The Life I imagined?

"New heaven, new earth...past the size of dreaming." - Antony & Cleopatra

  

"Is it all that you imagined?" Thus began the letter I received recently from a Reader keen to embark on her own journey of a new life in brave new world. It has taken me weeks to respond. Busyness and an overly lengthy "To Do" list aside, I have struggled to place my feelings in the right frame, the right words.

I started my response to her many times, but then ditched the effort each time, finally today, I feel I have found the word or words, and hope she will excuse this public reply to her queries...

Love. 

That is how all of this began, and love is what keeps me and this story going. Next month will be four years since I left my high-flying life in Manhattan for the bucolic British setting that is now my home - a story book English village that charms and delights me daily; where I feel safe, secure and valued. I risked everything, all I had and all that I was. 

Was it worth it? Without a doubt.

Is this life all that you imagined? 

Yes. 

And, no.

I don't have words to describe fully the frustration and isolation I have felt as I have struggled to rebuild my career here in Britain. Incredible high and gut-wrenching lows. 

I have had to fight for every little corner I have achieved. I have had to find reserves of shameless self promotion that I never knew I had. I've had to be fearless, brave and resilient. Creative and persistent. And, thick-skinned. Or - at least attempt to be thick-skinned. 

A journey such as this is not for the faint-hearted.

Depression, disappointment, anxiety and anger have all been present in full measure alongside joy, passion, laughter and love.

Love is the only thing that has got me through each and every rejection - and there have been too many to count. Every time a door has slammed firmly shut, I've retreated into the warm and open arms of my DEB.    

For this, I am thankful. For this, I live and find the strength to keep going.

There are so many things here that give me joy: family (the best in-laws in the world!), friends, community, etc. & etc. 

But, I would be lying to say that it has been easy, and not without struggle. It requires living on ones wits, straining the nerves, and surviving. The lows can be incredibly low, and hope a very distant thing. I have come to believe, quite honestly, that I have more chance of winning the National Lottery than I do of ever finding sustained and fulfilling employment in my field in this country. Seriously.

Would you do it all again? Absolutely. But, I would do it differently.

"What an amazing life you have! How can I be you?" - The young schoolteacher smiled at me broadly  at the end of a very enjoyable Shakespeare workshop I'd led with her students. Her words left me speechless. All I could do was smile back at her weakly.  If she only knew what it meant "to be me"... 

Four years on: Love is the only thing that keeps me going. 

Three years ago today

No sooner met but they look'd; 

No sooner look'd but they lov'd;  

No sooner lov'd but they sighed;

 No sooner sighed but they ask'd one another the reason; 

No sooner knew the reason but they sought the remedy:

And in these degrees have they made a pair of stairs to Marriage.

(As You Like It, V.ii.) 

It was on a bright, beautiful sunny day in May, a day very much like today, that I married my DEB in that little grey church here in Barford.
I can hardly believe it has been three years already! It was truly the happiest day of my life!
There were so many moments to cherish, and one the fondest for me was when my Darling English Boy stood before our families and friends and cited these lines from Shakespeare's As You Like It.
Without a doubt, there is truly nothing more sexy than a man who knows his Shakespeare!

Patience is a virtue

My dear friend, Patience, has impeccable timing.

This morning. A knock at our front door. A special delivery from luxury food purveyors, Fortnum & Mason. 

A lovely box set, in the classic Fortnum & Mason "almost Tiffany blue" box, and gold lettering. Twin pair bottles of champagne. 

The card, simply stated, as elegant as she: "Cheers, and lots of love, As you celebrate first Christmas as Husband and Wife!"

Her sweet, loving and thoughtful gift reaching us precisely on the date of our 7th month anniversary. 

How perfect. And what a way to start this special day.

Tomorrow is year end, and what a year it has been.

The Empress's New Clothes

Here I am, back at long last. The past few weeks have been the most glorious, heartfelt, and overwhelming of my life. I have thought long and hard about the best way to share what has transpired, and what it has meant to me. I search for words, but can find only tears. Happy ones.

To say that our wedding day was joyous is true, but does not go far enough to capture the utter joy it was. To say that the day was magic/magical, is true, but still not enough to convey the sheer magical fantastic-ness of it.

To say that it was everything I had ever wished for, dreamt of, prayed for, and imagined would all be true, but still would not go far enough to express what I feel right now.

To be sure—confirmed perfectionist that I am—there are moments I wish I could rewind and re-do somewhat differently, (who doesn’t feel that way?) but overall our wedding day was as “perfect” as it needed to be.

And I am learning, slowly, that there is something in the imperfectness and unexpectedness of life/things/people/events that is utterly human and should be valued and regarded as precious in its own, and often mysterious, way.

(I can guarantee that the concept of “perfectness” will be a recurring theme from this point on, as I have already begun to ponder the idea of what it might mean to be a “perfect wife.”)

But, for now, back to “the day”…

More than anything I was aware in a remarkable and profound way of being utterly surrounded that day by love. There was one moment, amongst so, so many, that really stands out for me.

At the end of the service, the choir sang a choral blessing (John Rutter’s very lovely ‘The Lord Bless You and Keep You”), and I swear, it felt to me as if, in that moment, the D.E.B. and I were being washed over by a sea of love and blessing, surrounded and embraced by not only all of our beloved family and friends who were present, but also by the love and good spirits those have gone on ahead of us in eternity. Bliss.

Once my head is out of the clouds I will share all the wacky and wonderful practical details such as how, yes, I did go for an early morning swim at the gym the morning of the wedding(!); and which shoes I finally settled on in the end (!!!).

For now, I am savouring my favourite moments, and replaying the scenes that felt and were indeed like a fairy tale.

Our wonderful, talented, gifted, incredible wedding photographer, Elizabeth Harper, did an amazing job of capturing our special day. She sent me some sample shots to whet my appetite, along with a note saying that our wedding seemed to her to be like a scene from a Jane Austen novel/movie, and I have to say that is exactly how it felt for me too, as it all happened…

….The absolutely perfect, crystal clear and warm (!?!) weather. (Truly, there is no day like a perfect English, summer day.)

All the smiling faces that greeted me as I entered the church…

….My handsome, gorgeous D.E.B. smiling at me as I walked down the aisle.

The choir singing “our song” – Howard Goodall’s “Vicar of Dibley” theme tune (Psalm 23), that moment could have lasted forever and it wouldn’t have been long enough! Everyone was crying. Me, the D.E.B., the vicar, the choir, the world! The lead soprano got so choked up, her voice cracked a little at one point, which just made us all cry even more!...

…Saying our vows…my turn to have my voice crack…

Standing on the altar and singing “Jerusalem”, with the Barford W.I. standing and singing in the back rows...

Speaking of W.I.!!! As the D.E.B. and I exited the church the Barford W.I. formed a guard of honor for us to walk beneath. They saluted us with long wooden spoons adorned with garlands of flowers.   

...The Church bells ringing out joyously...

Magic.

The whole day was sheer magic. Such an incredible expression of love, family and community. (And that something you can’t plan, organize or manage on theknot.com!)

Our reception at the Granville was absolutely splendid! The D.E.B.’s brother, a.k.a. The Guru, was the best Best Man, ever. His speech was all in rhyme like a Shakespeare sonnet, and he even created a Quiz.

Yes, there was a written trivia quiz during the reception! How awesome is that?! No, I didn’t win, but that’s okay. J

And the evening dance party with fabulous, (I finally fulfilled my DJ-ing fantasies!) and we danced till the wee hours.

Everyone made sure that the D.E.B. and I felt feasted, feted, hallowed, honoured and celebrated. And I do feel that something tremendous has transpired, an incredible shift in my soul and psyche. I do feel that I have changed.

The title of this posting obviously refers to that old children’s story about the Emperor who doesn’t realize he was nude. He actively ignored reality, what was staring him straight in the face, and he lacks clarity and self-awareness.

By contrast, my fairy tale is all about embracing new life, starting again, and seeing things afresh. Shedding the “old clothes” of the past, and putting on the snazzy, new garments of the future!

It has been a remarkable journey, and the D.E.B. and I have come a long way both individually and collectively. The past was not very kind to either of us, and for all our blood, sweat and tears, neither of our paths were particularly smooth.

I think of the character, Paulina’s words at the end of Shakespeare’s The Winter’s Tale, after all the trials and hardships the lovers have all endured, finally to win their crowns of love and wedded bliss at the end of the play, she says: “You are precious winners all!”

Funnily enough, the D.E.B and I are very like the characters in The Winter’s Tale, who take 16 long years to get their relationships/lives together, in that it has taken me and the D.E.B. 13 years from the time we first met, to get from there to here.

What a journey it has been. We both had to kiss a few frogs before we found our Prince/Princess Charming, but the good news is that dreams do come true. We finally reached the happy ending. 

Morning has broken

“To,” Eva began, using the Polish word for this. Pointing to my tired and Monday-ish reflection in the mirror, she continued, “This, is one thing you can control.” Eva was not taking any rubbish off me today, so without protest I mounted the treadmill.

Eva kept a watchful eye as I huffed and puffed, she wandered by periodically to check the treadmill controls, moving the “Difficulty Level” up ever so slightly.  

Cursing her, and all the carbs I’d allowed myself over the weekend, I trotted to the completely non-motivational sounds of Celine Dion, who is still being played in heavy rotation during Eva’s shifts. 

Towards the end of my treadmill gallop, an elderly couple came into the gym. I recognized the man immediately as he walked through the door. There is a photograph of him on the gym wall near the treadmills.

The photograph is a picture of him and his wife, at one of the gym’s wine and cheese evenings. In the picture, they are sitting close together, laughing, and beaming matching cheeky grins. The photo was taken two years ago.

Although the man appeared much the same as he did in the photograph, the woman had changed dramatically. Her bubbly image in the photo contrasted starkly with the vacant and tentative figure I saw before me. 

The moment the couple crossed the threshold, Eva leapt from her seat behind the desk, and rushed round to greet them gleefully.  There was something incredibly adorable about them, and I could tell Eva loved them dearly.

After my medieval torture session in the gym, I always treat myself to a swim. The Elderly Man greeted me as he stepped into the pool. “Good morning. How are you?” I said. “I’ll be better once Joanie’s in the pool,” he said, watching his wife anxiously through the glass wall that stands between the pool and the gym.

He had left Joanie in the gym briefly, to work on the rowing machine, the piece of equipment closest to the glass wall, and the pool effectively. Finding her absence unbearable, he lifted his torso out of the pool, and tapped lightly on the glass wall, “Come on, love. That’s enough. Come on in.” he said with a smile.

Joanie made her way to the pool area slowly, and sat down in one of the poolside chairs. “That’s a girl,” the man said to her softly as he got out of the pool near her. He then knelt down in front of her, and began to untie her shoes.

“The water’s lovely today,” he said looking up at her, and a slight smile crept across her face. He then helped her out of her track-suit, and moved her gingerly into the pool.

As a pseudo-serious swimmer, my worst nightmare is sharing my precious swim time in my tiny gym pool with canoodling couples (and kids on half-term break). But this couple was different, and I was happy to give them as much space as they needed in which to canoodle.

At one point the man gathered his wife in his arms and gave her a big kiss, to which she giggled and blushed. We all laughed. “Wonderful!” I exclaimed. “How long have you been married?” I asked. “Forty-six years.” The man beamed proudly. (That’s longer than I’ve been alive.) “I’d have only got 20 years for murder,” he said with a huge guffaw.

“What’s the secret?” I asked. “Simple,” he said. “Give and take. I give, she takes!” At this, we all laughed. But joking aside, there is no doubt that great love is their secret.

I left them in pool, and sat alone in the steam room. I found myself crying, moved ever so deeply by that couple, their tenderness with each other, and the realization that all my cares and obsessions about the wedding are just ridiculous.

I had another wake-up call on Sunday. One Sunday evening, the D.E.B. and I were invited over to his brother’s for dinner. The D.E.B’s brother, a.k.a. “The Guru,” is a fabulous cook, and even more fabulous host.

With my Shakespearean sensibilities, I imagine The Guru having been, in a former life, a benevolent, feudal lord of a great manor, hosting sumptuous feasts and riotous banquets with large flagons of overflowing wine, and madcap jesters and roving musicians entertaining his well-fed guests.

On this occasion, apart from eating far too much gorgeous venison, and drinking far too much red wine, I was overcome by the sense of family. Such an incredible feeling: warmth, love and welcome.  A privilege and a gift.  And ultimately, that is what it is all about.

At one point in the evening, The Guru said: “You’re alive, enjoy it.” How right he is.

Pink celery

Today, I discovered the English delicacy that is “Rhubarb.”  I will confess that my interest in this quintessential English dietary anchor was not motivated purely by cultural or culinary curiosity. I needed to offer the D.E.B. a “peace offering” and I recalled that his favo(u)rite childhood pudding/dessert was his mum’s 'Rhubarb Crumble'.

I needed to apologise for a recent outburst. As noted in “Bridal Breakdown #4-6,” my sense of humour is not these days what it should be. I find myself getting very heated over very, very minute and meaningless things. Thankfully, the D.E.B. is very loving, forgiving and still wants to marry me in spite of it all.

Here is the rub. The D.E.B. and I are very similar creatures, almost too similar in fact. Allow me to explain...

When I was six years old, I asked for a twin. Christmas morning came, and nothing, neither the brand, new “Easy Bake Oven,” nor the Walt Disney "Tinkerbell" costume—complete with magic wand—could allay my severe and heartfelt disappointment.

“I asked for a twin.” I said unequivocally, gossamer wings drooping slightly. “One day, when you’re older, we’ll explain why that wasn’t possible,” my mother said softly, as she poured smooth cake batter into one of those tiny, aluminum baking tins.

Lo, and behold, my prayers have finally been answered! Well, sort of. Metaphorically, at any rate. The DEB and I share the same birthday: the same day, though not the same year. 

I have never been heavily into astrology, although I do believe some of it has to be true. I have never met a Scorpio who didn’t have a sting, nor have I ever met an Aquarius who wasn’t mellow.

So, true to form as resplendent, noble Leos, the D.E.B. and I feel things quite deeply, the sunny, majestic leonine exterior belying the easily wounded fluffy kitty beneath the surface. We are quite equally matched in our capacity for brooding and sulking in silence.

But thankfully, we are also equally matched in our capacity for forgiveness, unconditional love and affection. With or without the “pink celery.”

p.s. Very proud of my first and very successful first attempt at “Rhubarb and Stawberry Crumble”! The D.E.B. loved it!! "Just like mum made." Found a super easy recipe online by Annabel Karmel. Sooo pretty and pink. Gorgeous combination of rhubarb and strawberries.

Wet day in November

Thursday, 13 November 2008

Wet, November days have always been a sort of gage for me.  Whenever I’ve been faced with a major, life decision, I always stop and ask myself: “How will you feel about this on a wet day in November?” So here I am on a cold, wet day in November reflecting upon the choices I have made. Okay, not exactly reflecting, as much as sulking.

I spent the morning sulking in bed, after making the firm decision—wet day or no—to stay in bed and sleep my life away. But, I suddenly sprung to my feet at 9:00 AM, lest I risked the danger of becoming with the British call a “lay about.” Although, I think I have good cause to lay about today.  

I didn’t get “the call.” During my interview on Tuesday, I was informed that: “the successful candidate will receive a phone call within the next 24 hours, the rest of the candidates will receive a letter informing them of their status, in about 7-10 days.”  May I just say, it seems to me to be a bit of a waste time, energy and paper to send out letters to all of us losers, since we will (obviously) have a very clear indication of “our status” when we our phones remain silent.

And silent my phone remained. Except for the calls I received from the D.E.B., and the Lost and Found Office at the Stratford-upon-Avon Bus Depot. In the flurry of my interview day, I left my cute, pink, Motorola flip-phone on the X18 Stagecoach from Barford to Stratford. Apparently, there are no Good Samaritans left in all of South Warwickshire, and my phone has not be handed in. Just one of my many joys of Big Pearls & Cashmere Tuesday...

I spent all of Wednesday (yesterday) waiting. And waiting. I wanted the call to come, and I didn’t want the call to come. As the afternoon waned it became a matter of strident pride: “How dare they not call! How dare they not pick me?!”

The D.E.B. has done his best to keep my spirits up. Tuesday night, he took me up to The Granville my favourite restaurant these days, “for a meal” to congratulate me on my interview. Yesterday, when it became clear that “the call” had not, and would not come, he left work early, and phoned me from the car to find out if I needed him to collect “a bucket of chicken” from KFC on his way home. (He knows me.)

The bucket of chicken was not needed yesterday– though I think I may need it tonight. To avoid sitting, quite literally, by the phone, I busied myself by doing laundry, hoovering and cooking.  I was fine, I told myself, in the midst of my cleaning frenzy. But the minute the D.E.B. walked in, I fell to pieces. Little, tiny, broken pieces, that he gathered up, gently, and put back together.

It was a night of comfort and treats. I'd made a huge vat of Sicilian sausage pasta, enough to feed the entire village, that went down beautifully with the Chartreuse de Bonpas the D.E.B. had brought home for us. After dinner, there were “pressies” a gift set of Champney’s spa collection, my new favo(u)rite bath and beauty products. (Their ‘rose’ stuff is to die for.) And a night out on the town to see the new James Bond film! And at proper cinema! The D.E.B. booked my favourite seats (dead centre, close, but not too close, to the front), ordered luscious, Brazilian red wine in the cinema bar, and insured that I had chocolate, and the largest bucket of popcorn available. (It’s all about the popcorn.) And the movie was fabulous! Daniel Craig is growing on me, and is slowly winning me over as a convincing Bond. 

In all, a wonderfully restorative evening, topped off by the D.E.B. whispering the words: “I think you might need to be ravished,” as he led me up the stairs. The only thing better than a bucket of chicken for a sad girl on wet November day.

Lazy Sunday

Having a lazy Sunday morning, listening to Classic FM. 

D.E.B. up and out early -- no lazy lie-in together for us today. The Darling English Boy is in the studio this morning, recording a demo CD with musician pal, Ewan. D.E.B. and Ewan have formed a folk duo, part-time only, just a hobby at this point. They are quite good in fact. Went along and heard them at the Warwick Folk Club, the other week. That was fun! 

So, I find myself at home alone with "the furry girls" (Lucy & Lily).  I am in fact pleased to have a bit of "me" time. Its been quite a hectic week. Okay, not anywhere near NYC-hectic, but hectic for me nonetheless.

I received a call from the Shakespeare Birthplace Trust on Thursday afternoon offering me my first lecturing gig with them. A bit of short notice as they needed me to fill in for a lecture on Saturday morning.  Yikes, I thought. Thankfully, a lecture on the performance history of A Midsummer Night's Dream was all that was needed. A joy for me, really. I am completely at home with the material, my angst was centered/centred on the logistics. It was a question of prep time -- always a dilemma for me.  Prior to getting "The Call," I had planned to spend my Friday at the Throckmorton Literary Festival at Coughton Court. I was dying to go along to the Festival as it looked to be an extraordinary event, and a chance for a bit of research for the new idea for a novel that is currently rolling around my head. The question was whether I would forego the "research" visit to Coughton Court, in favor of prepping for the Dream lecture. This dilemma was/is far more existential than it seems. At the moment, in the midst of this new and exciting life, I am routinely pulling myself in two directions. 

As an academic, I have written and published a number of "scholarly" works. Basically, three (3) very good, learned, and highly over-priced books that few people have read, and even fewer have bought.  And like most academics, I have dreams, hopes and ambitions beyond that. As I told the D.E.B. when he first offered this incredible opportunity to me to have the space and time to "rediscover myself as a writer," I said to him: "Let me just assure you, I am not sitting on the next Harry Potter..." (To which he just smiled "that smile," and hugged me.) But, I do have a story inside my head that I really want to tell. And, as J. K. Rowling once said, oh, so, wisely, I think, all one must do is: "Believe in your story." Whether anyone else will believe it, or believe in it, is of course another very significant matter to contemplate, but I think Rowling is right to suggest that that initial belief and commitment to ones own idea/dream, etc. is vital. However, while I am taking these tentative steps into the "real writers" writerly world, I can hear the serious, uptight, respectful voice of academe crying out: "But is it scholarship? Is it tripe?" and, "What a waste of a first-class education!"

To be honest, it does feel like "play" -- my dreams of writing fiction. And surely, at my age, at this point in my career, I should be doing more "meaningful" work. But, its funny isn't it? How the word 'meaningful' changes over time. I have worked very hard over the years. I worked my way through graduate school temp-ing, waitressing, whatever I could find. And comforted myself with my lofty and "meaningful" goals. I was then lucky enough to score some freelance teaching gigs, built my resume, got my Ph.D. and tah-dah! Academe! But something was missing. There was a place inside me that no matter how much joy I gleaned from teaching -- and joy I did glean, daily. And God, I did and do love my students, each and every one! -- but there was what felt like a hole in my soul. A feeling that I was not and had not been utterly true to myself. But I stayed on the treadmill, kept running the race, the years trickled by and "the hole" just got bigger and bigger. Then, the classic female dilemma: family or career? Biological clock, and so forth. Then, again, the classic life dilemma: do what you love, or shoot for success -- as often these two are not the same thing. 

As my 39th year loomed in the distance, I feared my destiny had been set. I would end up alone, and disappointed, single, but successful in the City. But all of the changed, in a heartbeat. As sickeningly sweet, the English would say "twee," as it sounds, love changed everything. Yes, it is a huge gamble. As friends and family have (and continue to) lovingly remind me, I have taken a unimaginable risk in packing in my job, packing up my life, and moving to England on a promise of love. But, what is life without risk?  

 

Living on the edge, as I now do, I decided to follow my gut/heart and spend Friday at Coughton Court. And what a day it was! Difficult to explain here, but I had what I'd like to think is a "writer's instinct" that I would be inspired by the surroundings at Coughton Court for the story I want to write, and I was absolutely right!!!! And I met some fabulous people there to boot. Excellent, excellent day. Research, of a very different and interactive kind. 

Came home, completely exhausted, didn't get started on my lecture prep until around 9 PM on Friday night. Yikes, again! Panic set in almost immediately. What was I thinking! Pratting around Coughton Court all day when I should have been prepping...I burned the midnight oil, got the lecture together, and then tried unsuccessfully to sleep. D.E.B. woke me at 7:00 AM with a cup of tea on my bedside table, just as I had drifted off to sleep. Darling that he is, he rushed about taking care of the "livestock" and cooking breakfast as I fretted about what to wear. I entered the kitchen to be showered with much-needed praise, and was handed a fresh cup of tea and a hot bacon buttie (sandwich). The poor boy had no idea that at this point the very thought of food had me on the brink of hurling. He then drove me into Stratford-upon-Avon and dropped me off at Starbucks (Yes! There is one!). As I walked down Henley Street with my Grande Soy Latte in hand, I realized I was going to be okay. I also realized  -- and not at all in an arrogrant way --  that I probably have forgotten more about Shakespeare and A Midsummer Night's Dream than these kids will ever know. (Okay, most of it is probably just useless information and mindless trivia, but still.) 

So, as it turned out my first lecture for The Trust was for a delightful group of "Drama Majors" from the Midwest. Sassy Americans. Excellent. Just my sort of crowd. They were warm, attentive, engaging and receptive. Of course, it is, as they say, like riding a bicycle. And I really like this bicycle, it's all new, red and shiny!

The reason why ...

My Darling English Boy

(hereafter referred to as D.E.B.)