Author: ferylfiles

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.

Last night, I got to go with friends who are family to a Norah Jones concert held here in town. The music was great, the people watching remarkable, the weather cool enough to merit the colorful Mexican blanket I brought once the sun went down. I have a fond place in my heart for Norah Jones’ music. When I was in the history graduate program at the University of Cincinnati, her two albums Come Away with Me and Feels Like Home were on regular rotation in my little apartment.

A couple of songs in particular transport me to the emotions and sensations of that time. Partway into that first year of the history grad program, I took a shine to an Americanist–someone studying American history (unlike me, a Europeanist–super fun to say out loud). He was a captivating story-teller. He looked at the world with a bit of wide-eyed wonder and delight. He exuded playfulness and gratitude and he was so so smart. We ended up spending a lot of time together as we were incredibly companionable. We never dated, although that had been my hope, but I was too afraid of the rejection to ask who I was to him. He enjoyed my company, but didn’t see me in a romantic way. I suspect he was afraid of hurting my feelings in answering that unspoken question. I’m sure having someone looking with the eyes of adoration didn’t make it any easier for him, either.

Last night, when Ms. Jones played “Lonestar” and “What Am I To You?” I remembered so much of that time but in vignettes and flashes like memory does 20 years later. Since that time, I found a person with whom I knew who I was, to him, to me, to us. Then, a paradigm shift was foisted on me. So much of the time since has been this bobbing boat on choppy seas trying to figure out a new way of being. While in my grief and vulnerability, I found myself asking the same question in the song. Last night, though, something crystallized in my mind. With the right people, the answer to the question is obvious–with the friends I went to the concert with it’s easy and safe, warm and sunny. And with confidence, maturity and hard-earned wisdom, the question also becomes “What Am I To Me?”

For your listening pleasure:

Sometimes I want to share and not do a deep dive in writing while doing so. For your listening enjoyment, I’ve done some whimsical, possibly hilarious, self-analysis. Enjoy.

Songs that are not about me, but I wish they were:

1. “Baby Got Back” by Sir Mix-A-Lot

2. “Too Sexy” by Right Said Fred

3. “Fat Bottomed Girls” by Queen

Songs that could be about me, but I wish they weren’t:

1. “All Four Seasons” by Sting

2. “Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain” by Willie Nelson

3. “Just Like a Woman” by Bob Dylan

Songs that might be about me, and I’d be okay if they were:

1. “The Friendship Song” by Carbon Leaf

2. “All She Wants to Do is Dance” by Don Henley

3. “Legs” by ZZ Top

What’s on your list? 🙂

When I was a teenager, I would get really frustrated with around-the-bend thinking that permeated our home. “It’ll be better when…” we move out of this apartment, when the debts are paid, when I lose weight, etc. Milestones met only meant new bends up ahead.

I’d like to make a distinction between having goals for the future and around-the-bend thinking. A goal for the future might be getting specific training to do more specialized work in order to have a higher income and maybe a little less stress around bill-paying. Around-the-bend thinking is believing the new job that pays better due to the acquired skillset suddenly means all problems will disappear and happiness will reign forever and ever amen. I’m an absolute believer in setting goals and tackling them. I have no illusions that they will make me any happier, more peaceful or grateful than I am in this moment. Many of my greatest experiences, relationships built, joy nuggets discovered occurred in the interstitial spaces between goals.

I grew up in a faith with a very strong eschatological tradition. Really bad things will come right before the really good thing, in laymens terms. More specifically the time of trouble is the opening act before judgment and then (hopefully) heaven. The around-the-bend thinking is baked in. But there are a couple of things that I can’t help but consider. We are here now. Here. Now. This is our scope of influence. This time. This place.

Once, when I was much younger, I approached my Dad about this topic with a lot of fear and panic because the fear was baked in too. What did he think about the end days, the time of trouble, the last act of humanity on this planet? In his gentle wisdom he said, “Bec, we don’t know when our end of days is. It could be tomorrow, by a bus.” I’ve reflected on that a lot especially as I watch fires and wars, heck even pestilence occur. I have watched too many people I love have their end of days. I’m not trying to undermine anyone else’s faith. I’m still hammering mine out, that’s for sure. For me, for now, it is navigating this space and time with gratitude and a clear eye of what is. Around this bend, guess what, there’s another bend. But dang, the blue herons here are beautiful. The Queen Anne’s lace reminds me of my mama. And I’m happy to be.here.now.