Wednesday, August 18, 2010

We watched a documentary tonight, No Impact Man. It is about a writer who, along with his wife and daughter, sets out to live a full year without creating trash, without causing carbon emissions, etc. They compost, they bike, they make their own soap. They eat locally grown foods. The project itself is daunting and impressive if not impractical for most people, and the family is unwittingly bourgie at best and obliviously pretentious at worst. At the end of the film the two things that stayed with me were, I suppose, not really the "take aways" the project had intended. Alas, these were mine.

There is a scene in the film that is so touching. Tonight was the second time I've seen the film, and it still struck something inside of me; the first time, I teared up. For those of you who know me, you know this is rare. I don't cry during movies, especially if the scene involves humans. If a dog dies, forget it, I'm done for, but otherwise, I can appreciate it, aloof and unaffected. Yet something about this scene stays with me. It is toward the end of the film, the wife is burned out on the project, all of her creature comforts, and what most Americans have come to regard as basic needs, taken from her or greatly modified. She hears her husband and their toddler daughter in the bathroom, making a lot of noise. She's rolling her eyes, exhausted, and shuffles into the bathroom, to find them standing in a bath tub full of home made laundry soap and clothes, stomping on them to wash them. At first her face reads, "I'm going to kill you for putting me through this" ...then, something changes. She gets in the tub with them and they're all stomping, and they start giggling, and there is this amazing moment where the husband and wife lok at one another over their daughter's head and laugh, kiss, and share those eyes that only a couple that has been together a while shares.

When I first saw this film, I was going through my divorce. I think I was longing for connection, for family, for a sense of stability, and that scene spoke to that for me. I missed looking into someone's eyes and knowing what their eyes were saying. I missed being pissed off about small things and then being reminded that they don't matter because at the end of the day, I have this amazing human being who I stomp on laundry with, who also chooses to come home every night to stomp on laundry with me. He chose me! A person you think the world of thinks the same of you. Incredible.

Of course, that wasn't what had been happening in my marriage, or it wouldn't have ended. I was getting pissed, and staying pissed, at the beginning and the end of the day. I had convinced myself that most people felt that way. But then I kept seeing evidence to the contrary: my fathers who have been together for 25 years this October and are so in love with one another it is tangible in their home; my mother and stepfather who move around one another in the kitchen as if it is some ancient tribal dance that they've been doing their entire lives; and, this couple, pants rolled up and kissing in a bath full of dirty laundry and Borax. I wanted that. I felt cheated because hadn't I gone through all the motions? Met a boy, loved him, married him? I had done these things yet never felt that joy. I wanted that joy so badly.

Tonight, of course, there is no pretty bow to tie this up with, no "And this time while watching it, I did have that sort of joy!" I do have joy, and love. I love a man and he loves me, and it baffles me; not in a self-deprecating way, but in that awe of my luck, that someone I find so endlessly fascinating chooses to spend a majority of his time around me. This is a happy surprise. This is a welcomed development. And while we're not stomping laundry together quite yet, or sharing a look that is fueled by years of tears and fears and broken promises and perfect brithday gifts, there is an understanding of that feeling, a kernel, if just the simple knowledge that yes, love is joyful.

Toward the end of the film, the man is talking about the community garden he took part in. He talks about the project coming to the end of its year, and how amazing it has been to be more connected to the earth, and really seeing the seasons change. I think of all the markers of the seasons: Halloween candy out? It must be late September! Christmas decorations? Probably end of October. Et cetera. But for a year he saw what the earth would yield at different times for him to eat, and he appreciated it in a new way.

This time last year began it all. It was this time last year that I was spiraling desperately, so sad I couldn't breathe under it all, and I decided the best thing for both of us was to let it go. I wrote about it, and in one of the many poems I wrote, I spoke of the flowers that come this time of year. I had spent a lot of time walking the dogs to get out of the house. I would notice the tiny Chicago yards and gardens on these long walks. Last August, I was particularly taken with sunflowers and black-eyed susans. I started doing some writing exercises, and one of them was a free association word game. I chose these two flowers. From sunflower I got buxom, ripe, full, knowledgable, alive, laughter, wise. For black-eyed susans, I got young, petite, inquisitive, giggle, innocent. I think the similarity in color and the vast difference in size helped to set up this dichotomy, this yin and yang for me.

After an interesting year, I am reminded of last August, one year ago, as I saw my first sunflower of the season today. I had been seeing black-eyed susans for a month or so, and I kept holding my breath, waiting for the sunflowers. Here they are. They are blooming again, it is August again, and I am alright, I made it, I saw the earth turn. I saw myself turn.

I'm feeling the incredible impact.