Finding The One

This weekend we were, once again, at a wedding.
It wasn't in an art gallery or a church, but in a barn, nestling in a West Sussex Valley, surrounded by wild flowers.

 And it wasn't full of young dreamers christening their future with layers of white lace.
It was a second-time-around marriage for both bride and groom. 
Full of a sense of calm completeness.
Full of the warmth and happiness of all weddings without the anxious edginess of your wedding having to be better than everyone else's.
This was a very important day for both of them but it wasn't their only important day .
The bride and groom both have families and successful careers, their lives have already been strewn with important days.
Their wedding was simply a celebration of the fact that, through all the chaos that life brings, they had found each other.

Strangely, or maybe not so strangely in these modern times, the groom's ex-wife was there, laughing and chatting and dancing the night away next to her ex-husband and his new wife..
I tried not to stare but a little part of me was desperate to walk over and ask them: 
" Does this not feel a bit weird? Are all of you really fine with this?"
But even by my fourth gin and tonic, I was still feeling too politely English to ask.
And anyway, as I stood watching the newly-weds, catching each other's eye, sharing a smile,  I realised that it didn't matter who else was there.
There was something so serenely complete in the intimacy of that shared smile, that for a moment, even I believed the rest of the world didn't exist.
And so I think maybe they have done it.  
Maybe this time they have found their other half, their perfect partner, the soul mate they have been searching for all their lives.
Maybe this time they have, each of them, found The One.

" Where are you going on honeymoon?" we ask as we catch up with them, standing in the doorway to the dance floor..
" Cycling in the Outer Hebrides," they say in unison.
" Really," I say, trying to work out if they are joking. " For your honeymoon?"
They grin, a " nelwy-married, we-don't-care-what-the-world-thinks," conspiratorial grin.
" It's so beautiful there," says the groom, " cycling will be amazing.  I've been training for ages."
" And how about you?" I ask, turning to the bride, " have you been training too."
" Oh," she says, " I cycled up the road by our house last week, it's quite steep. Anyway,I'll be fine, bought some padded knickers."
And arm- in -arm, the happy couple wander off to chat to other guests.
And perhaps that's why it was such a lovely wedding.
There was no trying to impress.
No trying to pretend this was some kind of whirlwind romance that had swept them both off their feet and knocked them sideways.  
Nothing to prove except that they love each other and want to quietly spend the rest of their lives together, padded knickers and all!

But it set me to thinking, pondering the question that Mia, our 16 year old daughter, often asks me.
" How do you know? How do you know if you've met the right person? How do you know when you've found The One? "
And I never know what to say.
Not really.
Because the truth is, the decision to share your life with someone, to marry them or stay with them for ever,  is always a bit of a gamble.
It's easy to get swept along with the excitement of a moment.
Easy to confuse passion with love and infatuation with the real thing.
Easy to believe that you can never feel this way again.
Easy to dream that you have fallen in love when you have really just fallen out of being alone.
Easy to hope that this is it.
Easy to get it wrong.
We've all been there : 
waiting heart-broken and hopeless for the phone to ring or a familiar footstep on the stair.
Wondering why or how or when it all went wrong.
Clinging onto to the shadow of a feeling that is no longer there because even the shadow of a feeling is better than no shadow at all.
Emotions are fickle and dreams all consuming.
But I don't want to tell my full-of-the-future-16 -year -old daughter, any of that.
I want to wrap her in a blanket of hopes and dreams and keep her warm with love and laughter.
" So?" she demands again, "How do you know when you've found The One?"
I try the simple answer: 
" you just do."
She gives me one of her disparaging looks.
 " That's not really an answer is it mum?" 
I laugh.
" I suppose not," I say, " but I think it's the truth. It's just that sometimes the truth is hidden under so many layers of emotion that it's hard to be sure."
" Great," says Mia, " so I will just have to guess.
Is that what you did, you and dad-guess?
 Did you give up your job and flat and your London life to go and be with him in California because you "guessed," it might be a good idea? "
I sense a note of slightly panicked cynicism creeping into her voice.
I hug her tight and stroke a stray strand of hair back behind her ear. 
" There was no guessing involved," I say comfortingly.
And suddenly I am transported back to LA airport, Ninesh and I sitting side by side on warm, plastic seats, cups of watery coffee in our hands, waiting for the last call for my flight home. 
We had spent just 2 weeks as a couple altogether, one week in England at Christmas and this last week at Easter in California.
And as we sat there, the cloud of separation hovering over us, Ninesh said:
" So I suppose this is it, we might as well get married."
And just then my flight was called and I stood up and spilt coffee all over my jeans and the floor.
And looking up at Ninesh I realised that I wasn't flying home, I was flying away from home.
And I nodded and said:
 " I suppose we might as well."

" I think Mia, "  I say, " that you truly do " just know." But there is a reason for why.
 It's about listening to your heart. 
Not the butterfly fluttering, breath-stopping, million-mile-an-hour beating part of your heart
But the so-far-down-you-hardly-notice-it - part.
The part of your heart that always feels a little bit empty.
Only when you meet the right person, it doesn't feel empty anymore.
It's like you've found the piece of the puzzle that you didn't even know was missing.
And that's how you know you've found The One."
I feel triumphant in my poeticness.
But Mia raises an eyebrow and glances at her phone.
" Puzzles are really boring," she says, " and they take ages to finish. Anyway, can I go to a party on Tuesday?  It'll probably be full of pieces from the wrong puzzle but it might have good music."

And I think of our friends cycling through the first weeks of their marriage.
I think of Mia dancing through the beginning of her search for The One.
I think of Ninesh and me, still fitting together the  pieces of our never-ending puzzle of togetherness.
And I know that whoever The One is and however long it takes you to find them, it will always have been worth the journey.
Even if you do have to buy a pair of padded knickers to get there.

Surviving teenage partying.

They're  the words all parents  dread hearing from their teenagers.
The words you know are coming but keep hoping it won't be yet.
Perhaps not until next year or maybe the year after that.
Those 5 small words:
" Can I have a party?."
And you stand, gazing at your tiny house, your shiny wooden floors, the clean surfaces in your kitchen and with every nerve in your body, you want to shout out
"NO."
But there is an inevitable, rite-of-passageness about teenage partying.
And probably, a bit like your first drink, your first day of work, your first time......It is best to get it over with.
I look dubiously at almost 15 year old Joss, with his high hair and his trendy Topman clothes. and suddenly I find myself missing the tiny version of him who used to toddle around the garden chasing butterflies. 

Joss in New York

And suddenly I find myself missing the tiny version of him who used to toddle around the garden chasing butterflies. 
Missing the time when the most exciting thing he wanted to do was pull the cat's tail.
Missing the days When teenager-hood was still a whole decade of sleepless nights away
" I'm not sure Joss," I say, playing for time, " when did you want to have it?" 
" This Saturday," he says, casually.
"But it's already Tuesday," I say, hearing the panic rising in my voice. " You won't have time to invite anyone."
" Oh, everyone can already come," he says, glancing at this phone.
" But we haven't said you can have a party yet.
" I know," says Joss, " but I invited everyone just in case. You said I might be able to have a party for my birthday and you know I can't have it on my actual birthday because everyone will be on holiday and next week there's already a party, so this Saturday is the only day left to have it."  
I am, as usual, floored by his certainty of his teenage logic.
Because it's true, we did say he might, just might, be able to have a birthday party. 
But we thought it would be in the holidays.
We thought we would have weeks to plan it all and mentally prepare ourselves.
Days to organise the best way for it to have no loud music, no alcohol, no cigarettes, 
" This Saturday's not really a good day," I say, " I'm out all day and dad's band has a gig and...."
But already I can hear my voice trailing into indecisiveness.. and at that moment all is lost.
That's the thing about conversations with teenagers - you must never, ever sound like you're not sure. 
Because while they might never listen to a word you say, they never miss the slightest hint of hesitation in your voice and  they will always pounce when they sense the chance of victory.
" It's fine," says Joss. "I'll get everything ready and I'll tell everyone not to be here until 7.30. You'll be back by then, won't you? Can you buy us some cider?"

" It was bound to happen?" say my mum and dad when I go round for a comforting cup of tea, " Remember your first party. Some of the guests stole all the pictures from the hall on their way out.?"
I make a mental note to take down all our pictures.
"Remember that party when people stole all the eggs from your mum and dad's fridge and had an egg fight in the garden," asks an old school friend when I tell him about the party. 
I make a mental note to take all the eggs out of the fridge and hide them in our bedroom.
" It was fine," says my sister, whose 16 year old daughter has just had a party, " the walls just needed a little bit of touching up afterwards." 
I make a mental note to cover the walls with bin liners.

Saturday morning arrives, bright and sunny.
Joss is lying, texting on the sofa, pyjamaed and bleary-eyed, as I get ready to go out.
" Right," I say, pulling on my jacket and trying hard not to sound like I am organising anything because, as Joss points out, that's very annoying  "Is there anything else I need to get?"
Joss looks up form his phone.
" Maybe some stuff for breakfast," he says. 
" I just offered to make you breakfast, " I say, glancing at the clock, " you said you didn't want any."
" Not for today," he says, " for tomorrow."
" We've got a packet of bagels," I say.
" Well one packet won't be enough," says Joss.
" What do you mean?" I ask, " is someone staying the night?"
" Everyone is," explains Joss, returning his eyes to his phone.
" Everyone," I say, swallowing hard and trying to sound calm. " About how many is everyone?"
" Oh not many," he says, "  only about 20, 25."
I gaze around our little house, that is just about big enough for a family of 4.
" Where is everyone going to sleep?" I ask.
Joss shrugs.
" In the garden or the shed or somewhere.  Could you get about 5 packets of bacon and lots of cereal."
And with that he goes up to his bedroom, closing his door firmly behind him in a non-negotiable sort of way.

And so it happened.
Saturday night arrived and the house and garden were full of raucous teenagers, drinking, shrieking, laughing, chatting, dancing and sometimes crying ( but that's a whole other blog ) with the music always being played just a little bit too loudly. 
And when the band all came back to ours for a drink in the early hours  after the gig, they found themselves clambering over the 20 or so teenagers bedded down for the night on our living room floor.
As it turns out, all our pictures were still here in the morning, the eggs remained whole and the walls were pretty much in tact.
As it turns out, our house is plenty big enough to sleep 20.
As it turns out, I  realise as I pick a stray beer bottle out of the bathtub, our house is quite a good size for teenage parties.
I only hope that Joss hasn't realised that too!

Partying in the garden

The absolutely, completely, perfectly right pair of shoes

We were at a wedding last weekend - seems to be the year for them.
Not a big meringue-dress, smart-car, complicated-seating-plan sort of wedding.
But a small, quiet celebration of two people's love for one another.
It was in Pallant House Art Gallery in Chichester and it felt very special.
A bit like Night in the Museum without the animals, dinosaurs and historic characters, we had a whole museum all to ourselves
After tea served from beautifully mismatched vintage cups and plates full of pastel iced cakes, we sat under the trees of the flagged courtyard, chatting and laughing until champagne and endless canapés were served in the gallery itself.
And as the notes of a gently strummed guitar wrapped themselves  around us, we wandered through the small, history infused rooms.
I am not usually good at art galleries or museums.
After one room, I find my thoughts drifting towards the cafe or the gift shop or...anywhere else.
But there is something magical when you are the only people there.
Suddenly you have a personal relationship with everything you are looking at. 

Shell - Sussie Macmurray

 I walked, alone and bare-footed  through the historical rooms full of antique furniture, old masterpieces and moder installations, or climbed the elegant, age old staircase made modern by a wall completely covered in mussel shells and velvet.
And  I couldn't  help thinking that everything I was looking at, knew I was there.
And since, without me, they would be completely unadmired, they must be pleased to  see me..
And as I left each empty room or hallway behind me, I wanted to turn and wave goodbye and say  how nice it was to meet  the picture in an old wooden frame or the piece of antique furniture........ or the ball dress made out of 10,000 balloons....

Balloon dress by Susie MacMurray

But despite being surrounded by priceless works of art and clichéd as it sounds, nothing could compare to the beauty of the  bride.
Because nothing can touch the beauty of happiness.
And as she stood, serene and beautiful in her simple 40's style dress, her sparkling eyes matching the deep blue of the the flowers she refused to put down ( hard to see in black and white! )

 I walked up to her.
" You look amazing," I said. " Your dress is perfect, the sun is shining and the food is delicious. Is it all as you dreamed it would be ?"
She smiled.
"Yes  it is, " she said,  "we just wanted to share today with our closest friends.
But can I tell you the story of my shoes."
I grinned.  
There is nothing I like more than collecting other people's stories.
" I would love to hear it," I said.
And so the bride began the story of " the absolutely, completely, perfectly right pair of shoes.
" You remember," she said, " how last time we met I was telling you that I had found everything, the dress, the flowers, the hair-do. And that the only thing I missing was the right pair of shoes?"
I nodded.
The search for the right pair of shoes had been long and, last time we met, fruitless.
" Well, in the end, I gave up.  I found some shoes that were OK, not perfect, but OK. And since there was only a week to go until the wedding and since I had hunted in every shoe shop in Chichester, Brighton and much of London, I figured they would just have to do.
It wasn't that I didn't like them.
It was just that they weren't quite right."
" Shoes are never easy," I said, supportively, " they are the glitch in every plan."
She laughed and carried on.
" So anyway, last week, with 2 days to go until the wedding, I was walking to the station from  a friend's house in Chichester, when I passed this tiny, very chaotic, second-hand shop.  Half the clothes were outside, hanging by the road.
And that's where I found them, on the pavement, the shoes I had been looking for, for all these weeks.
My perfect pair of shoes, waiting there beside the road.
They were the perfect colour, the perfect style and when I tried them on, they were the perfect fit."
We both looked down at her shoes and smiled.

" That's a lovely story," I said.
" But it's not finished yet," she said. " because when I took them off and went inside to pay, I noticed something else. The name inside the shoe, look."
And balancing on one leg, she pulled off a shoe.
Inside slightly worn but still clear was the word  " Candena."
" Is that your favourite shoe designer or something?" I asked.
" No," she said, " but it's an important name to me because it's my mum's name. I've never heard of anyone else called that. Who calls their daughter Candena!"  
Lovingly she slipped the shoe back on. 
" My mum's passed away," she said, her eyes glistening "and I know it sounds stupid and I know these shoes might not look special to anyone else, but it feels like they are her wedding present to me. Like somehow she is here , wishing me well."
I looked at the absolutely, completely, perfectly right pair of shoes. 
I looked at the absolutely, completely, perfectly beautiful bride.
" It doesn't sound stupid," I said, " it just sounds true."

And perhaps that's what made the artistic treasures of Pallant House so special that day.
It's not so much about how things look but about what they once meant or will mean to someone.
It's about the stories they are part of and the history they will still make.
Our past is what forms us.
And if life is about anything, it is about finding the absolutely, completely perfectly right pair of shoes when you least expect it.