Things Keep Breaking

I seriously love this old, ramshackle apartment. It’s cozy and vintage and it feels exactly like home. But the downside to all that vintage is the way things seem to keep falling apart. The sink is leaky, the cabinet is crooked, and a couple days ago, one of the legs on the bathroom vanity came off. A little part of me went, Ugh! When will things just be perfect so that I can finally enjoy living here?

You know how much I love a good metaphor. This one is hitting me hard today. Things break. Things fall apart. That’s what they do. The car will break. The car will be fixed. It will break again. School will get harder and then easier and then harder again. Money will flow and get tighter and flow again. We’ll get sick again and well again. I could spend the rest of my life waiting for things to stop breaking and start being perfect. And I’ll be waiting a long time.

I keep breaking and am bound up again. Maybe this is what they mean when they say you should live in the moment. I am looking for the joy in the broken. It’s here. Can you see it? 

love, elizabeth

the formation of giant star clusters or how Elizabeth got a peaceful feeling

Source: torebunia.pl via Elise on Pinterest

 

I was listening to National Public Radio yesterday, partly because it was Science Friday and partly because I am secretly ninety-years old.

And while I’m not the science-iest of ladies, I was fascinated by this report on this gigantic new star formation called the Phoenix Cluster that’s been discovered in a galaxy far, far away. When they first started talking, I thought, “Ew, astronomy, not my fave,” but as I reached my hand  up to the car radio dial, the MIT fellow they were interviewing said, “All that a star needs to form is some cold gasses and to be left alone for awhile.” Obviously he went on to explain that it’s actually way more complicated than that (there’s like some gasses that get super-heat from the sun and then when they cool really quickly, there are a lot of stars forming at a very rapid pace and basically, science-people are freaking out with science-joy because it’s so different and interesting). And just the way he said it, it just gave me this feeling of peace about the future that I really have not been feeling lately.

And for some reason, I just knew I wanted to blog about that. I kept thinking about it all of yesterday and today, trying to figure out what exactly kept it inside of my brain when so many other relatively important things slip out like so many greased pigs on a flagpole.

I guess it’s the whole idea that this beautiful, incredible thing happens in solitude. Or maybe that it’s the stars don’t work to form clusters or even come into being. They happen. They go from being hot gasses in outerspace to stars in the sky because of something bigger than them. Sometimes it’s nice to rest in the knowledge that someone bigger than me shapes the universe. So if I go on being heated by the sun and doing my whole heated-matter-thing to the best of my ability, eventually I too can be cooled quickly and turned into a gigantic star cluster, not because of me, but because it’s part of the bigger picture I don’t have control over. And then maybe scientists will rejoice over me, too, and go on Science Friday and say, “we have no idea how Elizabeth turned into a star cluster so quickly but we’re fascinated.”

It’s a rambly kind of Saturday, I guess.

Thanks, Phoenix Cluster, for being such a rad metaphor. In my head.

love, elizabeth

Playing Defense: Why Broomball Has Everything to Do With Marriage

I'm certain that when most of you think of me, Elizabeth, certain words come to your mind. Wife. Scholar. Actress. Lover of bad 90's music. Writer. Athlete. Wait, what? Big shocker here, I am not athletic. I am the opposite of athletic. I am Non-Sporty Spice. If there was a contest for most UN-athletic/team sport person in the mid-atlantic states, I would win. (Wait, who am I kidding? I'd lose that, too. THAT'S how bad I am at competitive sports.)

No, no, that would be Kyle, the skinny, scrappy, both-fists-swinging Irishman I married. He's the athlete. The coordinated, muscular one who leaps into any competitive fray like a gangly leprechaun on fire? That guy.

So when our young married's group at church announced that they would be forming a team for broomball night at the local ice rink, my immediate thought was, Great. Another activity I'll look stupid doing.

But in the spirit of our marriage (and our blog), I decided to be brave and give broomball a shot. After all, what's more adventurous than me, armed only with half a broom and a sweaty, broken helmet trying to maneuver a ball on solid ice? Um, nothing, that's what!
For those of you unfamiliar with the rules, broomball = ice hockey in sneakers +  broomsticks (- bristles).

So imagine my surprise (and Kyle's) when I actually turned out to be GOOD at broomball. Now granted, I have zero aim, depth perception, or balance. But I have HEART. That's right. Me and the Mighty Ducks. We believe in ourselves.

It turns out I kind of love playing defense. Maybe it stems from my secret love of getting in people's way. I found myself becoming more aware of the weaknesses in my team. I could see a clear shot to the goal and move to block it. I could see Kyle fall and rush to back him up when he lost the ball.

And Kyle...well, Kyle was awesome. Dashing across the rink, throwing himself in front of the goal, colliding with half of the other team, body-checking/smacking himself into the ice/wall/goal posts like it was some kind of medical need. There was no hesitation in him, no moment of wondering if what he was about to do might really, really hurt. Just a sense of complete abandon in the game.

And leave it to me, naturally, to start to see broomball as yet another metaphor for marriage. As I watched our team (made up of 3 couples from our small group) play five rounds, I was so struck by the sense of watchfulness I felt from them. Every time someone slipped or fell or made a good shot or blocked something, there was a response. One husband cheering on his wife when she intercepted the ball, a wife making a sympathetic noise when her husband ran face-first into the glass.

Of course, all good teams know these things. They cheer on their teammates. They worry about them. They defend them.

But there was something special about watching newly-weds and other young couples fighting for each other in a very physical, real way.

I hope that Kyle and I can model in our relationship what we were able to do playing broomball. That Kyle will literally throw himself in front of the ball, as selfless as I already know him to be. That I will be as mindful, careful, observant of the ways in which Kyle needs me to defend him when he is down.

Now it's probably important to note that we, uh, totally LOST broomball tonight. We didn't win a single game. Even the high school freshmen girls won ONCE. Not us.

But I guess that's not really the point. If you think about it, we probably "lose" more often than we win, when it comes to all the stuff thrown at us in life. What really matters is, was I a good teammate? Someone Kyle could count on when that big, scary dude who clearly plays college hockey is barrelling toward him and the ball or when he started bleeding after a bad fall or that second where he lost his balance and skidded across the ice? Was I there? Was I paying attention?

Kyle's thoughts: I loved that even though we were losing...making mistakes...falling down...it was still fun because we were with the people we love. There was also a sense of pride in defending our spouses on the ice. Kind of romantic. I mean, I knew if no one else on the ice had my back, then Elizabeth did.

So here we are...home safe, tired, and sore. The wounds have been doused in hydrogen peroxide. The ibuprofen has been administered. The stiffness has set in.

Tonight I feel renewed in my desire to fight for Kyle, with Kyle. Broomball was a fun, sweaty reminder of that thing I forget so often...that we can lose a battle and still win the war.