities hover. That I am here. Not there.

I live in a bubble

In this bubble, I feel guilty. That freedom surrounds me. That opportunities hover. That I am here. Not there.

And so gratitude and guilt mingle in me. Awareness alights. This morning. Every morning, I hope.

Because there’s one thing worse than living in a bubble: Being blind to the bubble.

Thank you, Michele. For shaking me. For waking me. For training my eye on my own exquisite bounty. For reminding me that words and sentences and thoughts are not givens. They are profound privileges bequeathed by good teachers and good people. Like you. People who honor the voices and visions beyond that bubble in which so many of us, too many of us, hide. I look forward to getting even more involved with Community-Word going forward.

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• Do you live in a bubble? What does your bubble look like?
• Over the years, has anything or anyone woken you up to the reality of what you have?
  
• Do you ever feel guilty about your good fortune?
• Do you think existential bubbles exist because we create them and refuse to pop them? Or are they inevitable by-products of entrenched inequalities?
• Do you find that sometimes your unedited words and thoughts contain the most truth?
  
• Do you agree with Sarah of Momalom in her sentiment that “Life is unedited, why shouldn’t I be from time to time?”