Saturday. Late morning. We arrive at Turtle Pond. Two girls smile and skip. The grass is green and ready for us. Sunshine shimmies above, and around. We find a spot, a good spot, under a big tree. We spread out a blanket, plaid, and sit. We unwrap sandwiches Daddy made. Turkey and cheese. Little ones sip from juice boxes. At lunch with us? A tiny stuffed turtle named Tuck. A little stuffed bunny named Ruby. Lucky guests at our family picnic.

Big girl stands and does the pee dance. I have to go potty! A strong guy, her father, scoops her up. Little girl chants, Coming too! This mother sits on picnic plaid, amid turkey shreds and bread crumbs and watches her creatures go. Little legs wrapped around a broad and tapering torso, feet kicking, hands flailing, dangling turtle and bunny. Bye bye, Mommy! Sweet words trail them.

Soon, they are back. And big girl is wet with tears. Her turtle is gone. Went swimming in a feces-coated Central Park public toilet. Was rescued briefly only to make a swift plunge into the trash. This girl is inconsolable. She collapses onto this mother’s lap, shaking with sobs. And we stand and walk to the dock. To see the ducks and the turtles and the life.

We will get a new Tuck, this mother says, foolishly says. It will be exactly the same.

Behind her simple and desperate words of reassurance, this one mother wonders about something big. Loss. It will happen. It will happen with things more consequential than tiny turtles. It will happen with things and creatures and places that cannot be replaced. This mother knows this, and deeply, because she has lost things. Important things.

But for now. This is hard enough. A little girl quaking at the loss of a friend. An untimely goodbye. A small and cruel snapshot of what’s to come.

She is okay. I am okay.

(Are we ever really okay?)

It’s just a toy turtle. It’s not just a toy turtle.

(Is it ever just a toy turtle?)

I love you, Toddler. You are my brilliant babe, so strong and so sensitive, keen already to the lessons life has no choice but to teach us.

R.I.P. Tuck (#1)

___________________________________

• Did you lose any cherished toys as a child? Have your children lost anything dear to them? How did you deal?
• Do you agree that life is a constant lesson in love and longing and loss?
• Do you think Husband did the right thing by tossing Tuck? (At first, I thought the poop-slicked little guy should have been brought home for a bath.)
• Do these tiny tragedies make you think about the bigger instances of loss in your life or is it just me?
  

(Ha.)

Once upon a time, there was a young woman. She was a happy, if thoughtful, creature. A jolly, if jaded, city soul. One Thursday night, she went on a date with her husband, a handsome man whom she simply adored. They picked a small bistro. Settled into a small table for two. They perused the paper menu and nibbled on fresh bread. They smiled at each other over the flickering candle between them.

They talked and laughed about life and love and learning. About the subtle shifting of seasons. When the time came, this young woman dug into her crab salad with peppers, a dish colorful and spry. He tasted his lamb and declared it delicious. And then this young woman started talking about something she rarely discussed; her writing. She talked about her new protagonist, a smart young woman with issues. This woman’s husband did something at which he was singularly skilled: he listened. And they discussed this character. Her childhood scars. Her curious academic fetishes. Her sexual blocks.

And this young woman, this writer, was thrilled when her man spoke up. Asking questions. Offering ideas of his own. This man helped her create; making this character come to life in that tiny bistro. But then. He said something. Something little, but pointed. Something intelligent, but critical too. And this young woman put down her fork.

In mere moments, this woman’s mood soured. Her words departed. She looked down at the napkin in her lap, so white, so blank, so stiff, no longer hungry. Her husband apologized. They vowed to talk about something else, but silence ensued. That flame flickered between them. And, in a soft voice, she apologized too. For sliding down, and away. For being so sensitive. For everything.

They paid the check. Walked into the night. Inched block by block toward home. I wish I could do something to snap out of this, she said. Her man nodded. A short time later, she felt better. Silly again. She grabbed her man’s hand and skipped beside him. His hand, though, was limp. She looked at his face, his eyes. And she saw what she had done. She had made him plunge too. Into that place. That bad place of blah.

She apologized again, her words sincere. He told her over and over that it was okay. That he was fine. They walked along, hands swinging, not touching. At home, they surrendered to the couch. In time, the fog lifted from them both. Their fingers laced, they watched a television program. Their smiles came back.

***

Okay, that woman was me. Shocker, I know!

But this happened, this little something. Just last night. And this morning, I said to husband: Is it okay if I blog about bad moods? He said: Sure. We talked about last night, about how miserable I was in those moments, about how that misery was short-lived, but utterly yucky and contagious. Husband said something interesting. He said that he is immune to other people’s moods; that mine are the only ones that really affect him. I chose to view this as sweet instead of sinister. I chose to see this as a sign that we are unbelievably tight and that if I am sad, he is too because he cares so much and feels so close.

I don’t know. But I am sitting here in my yoga pants and bedhead wondering about bad moods and whether they can be cured before they spread and infect others. Whether there is something I could have done in that quaint restaurant to treat my momentary malaise. Just now, I did what any savvy modern soul would do. I Googled “bad mood.” The first search result was an article from Real Simple magazine called Banish a Bad Mood in 15 Minutes. Yay! I clicked.

And then I laughed. Because the article tells us that we can pull ourselves out of a funk with three simple steps: (1) Decode your mood! (2) Calm down!; and (3) Create a Strategy! I had zero tolerance for this article. I felt, and immediately, an aversion to the prescriptive strategy it offered for everyday blues. I guess I think that bad moods happen and that we just need to wait them out. (Or eat a cupcake. Yum.)

I don’t know. Maybe I should really go back and read that article. Maybe it contains true pearls that will come in handy on my next date night when my mood threatens to dive. Perhaps I need to be more open-minded. Or maybe I shouldn’t talk about my writing. Maybe the material is just too raw, too delicate, too fragile. Again, I don’t know.

I do know though that I am now fixated on the question of moods, on whether they are truly transmittable, and even more so between partners. Are good moods equally contagious? Let’s hope so because this morning I’m feeling quite perky. I’m going to go throw my arms around my man, maybe tickle him a bit, shower him with my silliness.

We’ll see what happens…

Dear Husband, Thank you for tolerating me and loving me, marvelous mood swings and all.

___________________________

• Do you ever unexpectedly slide into bad moods?
• Have you ever given someone else your bad mood? Have you ever fallen into a bad mood because of someone else?
• Do you think bad moods are particularly contagious between romantic partners?
• Are bad moods and good moods equally contagious or are germs of malaise more powerful?
• Do you ever discuss your writing with others? Are you sensitive about your material?
• Do you think we can follow steps to banish bad moods or are you skeptical like I am?
• Do you think moods are contagious through the screen? If you read a post from someone who is up or down, do you then feel better or worse, respectively?
• What do you do to combat bad moods? (Come on! Share your tricks. This post could end up being very helpful for us all!)
  

Yesterday afternoon, my phone rang. Caller ID indicated that it was a good friend of mine who lives in the South and just welcomed her third child a couple of weeks ago. I almost let the call go to voicemail as I do so often with incoming calls. Though busy bonding with Toddler during Baby’s nap time, I picked up.

I am so glad I did.

My friend and I ended up talking for a long time. Almost an hour, I think. She told me all about her delivery and her family and her new life as a mom of three kids. She told me about the big storm that just mangled the back of her home. I told her about our new place, about how we are getting more and more settled here, about how the kids and cats are in heaven. We joked about that long ago time when we were big firm lawyers and about the present day when we often spend long minutes wrestling with the sundry parts of sippy cups. (Where do all those missing parts go?)

When I hung up the phone, I felt a swell of something. Of happiness. Of friendship. Of connection.

I do not get this feeling when I hit send on an email. I do not get this feeling when I update my Facebook status. Or float a tweet into the ether.

Yesterday, I professed my love for Facebook and my respect for the unprecedented phenomena of modern social media. My opinions have not changed overnight; I continue to believe there is an immense, if inscrutable, power inherent in the technological tools (blogging, FB, Twitter, etc) that so many of us have come to embrace.

But.

I realized something yesterday in the quiet moments after my call with my friend. I realized that as we dive further into this world of buttons and screens and soundbites, we really are missing out. On faces and voices and moving lips and rumbling laughter. On the stories that come in bits and pieces, without grace perhaps, over the phone line or in person. Stories that cannot (and perhaps should not) be edited for their content and grammar. We are missing out on the organic interpersonal stuff that used to me the norm.

This is not all about social media. I have never really been much of a phone person. I remember my school days and being amazed that my friends logged so many hours chit-chatting on the phone. Perhaps this is a hereditary thing? Dad was never big on the phone and the master of the two minute call that ended with his endearing and sing-song, Morn morn.

Maybe this is just me?

(I don’t think so.)

I worry that the advent and experience of social media, the ubiquity of text messaging and email exchanges, is allowing me – and so many of us – to hide behind the screen and the words we weave. I worry that, by following the trends of the day, we are compromising our relationships, and with them, ourselves.

I don’t know. I don’t pretend to know.

But I do know that I am going to make more of an effort to pick up the phone and call the people that matter. I am going to make more of an effort to engage in and indulge in real conversations, the clumsy and exquisite kind that cannot be duplicated online or in print. I am going to make more of an effort to flip this screen shut and get out there into the world and see people. And talk to them. Old school style.

(And then I will of course come here and blog about it.)

__________________________________

• Are you a phone person? Have you always been?
• Has your use of the phone changed with the emergence of email and social media?
• Do you think social media is changing patterns of human connection in a problematic way?
• Do you find yourself writing an email or sending a text instead of picking up the phone because it is “easier”?
• Do you ever worry that if things continue the way they’re going our kids will grow up not knowing how to make eye contact or conduct real conversations?
• Do you think there is a way to embrace the technologies of the day while also retaining traditional communication skills?
• Are you too baffled by the mysteries of sippy cups?
  

I’m going to come right out and say it: I love Facebook. I do. It’s worth noting that I do not spend much time at all on the site – maybe ten minutes a day? – but the time I do spend is both enjoyable and rewarding. I love that Facebook facilitates connections with friends old and new. I love being able to see pictures of tiny babies and beloved dogs and lavish weddings and happy people. I relish being able to stay on top of the careers of authors I admire. Most of all, I love getting back in touch with people who were once important in my life, but slipped away for no good reason at all.

A few days ago, a friend from college whom I have not seen in ages – a beautiful and brilliant girl – messaged me to say that she had finished reading Life After Yes. I was thrilled of course to hear that she loved the book, but her note was so much more than simple praise for my literary debut. I could explain how deeply her words affected me, but decided it would be far more powerful to share her words with you. I asked her if I could write a blog post about our exchange and she was quick with a generous yes. She said I could post her letter and even use her name, but I have decided to refer to her instead as d just as she closes her note. I have also eliminated information about where she lives. (Hey, I’m a paranoid creature.)

Hey Aidan!

I just finished your book today and I LOVED it! I know it’s taken a while for me to finish, and I’m going to share why it’s taken so long because its so very relevant to how the book affected me. I’ll try to be brief (not because I don’t want to share– I’m an exceedingly open person so I will always elaborate– I just didn’t want to ask you to read a novel of my own, just yet So, the move to X was great and I love the city. A few weeks after starting work, I was getting ready to take time off to study for the bar (which I wasn’t that excited about since I’m even more ready than I thought to not be in the law), when my dad suddenly died. It was unexpected, so it was a lot to process and a lot to do (his affairs are a mess and it’s going to be a long time to sort things out). I wasn’t close with my dad, but had already gone to a lot of therapy to address those issues, including asking the question of whether I was okay in case he died (weird I know but my sister has crazy weird premonitions and last summer she said she thought he’d die in the next year or two). Even so, it still hit pretty hard. But I still had to study for the bar and then the MPRE, so that was pretty stressful- flying back and forth to Y with my little barbri books.

And then right after I finished the bar, I was in one of my close friend’s weddings in San Diego and I was totally caught off guard by my reaction to the father/bride dance (I played it off after a good long cry outside). And then the next day the guy I’d been seeing for the last 2 months (not terribly serious but high potential) broke things off. So, quite a lot in the last month.

I’m actually doing really well, and this weekend finally had some time, so I picked LAY back up. I think it was just what I needed. In this crazy way it tied together so many things I’m struggling with– wanting to escape the law in part because I question whether I can remain ME within it, dealing with the death of my father (who was not perfect, but was still my father), knowing it will be my mother who walks me down the aisle some day, and still looking for the person to walk towards. So, not only did I think it was brilliantly written and raw and honest in a way I don’t expect from first novels (call me a literary snob , but it touched me. And I mean it REALLY touched me. As a writer I imagine you hope to touch people and I’m hoping this is one of the highest compliments I can give you for your first of what I hope are many brilliant novels. So, thank you for writing it! I’m also so excited for you and will be recommending it left and right!

I realize this was a bit of a sad face message, but it was only so you could see how much your book meant to me. Otherwise, I am doing well– X is a great city, I’m thrilled to live near my mom and sister and nephew, I already have some great friends, I really like the people at my firm, I do yoga a ton and am still running (gearing up for a half in Moab, Utah which is supposed to be gorgeous)… so overall I really am okay. I only emphasize this because I know if I read all that, I might question whether “I really am okay” is an email message front covering a broken soul. I’m not broken– I’m just settling back in to “whelmed” from “overwhelmed” and wanted desperately to finish your book and tell you what I thought! It just happened to have taken on a very personal edge for me.

Anyway, I hope you are doing well! I see pictures of your gorgeous little girls and see you in their faces… so amazing!

xo,
d

I read these words again now. For the umpteenth time in two days. I smile and fight tears. This friend is going through so much right now, but she is also so strong, so vibrant, so d. It means the world to me that she took time from her life, her complicated life, to write these words. To tell me that my book affected her, struck something in her. This letter reminds me of many things, but two in particular: (1) We are not alone. We are all struggling with something. We all have open wounds, lost parents or lost loves, haunting personal and professional doubts, mental and physical aspirations; (2) I am writing to make people feel. This, for me, is not ultimately about sales rankings and bestseller lists and money. This is about writing words, stringing them together with heart and soul and reverence for humanity, in such a way that they might, if I succeed, touch someone else, and profoundly.

Thank you for your words and the reminders they bring, d. I love you and know you will weather this cruel storm with your trademark fortitude and grace.

_____________________________________

• Do you have any words of encouragement or wisdom for my friend d during this time?
• Do you write to make people feel? To make yourself feel?
• Are you amazed by the resilience of human beings during objectively rotten existential times?
• Do you enjoy the connections and re-connections that Facebook facilitates?

This weekend, I saw Eat, Pray, Love with Mom, Sister C, and Sister T. Admittedly, I had read only the first fifteen pages of Elizabeth Gilbert’s memoir from which the film is adapted (Toddler was a wee one then and I didn’t have an abundance of free time), but still I was excited to see it. The movie was good, the scenery was exquisite, and Julia Roberts didn’t disappoint.

At one point in the film, Roberts (who plays Gilbert on her three-stop journey of self-discovery) visits an abandoned ruin in the middle of Rome. I can’t remember the surrounding details exactly, but she says something like:

“Ruin is a gift. Ruin is the road to transformation.”

These words struck me. They struck me so powerfully that I whipped out my phone in the middle of the packed theater and jotted them down. So I could come back to them. And here I am. Coming back to them.

Gilbert’s story of self-ruin and subsequent self-transformation is stunning, but it is also extreme. After divorcing her husband she leaves all that she knows to travel and find herself. She devotes a year of her life to eating and praying and loving, all ways of exploring her own personal ruins and rebuilding her life. I can appreciate this tale, but I cannot relate to it wholly.

What I can relate to though is the more subtle idea of crumbling and creation. The notion that things must fall apart in order to come together again. The concept that chaos is where order is born. There is something immensely encouraging about these ideas.

There are times when I feel the earth shaking beneath my feet. There are moments when I detect decay – of control, of happiness, of identity. There are points in my writing when I feel like my story is shredding itself to nothing.

These times are tough. They test me.

I am realizing now, in this very moment, that these times are tiny moments of existential and creative ruin, of fertile unraveling. Maybe cracks must form for wholeness to manifest? Maybe uncertainty must reign for understanding to alight? Maybe questions must creep – through our lives and minds and stories – for answers to come?

This realization – that a good, full life entails moments of meaningful destruction and disorder, of poetic ruin and rubble – is worth more, far more, than the price of admission.

____________________

• Have you read Gilbert’s book or seen the movie? Thoughts?
  
• Do you buy the idea that ruin can be a gift?
• Have periods of transformation in your life been preceded by moments of ruin?
• Have you ever gone to a movie for fun and walked away with a shift in outlook?