The Comforts of Snow

Last weekend, as I finished up grading final papers and exams, the snow began to fall. That last stage of the semester is a kind of turning inward anyway; the snow made me feel even more like I was tucked into a quiet place where I could focus just on the task in front of me, instead of juggling the many that usually confront me.

During breaks from grading, Marilyn and I watched one of our favorite movies, White Christmas.

These photos were taken on Saturday morning from inside our house.

Early the next week, after I had submitted final grades and the sun had come out again, I went for a walk in the neighborhood.

Towards equality

On November 20, Governor Quinn signed into law the bill that will bring marriage equality to Illinois. On June 1, 2014, three years after our civil union, eight years after our commitment ceremony, and fifteen years into our relationship, Marilyn and I will be able to apply for a marriage license as a same-sex couple. We will finally be treated as equals in our own state.  And the federal government will recognize our marriage, too.

I feel a range of emotions when I think of this progress: relief and joy that we have come this far; anger that the struggle existed at all, that my fellow citizens took this long to decide we are worthy; and sadness for those who died before this new law, leaving behind survivors who were never recognized as family by the state, and therefore will never receive the financial benefits.

Overall, though, November was a month to celebrate progress towards equality.  Below is a series of photos that chronicles the celebration.

On Tuesday, November 5, Marilyn and I followed the Illinois House debate online, looking for updates.  That afternoon, I was getting ready to grade papers and had just ordered a decaf Americano at the neighborhood coffee shop when this text from Marilyn came through: my first--and I hope, only, proposal of marriage.  It was all so exciting, I wanted to tell someone.  But I wasn't sure of the barista's views, so I didn't say anything while still at the counter.  In minutes, though, I was online, sharing the joy with friends.

This graphic was all over Facebook, and soon it was my profile photo.

Marilyn had said that morning, "If the bill passes, we have to have wedding cake."  That evening, she went to the bakery that had designed our commitment ceremony cake, a towering affair, and got this "wedding white" cake.  The proprietor, who recognized Marilyn, offered to write on it.  When I posted this photo on Facebook, we received dozens of messages of congratulations.

This was the front page of our local paper the next morning. It's striking how a newspaper headline can make progress seem more real.  

The Unitarian Universalist (UU) church we belong to had a celebration that weekend.  I took these cookies--quartered because they were so large--to the rainbow-themed potluck at the church.  

This was the cake made by the organizers of the celebration, who are among those who have lobbied for equal rights for gays and lesbians.  We feel so fortunate to belong to a church that works proactively for justice and equality.

When the newspaper did a story on the local response, our minister was interviewed and was on the front page.

The altar decorations that Sunday celebrated the marriage equality victory.  This is the sanctuary where we had our commitment ceremony in 2006.

Those are candles of joy and concern, lit silently during the service.  One of the few spoken joys submitted that day was about the bill being passed.

It's official.  And still a little amazing.

All lit up in November

Today is Diwali, the Hindu festival of lights. We will light candles tonight to take the place of diyas, the traditional clay lamps.

Looking out this sunny morning, I see a different kind of light: the trees aglow in fall color. Their flaming colors are perfect for Diwali.

Here are some photos I've taken with my phone the past two days.  May the light of Diwali and of this fall be with you throughout the year.

Flying Home

Last Labor Day, we flew back from a quick visit to Marilyn's sister in Virginia.  As we took off from Chicago, where we changed planes, and headed home to Champaign, I took these photos. 

When I moved to east central Illinois sixteen years ago, I was struck by the vastness.  Seeing the sun rise over cornfields from the window of my study startled me and left me lonely.  I was still new to the Midwest and felt exposed in the openness; I missed the embrace of the Pennsylvania valley I had left behind.  

Now, I look forward to the big sky and the view of the horizon.  This flatland is home.

When Someone Dies Young

                       

                        Today I thought about how everyone I know

                        is sad, how amazing that the forests and deserts

                        and plains can hold us as we get up and walk

                        from one season to the next.

  --From the poem “Sadness in Spring” by RobinBecker

Yesterday, a thirty-six-year-old woman who loved life and loved her young son even more died from cancer.  And I thought once again how final death is.  We can’t rewind to before, no matter how much we might want to. 

And we usually want to.  We want to ask questions.  We want to hear a familiar voice.  We want to show our love.  Did they know, we wonder, that we loved them?  Did we tell them often enough?  Those questions are clichéd--because they are so commonly asked. 

The young woman who died, Jennifer Arnold Smith, was a colleague of mine before her illness changed her life.  Jen knew for years that her death was nearer than it should have been. She fought it, looked for treatments, but she knew it was likely she would die soon.  So she lived.  In the time she had, she really, really lived.  She called it “living legendary.”  She wrote and self-published two books.  She told her story.  She supported others with cancer.  She went on trips and talk shows.  A year ago, she took her son to school on his first day of kindergarten; she had wanted to see that day, and she made the most of it when it came.  A week before she died, she gave her son an early birthday present, a motorized scooter that made his eyes open wide.

When my brother-in-law Mo died by suicide this past summer, I thought of Jen, fighting to live.  Jen wanted more time, more life.  Mo was done.   He could not tolerate life anymore.  I wished they could have traded.  I wished he could have given her the years he had left, and she could have given him a way to go.  If only it could work like that. 

I miss them both, Jen's lively spirit, Mo's sense of humor, both their gorgeous smiles.  And I have no choice but to say goodbye to them both. 

Kay Ryan, in her poem “Things Shouldn’t be so Hard,” writes,

“And when life stops,

a certain space—

however small—

should be left scarred

by the grand and

damaging parade.”

Mo and Jen leave their marks on us and on our world.  And we feel them.

Busy Bees on the Prairie

We walked in the prairie on Sunday afternoon and met these bees in the midst of the thistle and goldenrod. 

Baking on a Saturday

After a sleepless Friday night worrying about how I would juggle writing a conference paper with prepping and grading for my composition and poetry classes, I knew what I had to do on Saturday. 

I pulled out the old, steel mixing bowl and my favorite wooden spoon. I measured flour and whisked egg whites and rinsed raspberries. Soon my fingers smelled of lemon zest, and the kitchen of vanilla and warmth. 

Later, my shoulders relaxed in the September sunshine as Marilyn and I bit into muffins and listened to the ruckus of the birds in the trees. 

When I came in to wash the bowls and measuring cups, I knew I'd sleep well that night. 

Last Weekend in Three Photos

On Friday evening, entering the mall to run errands, I noticed this sign.   I immediately read it as, "One world separates," and thought, sarcastically, "Partition--at a discount!"  I have been transcribing interviews with family members who experienced the 1947 Partition of India, so the Partition has been on my mind a lot.

Crossing the street in Chicago on Saturday afternoon to attend a performance of The Book of Mormon, I looked up and saw this huge sign (a 2011 piece by Kay Rosen).  After watching the musical about missionaries in Uganda, I thought again about the idea of "doing good" for others.  What do we intend?  And what actually happens?

On Sunday morning, I read the paper on the deck, a favorite weekend ritual.  When I got up to go in, I looked down at the table and saw this.