Waiting on Love

“It's hard being left behind. (...) It's hard to be the one who stays.”
-Clare, The Time Traveler’s Wife

Audrey Niffenegger’s novel, The Time Traveler’s Wife is one of my favorite books. It’s the sort of book most people either love or hate, (see goodreads.com for glowing and not-so-glowing reviews) and although Niffenegger’s novel has been criticized for its sense of melodrama, I found the work to be engaging. Oftentimes while reading it I found myself so caught up in the journey of the two main characters I felt as though I was suspended not in my own space and time, but theirs. (I absolutely love when this happens!) When you find a book that ignites feelings such as these, savor its richness, its warmth . . . or rush to the end and then go back again and enjoy it, for as many experienced readers know, “the best reading is re-reading.” (More on that in another post!)

To my delight, the novel was adapted to film this past summer, one that I thought aptly captured the essence of Niffenegger’s story. Oftentimes I leave movie adaptations of books I’ve read feeling as though I’ve been cheated: the characters are off, the screenplay writers change a key element in the storyline, the look of the film is all wrong. Although some minor details were reworked or glossed over, I thought the novel was adapted to film quite tastefully, despite the constraints posed by using such a medium to convey what is mostly an internal drama.

The novel alternates between the perspectives of the two protagonists—the time traveler, Henry, and his wife, Clare. The first time Clare meets Henry he’s already married to her in the present day (although she doesn’t know that), and she is just a little girl. After being transported from his current life to the past, Henry appears in a meadow outside Clare’s childhood home; he befriends young Clare and continues to return to the meadow (sporadically) to meet with her over the years. Henry’s earliest encounter with Clare, however, takes place when she’s a college-student and has known him (the older him) most of her life. (Yes. I realize that this does sound creepy. Just go with Niffenegger on this one rather than ask questions about which meeting came first—as there’s no real answer to that—but do know that Henry can’t change the past or alter the future, time just is.)

Niffenegger’s unique take on time travel is somewhat plausible. Henry has a genetic dysfunction that causes his body to randomly vault itself to alternative times and places. This sounds like it could be fun, but it usually ends up getting him in a lot of trouble. When Henry time travels, he can’t take anything—anything!—with him, so when he travels to a new time and location, he materializes there naked. Oftentimes he has to break and enter and steal to hustle up some clothing, food, and shelter, if necessary, which it always is. Because everyone knows the last thing people want to see is a grown man walking around naked and bewildered. When Henry travels to Clare, he is safe: she leaves a box of clothes for him in the field, and brings him food when he’s hungry.

The film highlights a few sweet moments between young Clare and Henry, but it does not portray much of Clare’s adolescence, when she begins to fall deeply in love with Henry. Especially significant are two scenes left out of the film: An interlude during which Henry helps a teenage Clare teach a lesson to a young boy who hurts her (for not going farther with him on a date). And, on Clare’s eighteenth birthday, the day for which she has been waiting so eagerly: the day they first make love. Err, when she first sleeps with him. His first time with her has already happened . . .

Actually, when a bewildered young Henry first meets grown-up love-struck Clare in the middle of the Newberry Library, she is already head-over-heels in love with the man he will become. When they start dating, it seems as though Henry's playing catch-up with time, having to compete with his older self for Clare's affection. I find it interesting that for both characters there are moments where it seems as though they’re being pulled along by the invisible hand of fate, especially in the circular confusion of their relationship: Clare’s childhood with Henry and Henry’s new relationship with Clare. Which came first? Niffenegger never delves too far into the topic, but . . . there’s a hint of awareness of this problem in the text, which the movie pokes fun at (see: scene when Henry proposes to Claire), but we’re never really sure what Niffenegger thinks.

Henry is, was, and has always been Clare’s everything, and he hers.

Their ardent love, however, is a far cry from perfect. One of the things that I like most about this novel is Niffenegger’s ability to pinpoint the characteristic struggles of the great majority of romantic relationships and marriages—miscommunication, distance, longing, the stress of family planning—and let them play out in Henry and Clare’s life together.

The same deep ache that Clare feels for Henry when he’s gone is the same emotion so many lovers in long distance relationships experience; the resentment, the frustration she experiences are not uncommon. Claire often dwells on what those of us who’ve been in long-distance relationships know too well, “It’s hard being the one who stays.”

Later on, she further voices the source of her heartbreak, “I wanted someone to love who would stay: stay and be there, always.”

This is understandable. I have been there, I have thought similar things.

Truthfully, even in ordinary relationships (for those of us not dealing with a chrono-disfunction or disorder or whatever), no one can ever stay with us, always. We’re far too busy making a living, doing what needs to be done, being mortal. Although we participate in romantic relationships, that doesn’t guarantee we’ll go through life with a companion always at our side—there are too many accidental deaths, divorces, break ups, lives that spin out of control. Some of us are lucky, but on the whole life remains predictably unpredictable and chaotic. This is another theme Niffenegger thread through her Time Traveler’s Wife—the haphazard ups and downs of life. As Henry is vaulted through time, fearing the next stop could mean his demise, he is reminded that he’s not in control, and he never was. (There is this tension between fate and utter randomness going on, and I'm not sure what to make of it!) Although this could be characterized as a romance novel, there’s some pretty dark stuff going on. (Aside from brief mention in Clare’s childlike faith and disengagement with Christianity as an adult, God is not in the the picture.)

The knowledge that our lives aren’t in necessarily in our hands doesn’t make it any easier to go on, though, especially for a time traveler’s wife: “I go to sleep alone, and wake up alone. I take walks, I work until I'm tired. I watch the wind play with the trash that’s been under the snow all winter. Everything seems simple until you think about it. Why is love intensified by absence?” ponders Clare. I could, and I’m sure others would, give a whole host of answers to that question, but Clare hits on another conflict that does plague relationships: loneliness within the midst of companionship, both physical and psychological isolation. Clare and Henry’s all-too-familiar conflicts are heightened by their battle with time.

Upon finding out from its wikipedia page that Niffenegger views her novel as a metaphor for her previous failed relationships, I became more intrigued by the work as whole. Suddenly passages from the book can be seen in a new light, that of a woman waiting for love to come into her life.

I believe that the desire to love and be loved is the great desire of each and every person; I’d even go as far as to say that this desire, among other things, is part of what makes us human. Love is a reoccurring theme in the grand narrative of life: no matter what the culture, there’s a love story to be found, and not just love between lovers, but love for one’s children, family, friends, neighbors.

This novel has a sad ending. For those of you who’ve read it are aware, and for those of you who’ve not, don’t worry, I haven’t ruined it! (I found a good amount of cleverly laced foreshadowing in the text that it propels the plot forward with a slight sense of impending tragedy.)Don’t be discouraged by that, if anything, it makes for a good page-turner.

In a recent interview with Goodreads.com, Niffenegger confessed that she actually wrote the ending with a much darker twist, and then decided to revise it. I’m glad she did.

Because, in the midst of sorrow, this novel reminds us that there is hope. Hope in relationships, hope in love, the elements which we need to live and thrive and survive in this messy, mixed-up world.

beginner's mind

You must habit yourself to the dazzle of the light and of every moment of your life
-Walt Whitman, "Song of Myself"

It’s all too easy to slip into the constant hustle and bustle of life—the daily commute from here to there; cooking and cleaning and making oneself look presentable to the world; working out or making an effort to do some sort of movement so one doesn’t feel like a total slob; grocery shopping, errands, laundry . . . does this sound familiar?

Lately, I feel like I’ve been slipping. I find myself either too wrapped up in the minute goings on of work and home life, or I’m plagued by the opposite, just distracted by thoughts of what task I need to be finishing next, where I’m heading, and what I’m doing. Sometimes I just zone out in front of the couch watching Iron Chef after finishing my dinner. Is this my life? Shouldn’t I be doing something else? I feel as though I’m missing the point. What point? You know, the point. The dazzle of it all, the gift of life.

Perhaps it’s the weather. (If you’re anywhere in the Midwest right now you know what I’m talking about.)

Yet, more likely, it’s my attitude. The Danish philosopher Kierkegaard would probably say that my listlessness and lack of passion is simply a symptom of the human despair with which we are all ridden, though most of us aren’t cognizant of it. As depressing as that sounds, I’m pretty sure he’s on to something. Have you ever read the Moviegoer by Percy Walker? The protagonist Binx Bolling is the classic example of someone who goes through life without ever fully engaging himself in it. His relies on movies as an escape from the malaise of ordinary life, and the sense of restlessness he feels.

Do you ever feel restless?

I think I’ve been experiencing that sensation lately, but I’m trying to wrestle my way out of it. A couple weeks ago I finished Scott Russell Sanders’ touching and earnest memoir, A Private History of Awe. In it, Sanders reflects on his life, beginning with his childhood and moving on through adulthood, ending with the birth of his daughter; interspersed between those memory clips are moments that take place closer to present day, mostly his reflections on caring for his mother, who is deteriorating in old age, juxtaposed against the growth of his wide-eyed, young granddaughter. Sanders’ life isn’t extraordinary by any means, but that’s not really the point of this work. His writing is honest, poignant, elegant, and insightful. In his memoir, Sanders is able to lift up what so many of us long to do but often forget: those rare moments of enlightenment that can be only described as awe. So he says in the preface to his work:

I wish to recover, so far as possible, the freshness of apprehension that I behold in my granddaughter. . . . I have watched the baby meet the world with clear, open, wondering quality that Buddhists call beginner’s mind. When she sleeps she sleeps, and when she wakes she is utterly awake, undistracted by past or future, living wholly in the present.

It’s a wonderful book, certainly a worthwhile read, that shines light on everyday moments of illumination, standing in stark contrast to some memoirs that seem lack the humility and heart Sanders’ writing possesses.

Inspired by Sanders, I'm reminded of the beauty outside my cozy apartment . . .

Despite the unpleasantness of the cold, damp weather, it’s really been a glorious October week in Illinois. These dark October skies are perhaps the most breathtaking thing I've gazed at in a while. It’s my favorite time of year--the trees are now studded with shades of crimson, gold, and brown; the air is crisp and cool, fall flavors of apple, pumpkin, and cinnamon are in abundance in coffee shops and bakeries. Fall is also a time of death and dying, as nature prepares itself for the harsh winter ahead. Life, we are reminded, is oftentimes a constant state of flux, precious and delicate, brilliant and fading, like the seasons.

Like Scott, I wish to recover my beginner’s mind; I want to recognize the “dazzle and the light of every moment of [my] life.”