Evidence of a Life Well Lived
I will not stop looking at what magic around me gives shape to my life. There are beautiful moments tucked away in this messy story.
Who had “1960s New England garden memoirs” on their 2023 bingo card? Not me. Yet, here I was, savoring Jean Hersey’s “The Shape of a Year,” a month-by-month memoir of one woman’s life in Connecticut. Not much is known about Hersey or her book, except that she apparently published many Women’s Day articles in the 50s and 60s and gave talks on gardening and housekeeping. In “The Shape of a Year,” Hersey records the everyday moments of her semi-rural life, each chapter of the book marking a month in 1965.
To be honest, I’m not even sure how I came across the book. But Hersey’s perspective on her life in her home in Connecticut drew me in. Her tendency to find significance in the smallest things kept me reading: in the icicles on her roof, the orchids in her greenhouse, the deer outside her window, her toddling grandson Miles and the treasures he’d find for her outside, and the evenings of quiet solitude she had with her husband.
The book itself comes across a shade too syrupy-sweet and optimistic1. Nonetheless, while I found myself wondering what other things may have been going on in this woman’s life that she chose not to include—surely it couldn’t have been this blessed and delightful every day of the year?—I liked the banality and positive outlook Hersey shared whenever I picked up the book. I looked forward to escaping to a simpler time, however rose-colored it may have been, perhaps because my own life feels very much not like that.
I did find myself appreciating how Hersey found such utter magic in her surroundings, conveying how these gave shape to not only her year but to her life as a whole.
There is certainly a place in my life for more wonder, delight, and simplicity. When my circumstances feel like sloshing waves and I’m just barely treading water, I appreciate being reminded of the little bits of magic blooming in my life. And those little pinpricks of joy are enough to keep me moving forward.
Couched in between the Pollyanna-esque descriptions of her life, Hersey had moments of profundity that still feel relevant sixty years later. Here’s what she wrote about the month of March:
“This is the March of it. The wind that blows in such restlessness, loose-end feelings, yearnings, and confusions, also, in due time, blows them out. It has to because it is time to clear the woods of brush and dead branches, to prune the roses, and get on with spring.”
In Persian culture, the new year is celebrated on the first day of spring. Those who celebrate spend weeks leading up to the vernal equinox in March deep cleaning their home. Hersey’s thoughts on the month reminded me of this ritual, called khooneh takooni in Farsi, which translates to "shaking the house."
For people who partake in khooneh takooni, it is so much more than spring cleaning. Furniture is pulled out and the dust is wiped underneath. Any clothes or objects taking up space are donated to someone in need.
Area rugs are lugged out of homes, waiting to be scrubbed clean and left to dry while hanging out of windows or draped over gates and stone walls. Every crevice of the house is dusted, mopped, and decluttered.
This tradition, among many others for Persians, celebrates spring conquering winter, light squashing out darkness—order overcoming chaos. The tidying of homes is a purification practice that puts behind all the anguish and challenges of the past year. (This tradition takes on a particularly poignant significance as Iranians are in their sixth month of protesting against their government.)
I like how this communal ritual of deep cleaning coincides with what the month of March does according to Hersey: where spring pulls forward and winter pulls back. March welcomes the blowing in and sweeping out of our restlessness and yearnings.
“Shaking the house” to welcome spring’s arrival is a way to let go of things no longer needed and make room for whatever will come in the new season.
Wouldn't it be nice if we could shake out our homes and things would be set right? That the fractured parts of our routines would come back together with a snap of a rug, a swipe of a rag across a windowpane, a broom over a floor?
But life is messy, and not everyone gets a tidy story. I've learned that lesson over and over again.
Late on New Year’s Eve this past year (the Gregorian calendar New Year’s Eve, that is), our dishwasher clogged and flooded the kitchen, sending a deluge of water in rippling waves across the floor, soaking through the rug, and flowing under the fridge.
The first minute or two after discovering the swamp in the kitchen was full of stress-charged chaos between my husband and me. Because we had just put our daughter to bed for the night across the hall, we were soundless, hissing orders at each other in whispers and glares. We had also just booted up Netflix and set out the fancy Christmas chocolate and wine (a wild and crazy NYE, I know), now abandoned in the living room.
Like two parents of a toddler, though, the shock of the mess quickly wore off and we just as swiftly shifted into damage control. We’d experienced one too many unexpected chaotic situations in parenthood—blowouts on airplanes, meltdowns in grocery store aisles, spilled bags of rice across the carpet—to let this rattle us too much. Like soldiers rising to the task to win the battle, we rolled up our pant legs, said a silent prayer that the water was not dripping down into our landlord’s kitchen below us, grabbed the bucket and mop, and got to work.
An hour later, things looked better albeit still chaotic: the soaked rug was rolled up out of the way ready to be dealt with in the morning, the dishwasher was pulled out and gutted, all its parts cleaned and drying on the countertops. Water was probably still pooling under the fridge, neither of us having the energy nor care to move any more large appliances.
Well, happy new year to us, I said sarcastically while hosing off my feet in the shower. Such a wonderful omen for 2023. My pant legs were still rolled up and the knuckles on my hands were red from scrubbing behind the dishwasher.
Well, technically, my husband says, drying off his own worn hands on the bathroom towel and checking his watch, it’s still 2022. Tomorrow is a fresh start.
Superstitions are common in this part of the world, and it is said that if something breaks—a plate, a carton of eggs, a glass pitcher—it's a sign of good luck. Bad news was coming your way, but the shattered pieces have pushed the misfortune out. The accidental mess lying at your feet has protected your home.
I don’t know if standing ankle-deep in dirty dishwasher water counts as something breaking according to the superstition. It is a mess though.
But I’ll take a cue from a delightful gardening memoir written by a 1960s housewife: Things happen. Things break. We put them back together. We grow. We hope. Life moves on, around us, and through us, for it all shapes us.
As I forge ahead in motherhood, shouldering layer upon layer of uncertainty, I will not stop looking for evidence of a life well lived. I will not stop looking at what magic around me gives shape to my life. There are beautiful moments tucked away in this messy story, broken pieces that when put together form something new. And maybe that something new will turn into something good.
So let’s prune the roses, and get on with spring.
Disclaimer: Jean Hersey was very much a product of her time. She mentioned some unnecessarily toxic dieting stuff, her infuriation with her grandson who came to visit her with hair like the Beatles (which she describes as looking like a moving thatched roof), and loved to wax on about woman’s duties in the home and how homemaking was inherently a feminine interest. It was certainly the 60s.
This is such a well-written book review and connecting essay. Really enjoyed it, Sarah, and I’m putting this book on my list.
I needed this today Sarah. Your writing and thoughts are always wonderful - but I really needed a reminder to look for the magic. Thank you.