A friend of mine sent me a few screen shots from some old video footage she came across while working.
It's from a behind-the-scenes camera from my husband's first movie. I look very young. I was very young. I'm in a lot of the footage from that movie, hair in a ponytail looking frazzled, out of my element, and completely exhilarated.
She sent me these particular pictures because they're of me and our friend, our family member, who we lost tragically in June. In the shots, Ryan and I are laughing hysterically as I try to remove tar and feathers from his bare back. Then he picks me up, covering me in tar and feathers and goop and laughter. Her subject line was "Not sad, joyful!!"
I have a lump in my throat thinking about Ryan, and about my friend who has sacrificed much to spend the last couple of months working on a tribute to him.
My ten year anniversary of moving to Los Angeles was in August. I meant to write about it. I wanted to get all reflective and maybe weepy, list the things I've learned. Instead I was uncomfortably pregnant, and busy, and my heart was preoccupied with family illness.
Several times I've thought, "I should really have a good sit-down with myself, parse out the last decade, toast to it and all it has brought." But I haven't. This seems overwhelming to me, like my heart might break over all the emotion and even just the passage of time.
This year, with all its lip-biting and hand-wringing and outright sobbing, has made me feel very mortal.
The arrival of our sweet-natured, long-fingered son is the most natural thing. He prefers to be held, always, all day, so I've been kissing his velvety face and neck at every chance. Not because I'm "soaking it all in" or because I'm worried that "this phase goes so fast," but because I like it.
Not sad, joyful.