Against Wind and Tide: Letters and Journals, 1947-1986

by Anne Morrow Lindbergh

  I have thought, too, of you and me down on Pelican Beach—turning over lazily and covering up for planes, me, even if they were miles high, and your saying: “Think of that world up there. People in city clothes, stewards and stewardesses passing trays” (all cooped up in civilization!). And here I am cooped up in one of those worlds!

  I am so happy I had that week on the boat with the boys. You were right. It was a very special experience. Laughter waters the ground like tears.

  We are approaching Washington. I have written on and off all evening. It is a beautiful night. The great circle of Capella-Castor-Pollux-Procyon-Sirius—has kept pace with me outside my porthole.

  Someone did recognize me at the Miami terminal. A rather fat lady in trousers kept smiling at me and finally came up and said: “Has anyone ever told you, you look like Mrs. Lindbergh?”

  “Really? I thought (shrinking) she was a great big woman!”

  “No, just your size. Not your coloring though; she’s darker than you, dark eyes, complexion. You know who I mean, don’t you? Anne Morrow, who married Lindbergh?”

  “I know (attempt at levity!). I guess I must have a very ordinary face. People are always saying I remind them of somebody!”

  “Well—I guess we all come from the same family tree—ha-ha.”

  (Danger past!)

  Crowds of people on at Washington. Tempo up, everyone smoking. Someone next to me has just caught the plane, etc. Sense of tension.

  I feel our month is very precious now. The newspapers seem to me rather ominous: tide of Communist armies sweep over Yangtze, British sloop trapped, fired on, etc. And people saying we are headed toward war with Russia. Is it just that I haven’t seen any news for a month, or are things really tenser? I feel they are, yet there are signs that Russia is making feelers to break the blockade in Germany.

  Over Baltimore—I can’t write any more. Will mail this in N.Y. It has been an easy trip, but how far away I feel.

  Tomorrow will be a peaceful day with the children. I will call your mother in the evening and get to bed early. I shall be thinking of you coming north in the trailer. I wish I could have had that too, but I have had much.

  xo,

  A.

  12:15 a.m. La Guardia—intact with raincoat and bulging string bag—still holding. Daylight Saving starts tomorrow a.m. “The Sun rises in the East”!

  [1949]

  For Better or for Worse

  On the occasion of my twentieth wedding anniversary* I read over my marriage vows. They are still beautiful and simple and moving. After twenty years of marriage I would probably say them over again in exactly the same words today. And yet a strange aroma arises from those familiar phrases, like the pinched scent of dead rose leaves. What false and fairy-tale notions I, and almost everyone of my generation, had of marriage. How much we expected of it, and how little we knew of its real riches. We looked for roses where there were thorns and thorns where there were roses, and we could not see that the measure of marriage was neither in the thorns nor in the roses, but in the growth of the rosebush.

  What would I say—what would I promise—if I were starting over again today? If I, a middle-aged ghost, could project myself back in time and stand behind myself at age twenty at the altar? If I could whisper over the shoulder of my younger self, how would I annotate my marriage vows? Or, looking into the future, what can I put down for my three sons and my two daughters when they come to marry? (And I hope they all do.) What can I tell them of marriage? What kind of a pledge can I expect them to make?

  Marriage, we are told, is a relationship in the process of change. Is it marriage that has changed, or is it we ourselves who have become more honest in looking at the relationship, at ourselves, and at one another? The good marriages of the past—and those of the future—will, I believe, follow certain basic if not too rigid rules of human relationships, however much their participants may differ in the way they express themselves on these rules. Certainly I would express myself very differently today than I did twenty years ago. How then? cry my husband and my five children, challenging me. I start to write.

  Marriage Vows Annotated After Twenty Years

  I, a most imperfect person, take you, also imperfect, to be my husband, in that most imperfect but also most challenging and rewarding of all relationships—marriage.

  Since I know you are not perfect, I do not worship you. I have learned that worship of another human being is only a form of shirking one’s responsibility, a shifting of the burden to another’s shoulders. (I cannot accomplish this difficult task but you, O Superior Being, can do all!) Worship, I believe, is a burden too great for the human frame to bear and in the end is degrading to both the worshipper and the worshipped. On this earth one is permitted only to worship God.

  I do not promise to obey you. Not that I do not long, with all of a woman’s traditional desire to submit, to serve you hand and foot. But I know that this very natural desire to find myself a master is actually a selfish one and will not really serve you. I would not debase you by assuming that you want a slave.

  I do not promise to love you. Of course, I do love you, deeply, sincerely, humbly. But to promise to feel exactly this way always would be like promising never to grow a gray hair. (I have many already.) It would be like the rose promising never to put forth a new bud. I cannot make a promise against time, against growth, against life. It would be perjury. These are my marriage vows, and I will not lie to you.

  I do not look on marriage as a solution to any of my problems. On the contrary, I know that marriage will be a mirror for them, and that my imperfections will show up with merciless clarity under that naked light. But I will try not to be ashamed to have you see them. I will try not to hide them but, rather, to work on them in the advantage of that added illumination. In fact, I consider the sharing and working at problems together to be the challenge—perhaps even one of the deepest functions—of marriage: the perpetually unavoidable and, in fact, desirable friction which keeps the marriage and its partners alive and growing.

  On the other hand, I do not promise to live up to any idealized image you may have of me. Please do not put me on a pedestal. Being adored is very close to being despised. It is the reverse side of the same coin, and one is apt to follow the other.

  Neither will I ask you to live up to an idealized image I may have of you. I do not consider myself wise enough to be your judge or your mentor, to know what path of growth you will take. Nor do I expect to be your only nourishment in that growth, to provide you with everything: sun, rain, soil, and air. I will try to stand back and let your growth take whatever nourishment it needs, wherever it may find it. I trust in your growth.

  I do not expect marriage to fill my essential loneliness, nor do I hope to fill yours, having learned that everyone is, in the last analysis, alone, and believing this is not something to grieve about but to rejoice in. Rather, I promise to respect and protect your aloneness, knowing that everything created must have its period of darkness: child and bulb, poem and personality. I promise not to pry into your loneliness, never to tear at the bud with frightened fingers to make sure there is a flower inside. I believe in the flower.

  I have faith, too, in the direction of the flower, in the orientation of your growth. I feel this orientation, this basic intent toward life, to be similar to mine. And it is this basic sense of values, this orientation, that we share, that I feel justifies our marriage, our entry into this difficult and imperfect state together, and our bringing into the world children to whom we can give as a heritage—perhaps the only heritage—this common orientation. But I do not expect our common orientation to be carried out in both of our lives in exactly the same way. I would hope it might rather take parallel lines, for I believe that the infinite richness of marriage comes more from the exchange of differences than from complete identification of interests.

  To cherish? Yes, I promise to cherish you. For to cherish is to feel compassion. I hope and pray that I may feel this al
ways, not only for you but, because of you and through you as a lens, more and more compassion for all.

  I promise then to respect you, to honor you as one of God’s representatives on earth. I honor the spark of the divine in you. I will believe in this spark, even when I cannot see it, even when it is obscured, in sickness and in health, in poverty and in riches. I believe in it now and until—and after—Death us do part.

  Amen.

  Tuesday, November 29th, 1949 [DIARY]

  Raining—as usual when I go to town. Take the train, which is restful & write Mrs. L.* on the way in. Long dentist’s apptmt. Pick up my glasses. Get money from bank for C. & me. Stop at Guild Bookshop for two angels for Christmas (this is the right part of Christmas). Meet Stewart Preston—art critic of Times who had supper with us Sat. eve. (I am still feeling warm from that eve.—& not yet self-critical.) And it is nice to see him—I liked him immediately. Intelligent—charming—with a kind of American directness—an attractive American—sensitive & aware & rather healthy I should judge. Profound? No. To Cos. Club after trying to catch Evie.… Back to Margot’s† for tea with Rajagopal‡ (Krishnamurti’s great friend). He is v. perceptive—honest & practical. We talk England—Germany, etc. He thinks England is much better in morale than two years ago. C. comes in at end & they talk briefly & rather well & I am pleased—since both are basically shy. Then C. & I walk to the Plaza to dine with the Frank Lloyd Wrights. They are alone—up in their room. And she is pouring out drinks. There is no sherry—which I prefer. So rather than ask for what they haven’t got, I ask for a “very weak old-fashioned.” It is so weak that it gives me no lift at all but only irritates C. who disapproves of “hard liquor.” Mrs. W. takes me into the bedroom & talks to me about her early life with Gurdyev.* “I had beauty—brains—talent—youth—I gave him all—all!” I am completely bewitched listening to her & watching her gestures. “For I was a vairry beautiful woman. Ayvairyone wanted me—ayvairyone!” Then she went through the most realistic gestures of plucking these leech-like admirers off her knees & legs & hurling them from her! “For I wanted more!” Then she also described how G. felt that people were all machines running hither & thither (her beautiful fingers scurrying over the table like mice to illustrate), slaves to their habits, emotions, passions, etc. And how one must train the will to fight against these slave-driving emotions “to pull against ten thousand bulls—it would be easy (Mrs. W. is now standing up, one foot braced in front of her, pulling back hard—the reins in her hands) compared to fighting against one’s emotions,” etc., etc. We talk about grief too (here she is realest I feel) & how one must “consume one’s grief,” not forget it—as most people do. I say I think one’s grief must ripen in one—like a child—until it becomes flesh & blood. And quote that line of C. Day Lewis: “He bore transplanting into a common ground.” And tell her a little of how I felt at E.’s death.

  She is still very beautiful, bone-beautiful … and dramatically exciting—old as the moon—with some of the moon’s magic & some of the moon’s sinister quality. I can’t help feeling that G. was black magic & that the whole sect is prodigiously arrogant. Anything that exalts man’s will to that extent seems to me arrogant. It is “super-man” stuff all over again—in an intellectualized & precious field. And then she married a super-man—in Frank Lloyd Wright. He, of course, is not black magic—& despite the Welsh background—seems to me terribly American—energy—genius—showmanship—independence—humor—arrogance—and a kind of “social mysticism.”

  The evening does not go very well. We sit in an ornate plushy German nineteenth century dining room & eat $2.75 apiece chops. I can’t really continue on the “ten thousand wild bulls” level of conversation with her—& general conversation breaks down. C. & FLW disagree on “War-as-a-means-of-settling-anything.” So I take him on on reconstruction in Germany & it goes better.

  Still it is an uncomfortable evening. C. is disturbed & I don’t know why until I can talk to him walking back to the car & get things straightened out. I am too tired at night & sleep badly.

  [DECEMBER 12TH, 1949, DIARY]

  C. says he thinks marriage is “the most perfect relationship on earth.” I think the relationship of mother & child is the most perfect.

  On train, Washington to New York

  Sunday evening, December 18th, 1949

  Dear Farmor,*

  Charles and I are on the train coming back from Washington. Last night C. received the Orville and Wilbur Wright Award at a big dinner at the Statler Hotel. It was packed with people—very dignified and moving evening. It was a big occasion with all the trappings—many uncomfortable ones like Movietones† and glaring lights, however it was all handled with the dignity of the occasion.

  I don’t suppose C. felt very happy up there making his speech and facing the lights and the cameras, but he spoke well—the best of the evening—a serious and impressive speech, and got tremendous applause. The citation read of his long record of service to aviation and his country, was very impressive and covered completely his war record and pre-war record. For me it was a most dignified and overwhelming testament to his life of contribution. A kind of justification and righting of the record for all to see.

  The children are well and very busy over Christmas. Scott has made me a table I have stumbled over a hundred times (he keeps hiding it in different places!). I missed Reeve as an angel in her Christmas play. This is a rather tired train-note, but I wanted you to know what a real triumph it was last night.

  Captiva

  March 13th [1950]

  Dear Jon,

  Evie Ames and I have just chased an ENORMOUS spider out of the house. Big and furry, about the circumference of a grapefruit. Also the woman next door found 4 “Palmetto rats” in four bureau drawers. Palmetto rats are the largest rodents in existence and live up in the palmetto trees and “drop down” occasionally! I wish you were here! Do you remember the spider that made Father jump on the boat? This was his grandfather!

  Love,

  Mother

  Captiva

  March 13th [1950]

  Dear Land,

  Some seahorses for you! I have never seen one—aren’t they beautiful? The pelicans are still diving for fish in the bay and the sandpipers running on the sand. I haven’t been swimming yet. But today our rented bicycles came on the mail-boat. We found them leaning against a Banyan tree by the post office and we rode them home and collected our groceries on the way. I wish you were here to cook for me.

  Love,

  Mother

  xo

  Captiva

  March 13th [1950]

  Dear Ansy,

  All the little wading sandpipers on the beach running in a row after the waves make me think of dancing school or a ballet. I wish you could see them.

  Very soon now it will be your vacation. I wish you would send me a poem. I am riding a bicycle about as big as yours. Is Father back? Give him my love, and love to you.

  Mother

  Captiva

  March 13th, 1950

  Dear Scott,

  This made me think of you and Dana White putting two horns into your mouth at once and trying to blow them.

  I have the picture of you and Reeve setting out on your “adventure” in my bag.*

  I hope you are all well now and can go to school and have some fun on vacation. We have a big turtle in our back yard. He lives in a sand hole behind the house.

  Love xo

  Mother

  Captiva

  March 13th [1950]

  Dear Reeve,

  How are you? Is Father home? Have you shown him how you can skate—and skip? Give him a kiss and a hug for me.

  There are lots of butterflies here.

  And woodpeckers on the trees.

  And a pussy-cat comes to eat what we haven’t finished of our cereal bowls.

  Love,

  Mother

  Miami Airport

  March 23rd, 1950

  Dearest C.,

 
; I have just tried to call you in Connecticut—person to person, reversing the charges. But you were reported off on a trip not back for a week or two. I feel let down and had expected to hear your voice and have a few words with you.

  And to ask your advice! Yes—Friday I got a wire (in the mail!) from Adelaide† asking me to fly over to Nassau! And—on the spur of the moment I decided to go for a few days. It is something like $34.00 round trip from Miami and fifty-five minutes! I don’t want to be there for more than a weekend—because I really want the solitude of Captiva. But I would love to see them and I have been yearning to smell Nassau again after twenty years—I haven’t been there since the winter before we were married, with Elisabeth. And I kept remembering your saying “you ought to go off and take trips more.” So I hope you approve. I feel very daring and very gay, suddenly picking up from Captiva this a.m. (after a normal breakfast) and landing in Nassau this p.m. The air age still staggers me.

  But the silence has gone out of aviation, as you said—the solitude and the silence and the connection with reality. I can hardly believe it is the same medium you and I used to travel in. These stupendous plushy air terminals, with every comfort except silence and solitude and air. A “Musak” Victrola is playing syrupy tunes endlessly. It never stops. Yes, sometimes, for an instant—but it is not a real silence but only pauses between sounds.

  Now in Captiva, silence is a phenomenon, like love. It has been beautiful, now I feel well. Early morning swims, nights under a cupful of stars. And less people every day. By the end of March, or the end of the first week in April, there will be scarcely anyone except the islanders who are so very nice and simple and real and kind.

  I love having just a bicycle. It limits your circle. (And think of the money I’ve saved! Feminine like—I feel I have earned the trip to Nassau by having a bicycle and not a car!)