I despise the term "self-help."
I think there are plenty of authors out there making ridiculous fortunes by creating long, wordy, repetitive pages stocked with hollow motivational drivel in the name of "self-help." I don't trust people who expect personal compensation for touting their lifestyles along bookshelves under the guise of trying to make people live better lives. I think often self-help needs to come from yourself, not from a book, a magazine article, or whatever Oprah has proclaimed as canonized "truth."
What I do appreciate are professional-help books. Academic-help books. Books that provide insight, experience, and advice in a particular field or research or expertise. Our shelves are lined with such books. B. is prepping for the GRE so those three letters seem to take up a majority of our self space lately. But next to her vast tomes of test prep there sits a small book of short anecdotes and brief chapters of advice compiled by a local business owner. B. got it for me before I graduated, and it seems appropriate for my current position in life: "Burn Your Portfolio: Stuff They Don't Teach You in Design School But Should."
It's self-deprecating and a pleasant read, and while some of the advice is geared more towards the management side of running a design firm, I find some occasional nuggets of solid professional advice. One of the more recent gems was this: "Under-promise, Over-deliver." Keep your client's expectations low and then dazzle them by surpassing them.
This is a challenge for me. I recently had my brother over while I spoke to a freelance client. I am a phone-pacer, but my nerves had me running laps around our small living room. He had to laugh as I put on a brave face and did my best to sell my services. I wanted this job and I wanted extra money to pad our recent jump in expenses, but I knew the next few days would be jam-packed if I committed too much. I got the job, did the work and slept very little for a week and a half, but the client was pleased with the result, the paycheck gave us a financial cushion, and I was still able to carve out some time for an anniversary date (love you, hon) between jobs.
Yes, jobs. This freelance gig was welcome, but difficult to fit into my schedule. I've found I don't have much room to under- or over-promise my freelance work. After six weeks of job-hunting, countless applications, almost 40 interviews, several take-home design tests, and haggling over insurance benefits, I was able to begin full-time employment before I even graduated. In addition to my full-time job, another job that offered a full-time position but was unable to offer benefits agreed to let me work part-time from home. So I come home from my full-time job to work nights at my part time job, and on weekends and whenever I can get a spare moment I continue to assist on what was a class project but has blossomed into a short film that our small team hopes to enter into the Student Emmys. Full-time job, part-time job, film project. Thus is my schedule. Thus is my life.
Let me say here that I am not complaining about being busy. Early in our marriage, B. was offered additional part-time work and she found a way to fit the impossible hours in with her insurmountable homework load. I know many people are struggling to find even one job and here I am blessed with over-employment and a surplus of hours to work. But my busyness is forcing me to under-promise in other facets of my life that I've never had to bow out of before.
When I was in school I could just skip an assignment or b.s. a paper and get by. I knew the game of school and how to pass without a hitch. This freed me up to enjoy family time, work on personal projects, set aside some free time for my sanity, cook, and exercise. Now it takes some serious scheduling to make sure I can take B. out on a date or I can go for a walk. I had hopes of rebuilding connections and friendships left sacrificed on the altar of college schedules, but if anything I'm less free now than I was then. I hope once the post-graduation dust has settled I can resurrect some projects I had to put on hold during school and I'd love to get back into the habit of filling at least one sketchbook page a day. I hope to begin writing again and reading for pleasure again. I hope to reconnect with friends and have some semblance of a social life again.
But for now I'm going to under-promise that I will write here when I can. This is my grindstone. This is my grunt work. The hard work I do now will open doors for me in other industries and further my future career. I know enough about this industry to know that everyone has to go through this post-grad busyness. And I'm lucky to have someone who's been there, and knows that when I under-promise her something, I only do it so I can over-deliver.
S
Sunday, May 17, 2015
Tuesday, January 6, 2015
Hearth and Home
I've always had a home. Moving around a lot growing up it became easy to make a house a home. Somewhere to call my own, a comforting refuge from the world.
I've heard the term "hearth and home" before, but never gave it much thought until recently. What differentiates hearth from home? Traditionally a hearth is the marble or brick slab of a fireplace that extends from the wall into the room. Over time the term evolved into a symbol for family life, a spirit of welcome and shelter.
Our home has been many things. A place to indoctrinate my brother in the glories of Liam Neeson cinema. A studio for my early attempts at professional artwork and design. A gallery of sorts capturing our marriage in photographs strewn across the wall. It serves as a base of operations, the logistical hub of our busy lives as we try to scrape out some time together each day. It's a test kitchen (mainly for B.) to discover new and exciting recipes that quickly become staples of our menu.
Ironically, our home has a fireplace. A dormant fireplace. We're just renting and we have central heat installed, so despite the romanticism of a warm crackling fire, we've left our hearth alone. It's just not worth the hassle. We have been blessed to enjoy a wonderful home. But it doesn't always have hearth. We scramble around most of the day and get home late enough for a quick dinner, an hour or so of Netflix, shower, do B.'s hair and bed. We're private homebodies, a busy married couple usually with only enough time for each other on a good day.
But over this winter break a small ember burst into life in our dusty hearth. A very dear friend came to visit while he was back in town seeing family for the holiday. He walked up as I was halfway though shoveling snow from our driveway. There was no handshake or hug, just a smile and a nod as I ditched the shovel and we headed inside. We plopped down on the couch and it was as if we picked up right where we left off. Although I often wax verbose in writing, I don't talk much. He is one of the few people that can get me going in a conversation for hours. We didn't leave the couch for over six hours. After a much needed nap, B. joined us at our newly rediscovered hearth. She took up the conversation with no delay or hesitation. This friend of ours is a rare thing because he is just that: our friend. Most of the people B. and I know are colleagues from very different fields so when they come over one of us is always a little out of the loop. But this guy knows and likes us both.
He and I can talk politics, the ironically slow and decaying quality of Walking Dead, and the challenges of surviving as a 20-something in a fast-paced world full of tragedy and idiocy while he and B. can commiserate on having to deal with the average layman's stupidity and the nightmare of grad school as well as compare notes on the best books on international affairs.
In many ways his visit was one of the highlights of my holiday. It provided a glimpse into a future beyond undergraduate studies, a world of adulthood unburdened by professors and homework and the collegiate bureaucracy. A future where we will have weekends again, and friends and some semblance of a social life. But most of all he rekindled a sense of welcome and belonging to our tidy, tiny apartment.
He gave our home its hearth.
Happy New Year everyone,
S
I've heard the term "hearth and home" before, but never gave it much thought until recently. What differentiates hearth from home? Traditionally a hearth is the marble or brick slab of a fireplace that extends from the wall into the room. Over time the term evolved into a symbol for family life, a spirit of welcome and shelter.
Our home has been many things. A place to indoctrinate my brother in the glories of Liam Neeson cinema. A studio for my early attempts at professional artwork and design. A gallery of sorts capturing our marriage in photographs strewn across the wall. It serves as a base of operations, the logistical hub of our busy lives as we try to scrape out some time together each day. It's a test kitchen (mainly for B.) to discover new and exciting recipes that quickly become staples of our menu.
Ironically, our home has a fireplace. A dormant fireplace. We're just renting and we have central heat installed, so despite the romanticism of a warm crackling fire, we've left our hearth alone. It's just not worth the hassle. We have been blessed to enjoy a wonderful home. But it doesn't always have hearth. We scramble around most of the day and get home late enough for a quick dinner, an hour or so of Netflix, shower, do B.'s hair and bed. We're private homebodies, a busy married couple usually with only enough time for each other on a good day.
But over this winter break a small ember burst into life in our dusty hearth. A very dear friend came to visit while he was back in town seeing family for the holiday. He walked up as I was halfway though shoveling snow from our driveway. There was no handshake or hug, just a smile and a nod as I ditched the shovel and we headed inside. We plopped down on the couch and it was as if we picked up right where we left off. Although I often wax verbose in writing, I don't talk much. He is one of the few people that can get me going in a conversation for hours. We didn't leave the couch for over six hours. After a much needed nap, B. joined us at our newly rediscovered hearth. She took up the conversation with no delay or hesitation. This friend of ours is a rare thing because he is just that: our friend. Most of the people B. and I know are colleagues from very different fields so when they come over one of us is always a little out of the loop. But this guy knows and likes us both.
He and I can talk politics, the ironically slow and decaying quality of Walking Dead, and the challenges of surviving as a 20-something in a fast-paced world full of tragedy and idiocy while he and B. can commiserate on having to deal with the average layman's stupidity and the nightmare of grad school as well as compare notes on the best books on international affairs.
In many ways his visit was one of the highlights of my holiday. It provided a glimpse into a future beyond undergraduate studies, a world of adulthood unburdened by professors and homework and the collegiate bureaucracy. A future where we will have weekends again, and friends and some semblance of a social life. But most of all he rekindled a sense of welcome and belonging to our tidy, tiny apartment.
He gave our home its hearth.
Happy New Year everyone,
S
Friday, August 15, 2014
The World's More Full of Weeping Than You Can Understand
As I tend to do with most pop culture, I've sat at the sidelines this week and watched quietly as the world decided how to react, respond or reject the sad news of Robin Williams' death. I've heard many voices reach out in kind condolence to his family. I've seen tearful tributes by his peers and fans. I've read hateful and fearful mutterings of people trying to make sense of a senseless loss. But I believe everyone can agree that we are mourning, coping, and trying to heal the hole left in our hearts.
Williams' passing is different from other celebrity news and even other celebrity deaths. For decades he stood as a monument to comedy; no matter how bad your day was, he could get you to smile in three minutes. In five he'd have you in stitches. Give him ten and you'd be wetting yourself. He brought a menagerie of colorful characters to life and into our homes and hearts.
But as famous as he was for making us laugh, I treasure the moments when he made us cry. When he shook us to our core, made us look inward and find new corners of our hearts and avenues in our souls. He challenged us to stand atop our desks in defiance, follow our brave captain into the unknown and seize the day. He taught us about love, loss and friendship on a quiet park bench. Even his more obscure roles still resonate with me. I particularly remember a small part he voiced for the Spielberg film A.I. in which his character at first spills out a witty, fast-paced discourse in signature Robin Williams style, but then takes an abrupt turn to a somber, spectral recitation of the Yeats poem "The Stolen Child."
A chilling transformation. His voice still haunts me. To be able to turn from profanity to poetry at the drop of a hat takes more than just a comedian. It takes a deep mind and a deeper soul to stand in the face of the world's weeping and laugh. He had the capacity for more emotions than joy, and that range, that flexibility to feel was what made him such a gem.
I've seen the viral tweet #genieyou'refree floating around social media for days now. An avalanche of fan art, tributes, and condolences has engulfed tumblr, twitter and facebook. When I was in kindergarten I watched Aladdin nearly every day, so this struck a very personal chord with me.
And so, to honor the genie whose zany, hilarious brand of magic had delighted me since I was a child, I drew up a small tribute for him. A humble sketch to show that he is free. Free from troubles and cares. Free from the burden of making us smile, which he silently, thanklessly bore. Free from shielding the world from its own sorrows.
Normally when I share an original piece of art on Tumblr I get anywhere from five to ten likes or an occasional reblog. This post has received over 1,300 such notifications in the past 24 hours.
This has been my first brush with "going viral" and I don't pretend for one second that it has anything to do with me or my talent; this was and remains a tribute to a greater talent than my own, a brighter star in the firmament of souls who brought laughter and relief to those of us lucky enough to look up at night.
But I want to return to a point I made before. Not everyone is mourning gently. There's a lot of anger mixed in with the sadness. Some people feel cheated of a great man that the world adored. Others feel he should have stayed strong, that he had nothing to be sad about. Others still believe depression is purely clinical and can be treated like any other illness.
To these angry, confused voices, I implore you -
Shut up.
Look, I get it, everyone looks at death differently. Everyone looks at suicide differently. Everyone wonders about that "undiscovered country." It's part of the human condition. But what is not excusable is forcing your own preconceptions, your own ideologies, or worse, your naked opinions upon others, particularly when they're in pain. Don't pretend for one second you know anything more than the rest of us when it comes to depression. Now, not knowing can trouble people and make them panic or grasp at straws to feel in control. But as advanced as we are in understanding medicine and psychology, the simple answer to depression is:
We don't know.
I've thought a lot about another star in that firmament of souls that we lost too soon. He was much less loved in his life than Robin Williams, yet his legacy is just as moving and has touched the world for centuries now. Vincent Van Gogh will always hold a tender place in my heart. When I see his paintings, his surreal, colorful interpretation of a bleak world, I don't see evidence of a diseased mind. I don't see his struggles with depression as weakness. I see a warrior, a fighter. A man who was plagued by a sorrow that we still don't fully understand.
The tears of a clown often puzzle us. We forget that beneath the veneer of humor, pain often lies unseen. I have a handful of friends who are the life of the party. When they show up, the show begins and the rest of us have the luxury of simply enjoying the hilarity they bring to the table. But this recent tragedy is a good reminder to care about the performer, not just the performance. If you have such a friend, make sure they know that you are there for them, that you are more than just a fan, more than an audience. The funniest people aren't immune from sadness - they're the best at hiding it. Don't cheat them from feeling everything like the rest of us. Don't let them suffer alone.
If anything can be taken from this loss, it's that we need each other more than we'd care to admit.
Genie, you're free.
S
Williams' passing is different from other celebrity news and even other celebrity deaths. For decades he stood as a monument to comedy; no matter how bad your day was, he could get you to smile in three minutes. In five he'd have you in stitches. Give him ten and you'd be wetting yourself. He brought a menagerie of colorful characters to life and into our homes and hearts.
But as famous as he was for making us laugh, I treasure the moments when he made us cry. When he shook us to our core, made us look inward and find new corners of our hearts and avenues in our souls. He challenged us to stand atop our desks in defiance, follow our brave captain into the unknown and seize the day. He taught us about love, loss and friendship on a quiet park bench. Even his more obscure roles still resonate with me. I particularly remember a small part he voiced for the Spielberg film A.I. in which his character at first spills out a witty, fast-paced discourse in signature Robin Williams style, but then takes an abrupt turn to a somber, spectral recitation of the Yeats poem "The Stolen Child."
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild:
With a faery, hand in hand.
For the world’s more full of weeping
than you can understand.
To the waters and the wild:
With a faery, hand in hand.
For the world’s more full of weeping
than you can understand.
A chilling transformation. His voice still haunts me. To be able to turn from profanity to poetry at the drop of a hat takes more than just a comedian. It takes a deep mind and a deeper soul to stand in the face of the world's weeping and laugh. He had the capacity for more emotions than joy, and that range, that flexibility to feel was what made him such a gem.
I've seen the viral tweet #genieyou'refree floating around social media for days now. An avalanche of fan art, tributes, and condolences has engulfed tumblr, twitter and facebook. When I was in kindergarten I watched Aladdin nearly every day, so this struck a very personal chord with me.
And so, to honor the genie whose zany, hilarious brand of magic had delighted me since I was a child, I drew up a small tribute for him. A humble sketch to show that he is free. Free from troubles and cares. Free from the burden of making us smile, which he silently, thanklessly bore. Free from shielding the world from its own sorrows.
Normally when I share an original piece of art on Tumblr I get anywhere from five to ten likes or an occasional reblog. This post has received over 1,300 such notifications in the past 24 hours.
This has been my first brush with "going viral" and I don't pretend for one second that it has anything to do with me or my talent; this was and remains a tribute to a greater talent than my own, a brighter star in the firmament of souls who brought laughter and relief to those of us lucky enough to look up at night.
But I want to return to a point I made before. Not everyone is mourning gently. There's a lot of anger mixed in with the sadness. Some people feel cheated of a great man that the world adored. Others feel he should have stayed strong, that he had nothing to be sad about. Others still believe depression is purely clinical and can be treated like any other illness.
To these angry, confused voices, I implore you -
Shut up.
Look, I get it, everyone looks at death differently. Everyone looks at suicide differently. Everyone wonders about that "undiscovered country." It's part of the human condition. But what is not excusable is forcing your own preconceptions, your own ideologies, or worse, your naked opinions upon others, particularly when they're in pain. Don't pretend for one second you know anything more than the rest of us when it comes to depression. Now, not knowing can trouble people and make them panic or grasp at straws to feel in control. But as advanced as we are in understanding medicine and psychology, the simple answer to depression is:
We don't know.
I've thought a lot about another star in that firmament of souls that we lost too soon. He was much less loved in his life than Robin Williams, yet his legacy is just as moving and has touched the world for centuries now. Vincent Van Gogh will always hold a tender place in my heart. When I see his paintings, his surreal, colorful interpretation of a bleak world, I don't see evidence of a diseased mind. I don't see his struggles with depression as weakness. I see a warrior, a fighter. A man who was plagued by a sorrow that we still don't fully understand.
The tears of a clown often puzzle us. We forget that beneath the veneer of humor, pain often lies unseen. I have a handful of friends who are the life of the party. When they show up, the show begins and the rest of us have the luxury of simply enjoying the hilarity they bring to the table. But this recent tragedy is a good reminder to care about the performer, not just the performance. If you have such a friend, make sure they know that you are there for them, that you are more than just a fan, more than an audience. The funniest people aren't immune from sadness - they're the best at hiding it. Don't cheat them from feeling everything like the rest of us. Don't let them suffer alone.
If anything can be taken from this loss, it's that we need each other more than we'd care to admit.
Genie, you're free.
S
Friday, August 8, 2014
The Perfect Day
Many of you will remember the story of when B. and I began dating. It was one of those rare epiphanies where I could see my life 5 or ten years down the line and, although the details were hazy, I knew two things: I was happy and she was there. After that it didn't take long to know I was going to marry her.
I've been saving this for a while. I told myself when I began avidly writing that I would save this story for our anniversary in May or the anniversary of this event in December. Two years later I've realized something: May is busy, and December is more so. Why would I write about our marriage when I should be celebrating it? Why spend our anniversary cooped up with a laptop when we should be out enjoying each other and our holiday?
And so, here I am. A little late, or very early, but here's the story of how we got engaged.
Let's begin in 2006.
My father was attending law school at the College of William & Mary in Virginia. Washington D.C. quickly became a favorite day trip destination for our family. We walked reverently through the WWII memorial, we stood at the foot of Lincoln, we saw the Constitution and the Declaration of Independence, passed the Capitol, and toured as many Smithsonians as our schedule would allow.
One spot that earns a little less tourism is a small cathedral tucked away near the Jefferson Memorial. The Washington National Cathedral is a beautiful edifice rich in history. It stands as a modern testament to the time and care taken in constructing a house to God. Especially the time. All of the cathedrals in Europe have stood there so long it's easy to forget that they were under construction for decades. Such is the case in Washington.
Theodore Roosevelt offered a ceremonial address as construction commenced in 1907. Colored sunlight anointed the heads of Queen Elizabeth and Jimmy Carter through its west rose window as the stained glass was dedicated. One of the gargoyles perched atop its Gothic spires bears a striking resemblance to Darth Vader. Inside a very modern, geometric stained glass window far down the nave rests an ugly black chunk of something indistinguishable from a distance. That black blotch is a moon rock taken home by astronauts.
Every stone has a story there. It drips with history, some of it surprisingly recent.
When I was about 17 I found myself walking the hallowed halls of this National House of Prayer and something odd struck me. I stood under the vaulted ceiling at the southwest end of the nave on a particular slab of colored marble, bathed in colored light from the stained glass high above, and I knew.
Somehow I knew I would ask my wife to marry me on this spot.
I held on to that feeling for years, not sure why I felt it or why that particular spot was so important. I shared it with a few close friends and even divulged it to my parents. As years passed, I eventually shelved it away. I wasn't planning on getting married or even seriously dating until I was done with college and closer to 30 than 20. yet despite all my plans and protestations, I still remembered that spot in the Cathedral, even if only as a passing fancy.
In the summer of 2011 I left my family, then stationed in England, to begin college classes. We had found out that they would be leaving for Maryland not long after I left. Something in the back of my mind stirred as I realized how close they would be to D.C. Much closer than we were in Virginia.
B. and I began dating in late September. In mid-October I knew I was going to marry her. In late October I began ring-shopping. And by November I had hatched my plan.
This might seem fast but keep in mind we had known each other for years at this point. While dating we had broached the concept of marriage in our many phone conversations in a very mature and responsible manner:
"So... hypothetical situation: we get married next summer."
"So... probable situation: we get married in Utah so the most family members can attend."
"So... hypothetical situation: you get a ring rather than chocolates this Valentine's Day."
This last "hypothetical" was actually implemented by me to throw her off the scent. She was able to surmise that a proposal might be coming over the holiday break when she flew out to meet my family. I couldn't have her spoiling the surprise, so I hinted at proposing about two months later than I actually intended.
You know, like a liar.
I had one opportunity to visit her at her father's home before the holidays separated us. My timing had to be perfect. One afternoon she hopped into the shower. I knew I had about ten minutes, more if she wanted to do her hair. I waited until the water had been running for a few minutes before racing upstairs to ask for her father's permission to marry her. It was a bit rushed (probably for the best, I was in too much of a hurry to be terrified of him) but he wasn't surprised and was, I think, genuinely pleased. Permission granted. Final check.
I shipped the ring to my parents and flew home a week before she arrived in Maryland. I spent Christmas with my family out east. She spent it with her family in Utah. She flew in for New Years.
Those few days between holidays were hell for me. Left to my own devices I quickly imagined every possible scenario of what could go wrong. Her plane could crash. She could say no. I could trap her in a marriage in which she isn't happy. She could say no. We could end up getting divorced. She could say no. I'm not mature enough, not ready enough, I don't have enough to offer. I need a job, an insurance plan, a savings account, a real honeymoon to offer her, a better ring - a better me.
She could say no.
My dad could tell I was on edge and had the wisdom to remain aloof and let me figure it out for myself. The day finally arrived and I picked her up in Baltimore. We almost ran into each other in the middle of the airport. I don't think I've held her so tight.
And just like that, all of the fears and insecurities that had been plaguing me for days melted away in her embrace. Before heading home to introduce her to my family we spent the day touring D.C. It was a novel experience showing her around rather than the reverse. She had been my tour guide through the Red Rock country for so long I felt a little out of place leading the way.
We walked reverently through war memorials, we stood at the foot of Lincoln, we saw the Constitution and the Declaration of Independence, passed the Capitol, and toured as many Smithsonians as her energy would allow. The poor thing took a red eye.
We arrived home in the early evening and my parents welcomed them warmly. My brothers welcomed her awkwardly. My sister was giddy at the prospect of having another girl around. She was the visiting girlfriend, a new experience for everyone involved.
The next day the whole family went up to D.C. Our schedule consisted of two attractions: The National Cathedral and the National Zoo.
As we clambered out of the family van, my dad, with all of the subtlety of a hand grenade, called back an at first general reminder to grab everything we'd need (coats, cameras, etc.) with a specific addendum: "Spencer, you have everything you need???" I did. I had the ring in my pants pocket most of the morning until I remembered a horror story I had heard of a future fiancee feeling the ring box through the pant leg of her would-be betrothed and spoiling the whole surprise. So I, in a deft maneuver of makeshift engineering, hid the ring box inside a camera case and placed it in my jacket pocket. She would not cheat me from my victory.
We entered the National Cathedral, B.'s hand in mine, my brothers playing their gameboys or trying to climb the pillars, my sister taking pictures, and my parents generally trying to shepherd them up the nave towards the rose window. We all dispersed eventually, B. and I taking our own route and admiring the stained glass. I had briefly considered enlisting my sister to take some candid video footage of the event, but opted to keep it a private moment for just the two of us. I saw the spot ahead of us. B. tried to turn back and rejoin the family. I urged her back to the south end, insisting that there was more to the cathedral down this way.
Again, like a liar.
There was a pit in my stomach. My heart was in my throat and my legs felt weak. But every time I glanced over to her smiling face I drew strength from her. I timed our arrival at the spot at our current pace and began the simple, unassuming speech I had prepared so long ago:
It didn't feel like we stood there for very long. She told me later she was worried she had waited too long and blurted out a hushed, breathless response. For me it was over too quickly. I wanted to stay in that moment forever, placed on that same slab of marble on which I had stood when I was 17 and still unsure of what love was. But as the word "Yes" escaped her lips, new strength surged through my shaky legs and I launched myself back up to hold her tight.
Moments later our surroundings came back into focus and once again there was more in the world than just us two. A few newcomers to the cathedral were applauding us, along with some of the staff and a portly bishop-woman in flowing purple robes. It was this kind blueberry who offered to take our picture. There we are, moments after becoming engaged:
We rejoined my family. Most of my brothers didn't know how to respond. My sister was ecstatic. My father had the quiet smile that seems to smile with his eyes more than his mouth. My mom blinked furiously and I think sniffled once. The rest of the day we floated on a cloud.
My family all climbed back into the van not long after that and we headed to the zoo. B. had a great time teaching my littler siblings all about the animals, and my littlest brother soon took quite a liking to her; at times I had to compete for her attention. But most of that afternoon, walking between exhibits, the two of us simply held each other's hand and let the moment wash over us. We were really doing this. This was really happening. My family gave us some space to let it all sink in.
We were also all over each other, so that might have helped contribute to our privacy.
I have learned to expect a few fallbacks in my plans. Maybe God likes to keep me humble. Maybe the universe wants to keep me guessing. Fate, it seems will always have me on my toes. But at least one day - on that day - the most important day of my life, everything went according to plan. A plan five years in the making.
S
I've been saving this for a while. I told myself when I began avidly writing that I would save this story for our anniversary in May or the anniversary of this event in December. Two years later I've realized something: May is busy, and December is more so. Why would I write about our marriage when I should be celebrating it? Why spend our anniversary cooped up with a laptop when we should be out enjoying each other and our holiday?
And so, here I am. A little late, or very early, but here's the story of how we got engaged.
Let's begin in 2006.
My father was attending law school at the College of William & Mary in Virginia. Washington D.C. quickly became a favorite day trip destination for our family. We walked reverently through the WWII memorial, we stood at the foot of Lincoln, we saw the Constitution and the Declaration of Independence, passed the Capitol, and toured as many Smithsonians as our schedule would allow.
One spot that earns a little less tourism is a small cathedral tucked away near the Jefferson Memorial. The Washington National Cathedral is a beautiful edifice rich in history. It stands as a modern testament to the time and care taken in constructing a house to God. Especially the time. All of the cathedrals in Europe have stood there so long it's easy to forget that they were under construction for decades. Such is the case in Washington.
Theodore Roosevelt offered a ceremonial address as construction commenced in 1907. Colored sunlight anointed the heads of Queen Elizabeth and Jimmy Carter through its west rose window as the stained glass was dedicated. One of the gargoyles perched atop its Gothic spires bears a striking resemblance to Darth Vader. Inside a very modern, geometric stained glass window far down the nave rests an ugly black chunk of something indistinguishable from a distance. That black blotch is a moon rock taken home by astronauts.
Every stone has a story there. It drips with history, some of it surprisingly recent.
When I was about 17 I found myself walking the hallowed halls of this National House of Prayer and something odd struck me. I stood under the vaulted ceiling at the southwest end of the nave on a particular slab of colored marble, bathed in colored light from the stained glass high above, and I knew.
Somehow I knew I would ask my wife to marry me on this spot.
I held on to that feeling for years, not sure why I felt it or why that particular spot was so important. I shared it with a few close friends and even divulged it to my parents. As years passed, I eventually shelved it away. I wasn't planning on getting married or even seriously dating until I was done with college and closer to 30 than 20. yet despite all my plans and protestations, I still remembered that spot in the Cathedral, even if only as a passing fancy.
In the summer of 2011 I left my family, then stationed in England, to begin college classes. We had found out that they would be leaving for Maryland not long after I left. Something in the back of my mind stirred as I realized how close they would be to D.C. Much closer than we were in Virginia.
B. and I began dating in late September. In mid-October I knew I was going to marry her. In late October I began ring-shopping. And by November I had hatched my plan.
This might seem fast but keep in mind we had known each other for years at this point. While dating we had broached the concept of marriage in our many phone conversations in a very mature and responsible manner:
"So... hypothetical situation: we get married next summer."
"So... probable situation: we get married in Utah so the most family members can attend."
"So... hypothetical situation: you get a ring rather than chocolates this Valentine's Day."
This last "hypothetical" was actually implemented by me to throw her off the scent. She was able to surmise that a proposal might be coming over the holiday break when she flew out to meet my family. I couldn't have her spoiling the surprise, so I hinted at proposing about two months later than I actually intended.
You know, like a liar.
I had one opportunity to visit her at her father's home before the holidays separated us. My timing had to be perfect. One afternoon she hopped into the shower. I knew I had about ten minutes, more if she wanted to do her hair. I waited until the water had been running for a few minutes before racing upstairs to ask for her father's permission to marry her. It was a bit rushed (probably for the best, I was in too much of a hurry to be terrified of him) but he wasn't surprised and was, I think, genuinely pleased. Permission granted. Final check.
I shipped the ring to my parents and flew home a week before she arrived in Maryland. I spent Christmas with my family out east. She spent it with her family in Utah. She flew in for New Years.
Those few days between holidays were hell for me. Left to my own devices I quickly imagined every possible scenario of what could go wrong. Her plane could crash. She could say no. I could trap her in a marriage in which she isn't happy. She could say no. We could end up getting divorced. She could say no. I'm not mature enough, not ready enough, I don't have enough to offer. I need a job, an insurance plan, a savings account, a real honeymoon to offer her, a better ring - a better me.
She could say no.
My dad could tell I was on edge and had the wisdom to remain aloof and let me figure it out for myself. The day finally arrived and I picked her up in Baltimore. We almost ran into each other in the middle of the airport. I don't think I've held her so tight.
And just like that, all of the fears and insecurities that had been plaguing me for days melted away in her embrace. Before heading home to introduce her to my family we spent the day touring D.C. It was a novel experience showing her around rather than the reverse. She had been my tour guide through the Red Rock country for so long I felt a little out of place leading the way.
We walked reverently through war memorials, we stood at the foot of Lincoln, we saw the Constitution and the Declaration of Independence, passed the Capitol, and toured as many Smithsonians as her energy would allow. The poor thing took a red eye.
We arrived home in the early evening and my parents welcomed them warmly. My brothers welcomed her awkwardly. My sister was giddy at the prospect of having another girl around. She was the visiting girlfriend, a new experience for everyone involved.
The next day the whole family went up to D.C. Our schedule consisted of two attractions: The National Cathedral and the National Zoo.
As we clambered out of the family van, my dad, with all of the subtlety of a hand grenade, called back an at first general reminder to grab everything we'd need (coats, cameras, etc.) with a specific addendum: "Spencer, you have everything you need???" I did. I had the ring in my pants pocket most of the morning until I remembered a horror story I had heard of a future fiancee feeling the ring box through the pant leg of her would-be betrothed and spoiling the whole surprise. So I, in a deft maneuver of makeshift engineering, hid the ring box inside a camera case and placed it in my jacket pocket. She would not cheat me from my victory.
We entered the National Cathedral, B.'s hand in mine, my brothers playing their gameboys or trying to climb the pillars, my sister taking pictures, and my parents generally trying to shepherd them up the nave towards the rose window. We all dispersed eventually, B. and I taking our own route and admiring the stained glass. I had briefly considered enlisting my sister to take some candid video footage of the event, but opted to keep it a private moment for just the two of us. I saw the spot ahead of us. B. tried to turn back and rejoin the family. I urged her back to the south end, insisting that there was more to the cathedral down this way.
Again, like a liar.
There was a pit in my stomach. My heart was in my throat and my legs felt weak. But every time I glanced over to her smiling face I drew strength from her. I timed our arrival at the spot at our current pace and began the simple, unassuming speech I had prepared so long ago:
"I love it here. This place is so full of stories and history.
I came here about five years ago and I knew
this was where I'd begin a new part of my story."
At this I turned her around to face the long cavernous nave
leading to the ornate apse and wrapped one arm
leading to the ornate apse and wrapped one arm
around her waist while the other fished out the ring in its box.
I took a step back and fell to one shaky knee.
She spun around in confusion and met my smiling gaze with wide eyes.
"Brittany Lauren Rogers, I love you."
I reached my hand out to hers to steady her.
"We can do this," I whispered.
Her jaw dropped in a shocked smile.
"Will you marry me?"
It didn't feel like we stood there for very long. She told me later she was worried she had waited too long and blurted out a hushed, breathless response. For me it was over too quickly. I wanted to stay in that moment forever, placed on that same slab of marble on which I had stood when I was 17 and still unsure of what love was. But as the word "Yes" escaped her lips, new strength surged through my shaky legs and I launched myself back up to hold her tight.
Moments later our surroundings came back into focus and once again there was more in the world than just us two. A few newcomers to the cathedral were applauding us, along with some of the staff and a portly bishop-woman in flowing purple robes. It was this kind blueberry who offered to take our picture. There we are, moments after becoming engaged:
We rejoined my family. Most of my brothers didn't know how to respond. My sister was ecstatic. My father had the quiet smile that seems to smile with his eyes more than his mouth. My mom blinked furiously and I think sniffled once. The rest of the day we floated on a cloud.
My family all climbed back into the van not long after that and we headed to the zoo. B. had a great time teaching my littler siblings all about the animals, and my littlest brother soon took quite a liking to her; at times I had to compete for her attention. But most of that afternoon, walking between exhibits, the two of us simply held each other's hand and let the moment wash over us. We were really doing this. This was really happening. My family gave us some space to let it all sink in.
We were also all over each other, so that might have helped contribute to our privacy.
I have learned to expect a few fallbacks in my plans. Maybe God likes to keep me humble. Maybe the universe wants to keep me guessing. Fate, it seems will always have me on my toes. But at least one day - on that day - the most important day of my life, everything went according to plan. A plan five years in the making.
S
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