Author: ferylfiles

Bryan was not a regular church-goer. He, like me, had periods of his life when he was. Usually it revolved around singing in choir. But for a time when Mary was young, he made it a cornerstone of his weekends with her, attending the local Methodist church a few blocks away. He referenced one particular sermon a lot and I’ve thought about it regularly as it coincided with his parenting philosophy. The parenting philosophy—kids won’t listen to you, but they will observe and follow your example. The sermon—you are a letter. The way you walk in the world is its own sermon, an epistle, if you will.

I think of the letters, specifically the love letters, I have observed over the last few years. Just before Bryan passed, my sister came to stay with us. I was hanging on by a thread, not doing very well, not eating well. I was sitting at my dining room table, shoulders hunched forward, feeling seventeen layers of agony. She gently placed before me a black bean and rice bowl with avocado, pico, hot sauce—every good thing I needed and hadn’t been eating. It was an arrow of love straight to my heart and stomach. She couldn’t have screamed I LOVE YOU louder from the top of a mountain with a full-throated yell as she had with that meal.

A few weeks later, my big brother Craig came to stay. He helped me pack up the Optune device which had become a black hole of despair in my home. “Too easy.” He got my oil changed and the car cleaned up—vacuuming leaves, making the dashboard and wheel walls shiny. The image of him helping in tasks that seemed insurmountable to me was a gift of love I’ll never forget. In quiet action and presence he yelled across the universe his love for his little sister, too.

I cite these examples as they’re the ones I replay the most in my mind and heart but know that I have been witness to many love letters in action. The men who spoke at Bryan’s service, the people who showed up for us in all the ways that matter most, in word and deed, are love letters I treasure always.

My kiddo is a letter that her parents wrote with love that she continues to write. Yesterday I got to watch her lead and love her community at the D&D finale at the public library. Mostly kids, but adults too, get to gather in a place where they are all welcome, their imaginations are celebrated, where high expectations are held. Mary creates that sense of welcome, respect, and adventure wherever she goes. It is an incredible gift to watch and read the letter she writes with her life.

Of course, my self-reflective nature kicks in. What kind of letter am I writing? What letter will people read of me in this world? Maybe, you, dear reader, will think about your letter, too.

Bryan really enjoyed teaching spin classes. He spoke of that time of his life with great fondness. He brought novices into a world of cycling and prepared them to achieve the one-day Seattle to Portland (STP) ride. I still meet new people who tell me about his classes. Bryan would talk about how important it is to get out of your head and into your body. He would talk about measuring exertion levels. Are you at a 4 or an 8? Can you talk easily or do you have to take deep breaths between words? He talked about how physical activity allows for the quelling of anxiety and the possibiity to reach “flow.” His preferred method–snow skiing. But he could easily find those places in running, cycling, sailing. It helped him achieve tremendous balance because he was a cerebral fellow too, endlessly curious, analytical, seeking.

When one’s world is in crisis, it’s easy for it to shrink. Maybe it does so by necessity. Ours certainly did. When Bryan was diagnosed with his second form of cancer–glioblastoma to be specific, our world shrunk to our house and the cancer center primarily. My world shrunk to Bryan’s care and occasional communication, and visits from our nearest and dearest. Diet, exercise, a life of the mind, robust creativity, all drifted away while I was hyperfocused. I wouldn’t change that. I wouldn’t know how to if I were placed in the same scenario knowing all I do now. The world shrinks and you adapt.

Now, nearly two years from his initial GBM diagnosis, my world has begun to expand again and part of that is trying to find that balance between the body and the brain. One of the consequences of high stress, poor diet (read too much sugar in its various forms), bad sleep, is high cortisol levels. My fight or flight had been on high ping for a long time. Upon recommendation from my sister, a healthcare professional, I began taking a supplement for adrenal health at the beginning of this year. (Your mileage may vary. This isn’t a medical journal. I’m not a doctor. Please don’t take something terrible then sue me…mmmkay?) For me, it has been really helpful. Combining that with increased activity, namely walking at Bennington and Mill Creek, has meant that I’m feeling more of that balance and getting healthier in the process.

In early-to-mid June I also got Invisalign; it’s the braces alternative for teeth-straightening. I’m to wear them on average about 20-22 hours a day. The process of taking them in and out is a pain. The nubbies they’ve glued to my teeth to help with the positioning are also incredibly irritating when the trays are out. They catch food, the inside of my cheeks, my tongue. Eating isn’t terribly enjoyable. A consequence of that is that I’ve lost weight. Two weeks ago today, I started a gym membership in order to build a foundation for the next Walla Walla winter. I’m tired of white-knuckling it when it’s gray and cold. I want to be mentally strong to navigate the inversions and less light. Well, a lack of calories combined with increased exertion and periodic migraines from the Invisalign mean that while I’m doing my damnedest to find that mind-body balance, I’m adding new variables to the field and having a hard time accommodating them. This has resulted in, you guessed it, higher anxiety and mood instability. A loving yet brief lecture from my bestie, a concurring opinion from my sister, helped remind me that I need to account for those new variables. Hello protein shake, my new friend.

I’ve used the ocean metaphor a lot because I think the nature of changing seas is apropos. Trimming sails, changing course, adapting to the wind and waves is pretty much what navigating life is like. The “there, I’ve made it” is such a pile of hogwash. Today, I saw my women’s health nurse practictioner for THAT visit. All is well and she gave me helpful tips and frankly just listened. These changing waters will continue with age should I be so lucky to get to.

Today’s is my oldest brother’s birthday. Todd was mythical to me when I was little. He was tall, handsome, funny, smart, and he went away a lot–boarding school, college, Alaska. I adored my big brother and he was the very first person to break my heart. He was imaginative, creative, so so smart, and funny. And he was always leaving. Todd had a spirit in struggle always.

Of my three siblings, he probably got under my skin the most because we’re very similar. The things that haunted his soul–dark thoughts, insecurities, a vicious internal editor, depression, fear–they also haunt mine, but for whatever reason to a lesser degree. That’s what makes Todd so remarkable, though, because no one fought harder against those things. No one. Every time he would get knocked down, often through a method of his own creation or invention, he would claw his way to the top of the next ridge to see the sunrise he sometimes welcomed and sometimes cursed.

I remember when I was little, if shadows or noises outside my bedroom window would scare me, he would go outside and spin a modified broomstick that morphed into his cleric-turned-paladdin’s staff and yell curses at the shadows haunting his baby sister. He would protect me.

Todd was the oldest. He was very tender and sensitive. He understood people. And he could charm them well–until he couldn’t. He was also the primary battleground upon which our parents fought. Todd brought us rock-n-roll and MTV and coffee icecream and truffles (my gateway drugs). He taught me chess. He was the ringleader of our group of four.

I still have voicemail messages from him with his booming “Hello, The Becc!” Todd died just a few weeks after we got Bryan’s diagnosis. I was already so numb that I didn’t even know how to process that. I still don’t. My big brother is gone. He left. Again. And my heart is still broken.

There’s an inevitable, awkward dance when you move into someone else’s home. Bryan and I had a lengthy courtship, for which I am incredibly grateful. When the time came to meld our lives together under one roof, we combined more than two households; it was more like four. His stuff, my stuff, his parents’ stuff, my Mom’s stuff all had to be dealt with as we navigated a new way of being together. Parts of it were great. We remarked for years afterward how much fun we had with the kitchen. We got to pick the very best elements to create a remarkable kitchen where we spent hours cooking with each other. Bryan laughed at how we would never need to buy ground cloves again. Ha! The books, furniture, clothes, took a little a longer.

We did have a storage unit for a while but were able to parcel things out to friends and ultimately sell the remainder at a yard sale. There was still an attic to tackle (still is) and the books never really got fully sorted until I did it by myself last year. Bryan was always gracious in sharing this space so that it would become truly ours. The new roof, porch, and paint color reflect that process. Some things remained very much Bryan–the garage and the basement for example, and the skis and poles leaned against the front entry wall all year long as a signature Lubbers decoration.

I’ve made quite a few visual changes to this space since Bryan passed. Part of it was to get a shift from the very small world we lived in for four and a half months. Part of it is permission I’ve given myself to keep living. Nevertheless, unintended shrines pop up and surprise me still. I’ve never needed the third drawer down in the bathroom. I have plenty of space for all my effects so I never found the need to change it. A couple of days ago, I was in a hurry and reached for the wrong drawer and opened it up–beard trimmer, electric razor, all the brushes and attachments stared up at me, unmoved and unchanged despite all that has occurred. I shut the drawer and sobbed.

I’ve talked a lot about how I’m navigating loss and processing living. A lot of you have been processing your own grief about Bryan, too. You know that I feel lucky that I got to be with my person and love him and be loved by him. But something crystallized in my brain this past week. Bryan was a guardian and protector of my heart. He was tender and gentle and so very kind even with the flawed, vulnerable, “flat sides” of my character. “I love all of you, Becci.” And he did. He did. And he protected my heart. Always. Even to the very end.

I found this little joy nugget amidst the dross one normally finds online. @ehimeora distills what I have been trying to do with my writing the last year and a half (almost two years if you can believe it) and with my art for over the last decade. I’m giving my pain (and joy) a place to live outside of me. This past January, I did a series of watercolor paintings that felt very much to me like meditations or prayers in a dark chapel. January in Walla Walla seemed like a very cold, dark chapel. This spring and summer, there has been joy and delight but also tumult and pain–a mixed bag is what I typically say to folks. Perpetual mixed bag.

I’ve started a series of five really large paintings (36″x48″), the counterpart or maybe continuation of the January watercolors. Here’s the first of those five. I call it “Like You Mean It,” a phrase that has an abundance of meaning for me and hopefully the layers and intensity of the colors and brushstrokes evoke that for you, too. Or maybe something else entirely. That’s the joy of art. I put my mixed bag of emotions out in the world and maybe it resonates with you, a chord struck, a link in space and time that connects us. And maybe not.

The big waves are too big to contain within. So I strive to not let my body be a coffin for my pain nor a selfish receptacle for my joy.