making stuff

Sabbath day of rest, 4th week of Lent.

Christy has been making stuff. A lot of it.

Weeknight dinner we whipped up together: arugula-cuke-feta-tomato salad and hummus-sauced bucatini (part of her ongoing attempts to use up the entire giant tub of hummus our neighbor brought by).

I mean, she always has. Since the moment I began falling in love with her, she’s been making me beautiful things. Tokens, treasures, each one filled with her love and planning and time.

Two of the four family portraits she made this weekend, of my children Alexander and Althea, resting on the chair in which I nursed and rocked them both, with a homesewn pillow and a baby blanket crocheted by my mother behind.

It’s one of the most challenging aspects about being her partner—how good she is at making, at giving. The giftee cannot help but feel both utterly delighted by and completely unworthy of the extent of her attention and time. At the same time, the act of the giving, in turn, is itself a gift to Christy. She delights in her gift of giving; she revels in it. She rolls around in it happily, like a puppy, making meaningful, desperate, joyful, breathtaking art and giving it away, flagrantly, with abandon.

How does one give back to such a giver?

I am blessed, in a way, to have had the opportunity to give to her, to care for her aching, battered body these past weeks with singleminded tenderness. While my hands and mind don’t have the same upcycling vision or resourceful talent hers do, I have been able to give her her my time, my focus, my tenderness, my music, my love.

And she has continued to give to me.

You may have noticed that we’ve both begun posting more, sharing more frequently on social media. Writing more here than we have before. Neither of us are teaching right now (#privilege and also, paradoxically, #perturbing), so we have the space and bandwidth, now that the week-long hospital stay appears safely in the rearview mirror, to lean into our creative urges for the moment. This, friends, is what she is teaching me, what I am learning from her:

Why hold back? Why not create, now? Why not give, today?

And so, I am trying to heed the interior call, inside myself, to match hers, the urgency, the calling she feels to make, and give, and share it all.

There is more for us to do - for her to do, for me to do. Neither of us is sure about all that might be. But we’re surer now that we’ll both be around to do those things, make them, gift them, together and side by side and loving one another throughout the entirety of our shared lives together.

One of the things we can share is our love.

Another thing we can share is our talent, our gifts.

I struggle with that. With sharing my gifts. I know and see the layers of unpacking and processing of all the decades of shaping and experiences I still have before me. It’s singing in church choirs as a child, expectations of leading entire sections of adult women while never lifting my own voice above the blended whole; it’s years of cantoring—taking a side role in a male-dominated setting that meant so much to me, but whose primary avenues were denied to me. I thought about being a nun, of course I did—but it turns out that wasn’t at all the right path for me. Motherhood always means standing to the side - the tired trope about the mom never being in the photos is true - while holding it all together, all the time, for everyone. I’ve become quite good at being in a centric role but always and only in service. It is hard, almost impossible, for me to be publicly proud of my musical talents. Or any talents, really.

I played “Danny Boy” on piano first thing St. Patrick’s Day morning. Then I pulled out my little ukulele, practiced that F minor chord a few times, and sang it to her. She cried. Reminded me of what Sandra had said about never hearing recordings of me, just the day before. Said we should share it.

I cried.

I practiced it a little, we found good light on the new wicker chair next to the monstera in my office, I had one false start, then we recorded it. One take. Then I sent her the file, and fled upstairs. Watched the video, and cried again.

Art is meaning. The words I am singing are a prayer to her, as she sits behind the camera and our eyes meet, hers wet, mine crinkling at the edges as a smile enters my voice. I reach for the high note on “bend,” sing of love, take the third at the end, trail off into light and love. For her. It’s always for her.

And then we shared it, with you. And I cried again.

And then you liked it, loved it, commented. And I was filled with self-doubt, and cried more, talked, grieved. I overanalyzed who said something, who didn’t, who’s watching the video, how many seconds before they scroll to another page, another post. And then she reminded me that it’s all about the giving, the art, the love.

So, we’re gonna keep making stuff. Earlier this week was pear-cardamom muffins and “Danny Boy.” Yesterday it was family portraits and salmon bowls. Today it’s a blog post, and carmine velvet.

My photograph of the aforementioned (and thoroughly enjoyed!) muffins, reveling in the sparkle of the crystallized spice and lemon zest.

What will you make today? What will you share? How will you love, through it all?