Thursday, May 9, 2024

In Pursuit of Magic

cheryloreglia

May 9

I saw this on a morning walk in New York City

Bryan Walsh says that raising kids is one long experience of loss, and I have to admit, that statement made me squirm. What the hell?

I loved raising my kids—all those sleepless nights, mingled with those sweet little faces who I grew in my own body, the temper tantrums that rolled seamlessly into prepubescent angst, the overnight metamorphosis from pimply teenager to adult, and then watching them take on this life with the joy and gusto of a pack of coyotes.

They were and are my heart's delight, the answer to all my dreams, and the reason my head turns towards anyone who yells, "Mom."

It's an irreversible condition.

Walsh explains his theory of loss, "We lost the 1-year-old with his arms outstretched to be picked up, the 4-year-old bravely marching to his first day of preschool, the 6-year-old who just wants to snuggle on the couch and watch Bluey."

Sob.

I would have to add we lost the 12-year-olds to a gaggle of peers, the 16-year-olds to a dented green Bronco, and the 30-year-olds to the world so they could explore it on their own terms, flying in and out of our lives mercilessly taunting us with their youthful politics, reimaged faith, and unique perspectives.

Oh, but life is so much more interesting because of them, more dense and flavorful like an everything bagel with cream cheese. But here's the good news: they're continually replaced by new and intriguing versions of themselves. In fact, they are the most fascinating people I have ever known.

Every time I land in the enchanting world of Portugal to visit Tony and Thality, step onto the bustling streets of New York City for some time with Tim and Kelley, walk down the hall to see Dante or across the street for Julie, Nic, Audrey, Cora, and Sienna, I am greeted by new creations of my own making. Maybe this is the nature of life—a perpetual form of change that we are forced to constantly adapt to and yet treasure before the moment has a chance to pass, and the magic of life pulls me in a new direction.

Larry and I have been on a whirlwind vacation, cycling the shores of the Douro Valley, walking the familiar streets of Lisbon, and experiencing the noise and energy of New York City. We've never traveled for this length of time in our entire lives, but we've also never been retired and never had the opportunity to pursue the bits of our hearts anchored around the world. It's as if we've been given permission to become vagrants; after being released from the chains of obligation, family, and work, a new sense of freedom has emerged. We are becoming accustomed to taking up our symbolic vehicle and riding away from it all.

Here's what I'm learning about myself.

I want to buy a house wherever I am, especially an abandoned chateau in Portugal, because I fell in love with the idea of living along the tiered landscape of the Douro Valley, overlooking the quaint river below, watching the sunset, and crushing grapes with my bare feet.
I want to spend a month in Lisbon, dragging Tony and Thalita on weekend trips from one end of the country to the other, eating at the chicken place every week, walking to Cascais along the shore, trying to understand the brilliance of Henry the Navigator, and sipping wine at the sunset bar.
I want to sublet an apartment on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, go to the theater every week, shop in the Soho district, walk Central Park in the crisp morning, go to baseball games, explore the Botanic Gardens over and over again, visit museums, eat bagels at Zabar's, try every pizza parlor in Midtown, have coffee with LA whenever I want, and sip martinis at Owls with Kelley and Tim.
I could sit and watch people all day, conjuring up an imagined life for every single one of them, but it is always a relief to return to my own.
When I don't know the language of the people around me, and I'm not familiar with the landscape or the culture, I am put in a position where I have no delusions of control. This is when I feel most alive, as if I have to be on high alert all the time just to survive. I never feel this way at home.
I like to be out on the tandem in the early morning with Larry, gliding down new streets and through charming towns. I like to feel the wind in my hair and the ache of my straining muscles, but also the endorphins that kick in after we summit a challenging mountain. It's an exquisite way to see the world.
I'll admit this to you: I feel the gravitational pull of home whenever I am gone because I miss the way the light flows into the rooms, how the floors feel in my bare feet, the sounds of the birds in the morning, the softness of my pillow, the way our garden grows, and the roses bloom, and especially the plethora of friends and family who gather on our patio for food, wine, and companionship.
I don't like it, but I finally realize that love liberates. Maya Angelou warns us that love does not hold—that's ego, she says. Love does not bind. The truth is I'll love you if you're in Portugal. I'll love you if you're in New York. I'll love you if you're across the street or in the room down the hall. She follows this with, "I would like to be near you. I'd like to have your arms around me. I'd like to hear your voice in my ear. But that's not possible now, so I love you. Go."
That is the perfect summary of the attitude I hope to adopt someday. It's true. I no longer long for the past. I might be nostalgic about the version I choose to remember, but I never want to go back in time or stray too far from today. Because the present moment is truly all we have, and I want to enjoy the time I have left in this magical world. Traveling is such a privilege, but so is coming home to the familiar, that place that is so steeped with memory, love, struggle, and pleasure that I can not tease apart what was from what is and what is yet to come.

Can I just say jet lag is a real thing? I might be home, but I left my internal time clock far behind, and now all I want to do is sleep. There is a deep sense of belonging here: coffee with Nancy in the early morning, food shopping with Dante for family dinner, sorting through a week's worth of dirty laundry, and watering my thirsty plants. The remnants of travel lay about the house, the suitcases, the souvenirs, and those little memories that make me smile while I'm brushing my teeth.

It feels as if all our journeys have a secret destination, but it is not a location or something we can check off our bucket list. It is the deep and permanent changes that happen in the wake of any experience, whether it be motherhood, travel, or confronting the unknown. For me, travel feels a little like being on a hero's journey. You know what I mean? You have to overcome unexpected challenges, you're forced to grow, damn it, and when you return to share the tale of your journey, you change those you encounter because the person who returns is never the same as the one who left.

It's a paradox, like love; we want to preserve the moment, but that is impossible because life is just a continual process of passing through. I am the worst. I try and hold on to everything and everyone I've ever met. I would hoard experiences and time if that were possible, but they defy ownership.

The truth is hope comes from loss: the loss of the child as the adult emerges, the loss of the thing we wanted with our entire being only to be replaced by something we did not have the ability to envision, the loss after any climatic experience when the soul is saturated with an elusive sense of satisfaction, but that too shall pass, and you will be tempted again and again to pursue the magical pinnacles of life.