I'm sure you've heard about the site: www.iwl.me ("I write like")
I first heard it on NPR and thought it would be fun. Using mostly posts from this blog, I write most like...
-Dan Brown
-H.P. Lovecraft (eek!)
-Gertrude Stein
Others of mention:
-Ernest Hemingway (I'm pretty sure most poetry is defaulted to him)
-Douglas Adams
-James Joyce
-Cory Doctrow
Try it out! Who do you write like?
Friday, August 6, 2010
Thursday, August 5, 2010
To know and be known.
Losing a loved one has been on my mind since last night. Hubby and I were reminiscing about the past three years of marriage (our anniversary is today) and we starting talking about the things we wished we could get as anniversary presents, but would be absolutely impossible. After Thomas threw my “Kitchen Aid mixer” into the category, he had a more serious moment and said, “I wish I could talk to my Grandparents.” All of his grandparents have passed away over the past couple of years and were an especially central part of Hubby’s life. We both sat in silence, lost in memories for a few minutes, honoring and missing their special connectedness to him. And though we let the moment pass, and moved on to other things, I’ve been letting it linger in my thoughts since.
I have amazing grandparents who are still living--who have been married to each other their entire adult lives. And in combination with my reflection this anniversary day, I wonder about the breadth of knowing someone. You know your friends and family in different ways. I knew my childhood best friend in a way that no one else will ever know her. We grew up together and spent countless hours doing nothing at all and at the same time-- everything in the world we could get our hands on. I’ll know my grandparents and parents in their unique ways of being known, of idling and productivity, of baking and cleaning, of sitting and gaming. And I’ll know my present and future friends in other unpredictable ways.
But when I think of the breadth of knowing people, I often think of the chasm that would inhabit me if they left. How would I be different if “so and so” hadn’t been in my life? Married women are notorious for pondering these things about their husbands. But, today riffed on this traditional pattern and started to consider how I would be different, not if they hadn’t left their mark on me, but if I hadn’t let myself be known to them.
To know, and be known. And as I thought about that eventual day when I will be confronted with the loss of my mother, I realized that no one will ever know me in the way she does. And the thought of losing her is not only the thought of her presence and her smile, and her spontaneity (with all its quirks), but it’s the sobering thought of losing who she allows me to be, how she changes me by expecting boundaries to be torn down. In losing someone else, we lose some of ourselves.
So, for me, this anniversary, I am thankful for the years approaching, and the years behind us, where we allow ourselves to be known and to grow in our knowing of each other in those special ways in which we will entrust no one else.
I love you always, dearest husband of mine.
I have amazing grandparents who are still living--who have been married to each other their entire adult lives. And in combination with my reflection this anniversary day, I wonder about the breadth of knowing someone. You know your friends and family in different ways. I knew my childhood best friend in a way that no one else will ever know her. We grew up together and spent countless hours doing nothing at all and at the same time-- everything in the world we could get our hands on. I’ll know my grandparents and parents in their unique ways of being known, of idling and productivity, of baking and cleaning, of sitting and gaming. And I’ll know my present and future friends in other unpredictable ways.
But when I think of the breadth of knowing people, I often think of the chasm that would inhabit me if they left. How would I be different if “so and so” hadn’t been in my life? Married women are notorious for pondering these things about their husbands. But, today riffed on this traditional pattern and started to consider how I would be different, not if they hadn’t left their mark on me, but if I hadn’t let myself be known to them.
To know, and be known. And as I thought about that eventual day when I will be confronted with the loss of my mother, I realized that no one will ever know me in the way she does. And the thought of losing her is not only the thought of her presence and her smile, and her spontaneity (with all its quirks), but it’s the sobering thought of losing who she allows me to be, how she changes me by expecting boundaries to be torn down. In losing someone else, we lose some of ourselves.
So, for me, this anniversary, I am thankful for the years approaching, and the years behind us, where we allow ourselves to be known and to grow in our knowing of each other in those special ways in which we will entrust no one else.
I love you always, dearest husband of mine.
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