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.

____________________________

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.

___________________________________________

• 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.

____________________________________

• 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?”

Some things we can debate until we are Bulldog blue in the face. But some things are pure fact. One such thing? That with each passing moment, minute, and month, we are getting older.

When we are young, getting older seems only a good thing. A goal. But when we become adults, when we start packing decades under our existential belts, this getting older business is more complicated.

How do I feel about getting older? It depends on the day. Some days, I hate it. The fast march of time. The reminders of lingering mortality. The threatening wrinkles. The robust responsibilities.

But some days, even most days, I’m okay with it. Maybe it’s because I’m settling into a sweet season of my life – boy, babies, blog, book – but I feel that with each day, things are becoming clearer in complexion. I look back at myself ten years ago and I was cute and clueless and fabulously flailing in a sea of question marks. Today, the question marks are still here. And I’m thankful for that. Today, they are friends. Reminders of an abiding depth. Connections to a quirky cosmos.

Gwendolyn Brooks once said, “As you get older, you find that often the wheat, disentangling itself from the chaff, comes out to meet you.”

Per my very favorite metaphor book, separating wheat from the chaff denotes separating the valuable from the useless. With this bit of information in mind, the above quotes really speaks to me. As the years pile up, I feel that I am better able to see – and feel – what matters. As age mounts, I feel that the wheat of meaning – once mixed up with the chaff of excess – sways closer.

I’m not sure I’m making any sense. It’s likely I’m not. But I will publish this odd little musing anyway. Because coherent or no, it is about something big that affects each and every one of us: Time.

Each of us is getting older. Marching on. Away. Through. Toward.

________________________________________________

• How do you feel about the reality of aging?
• Do you think it’s acceptable these days to embrace the physical effects of age, or do you think our culture – as Hollywood evidences – is obsessed with prolonging youth at all costs?
• How do you personally handle the emergence of wrinkles and wisdom?
• For you, is aging about growing or graying or both?
• Do you think things become clearer or more complicated with age?
• Do you think our attitudes about aging are tied up in what we have – and have not – accomplished so far?
• Would you shave years off your age if it also meant shaving off everything that’s happened to you in those years?

We all know that I like to meander down metaphorical paths.

But not today.

Today I need your advice. I don’t necessarily want it. But I need it.

Here is my dilemma. My rookie novel LIFE AFTER YES debuts in about five minutes weeks. And to say that I am a bit anxious about this impending event is a severe and silly understatement. But that is not the point of this post. I mention my paralyzing fear only to garner a pinch of sympathy. Onward.

So. My book’s due date is May 18th. Soon. And less than two weeks later, I head to Yale for my tenth year college reunion. The close proximity of these two happenings was at one point a very happy coincidence. My publisher and publicist and I all agreed that this timing was fantastic to generate some added buzz for my book. Fine.

At one point, we had a book signing planned during graduation weekend at the Yale Bookstore. Yay! But then I decided that the last thing hungover thirty-somethings would want to do during the day on their college reunion weekend is traipse to a campus bookstore and sit in a folding chair and listen to a nervous blonde read. We canceled this signing. Fine.

Instead, we decided that I could host a little, super-casual cocktail party. I would invite classmates to come, sip champers, and chit chat about LIFE AFTER YES and life after Yale. Once upon a time, this seemed like a fabulous idea. But then. This idea soured on me too. I thought of myself standing there in some silly party outfit waiting for people to show up. Yuck. No dice.

So. The latest incarnation of my at-Yale quasi-publicity plan is to leave copies of my debut novel in the hotel rooms where I am staying. I would leave one book in each room as a little party favor. My lovely publicist has been in touch with the manager at this great hotel and he loves the idea. Yippee!!

But. I have been feeling a bit weird about this too. Truth be told, I am pretty much feeling weird about everything that concerns my book these days, so I didn’t think much of it. I have chalked all of this (the broken sleep, the vivid dreams, the existential malaise) to generalized rookie anxiety.

But then. Last week Husband and I went out for dinner with a friend and her husband. We had a marvelous dinner. We talked about everything. About parenthood and professional ambivalence and identity in the Internet Age. We even talked about reunions. I told our friends about my terrific plan to gift books in hotel rooms during reunion weekend.

And my friend’s husband said something. “Do you really want to do that?”

And I startled. And asked him why. And, ever diplomatically, he told me that people are nervous to return to their alma maters. That they invariably feel insecure and can’t help but compare their lives, their paths, their successes to those of their classmates. He said that he wasn’t sure he’d want to walk into his hotel room and see the published novel of a cohort.

As he said these things, I nodded. Because everything he said made perfect sense. Because, really, I want to return to Yale, the scene of some of the very best days of my life, and just have fun and see people who have slipped from the edges of my life. That weekend is not about me. Or my book.

Since that meal, I have made a point of asking several trusted friends what they think about my plan to give books away. And each and every one of these friends has told me the same thing: That this is a great and generous idea. That this is a clever and fun way to get my book in the hands of people who have a collegiate connection to me and might enjoy my story. But maybe they said this because they are my good friends?

I don’t know. What I do know is that in my current not-so-cute state of pre-publication petrification, I’m not 100% sure I’m thinking straight. I know that I need to get a lot better about embracing the notion of self-promotion. I know that I need to be proud of my book (and I am) and do what I can to encourage people to read it. I know that scores of fellow Yalies have accomplished wildly wonderful things and I look forward to hearing about their sundry successes between sips of Pinot.

But I also know that I don’t want to put off people whom I am genuinely eager to see and celebrate with after all these years.

I am well aware that I’m probably making a monster dilemma out of a tiny tactical decision. But here, in this gray moment, it doesn’t feel this way. Here, in this gray moment, this somehow feels kind of important. And I want to get this right. Or at least not get it wrong. So help me. Pretty please.

Books for Bulldogs? What would you do in my position?

___________________________________

How have you felt returning to your schools for reunions? At your reunions, has there been a palpable sense of competition among classmates regarding achievements since graduation? How would you feel if you opened the door to your hotel room and a classmate’s book was on your pillow?