Author: ferylfiles

Yesterday evening, one of my neighbors, Cheryl, was walking down the alleyway behind my house while I was sitting on the back patio listening to music and enjoying a cold beer. She hadn’t seen my red brick patio yet so she came back to take a look. While she was there, Pierre, my shaman-guru-minister-to-my-soul neighbor, and a buddy of his staying with him and Sue for a while joined in. We chatted about Lincoln Creek and the work the skilled laborers had done. Cheryl continued on her walk and Pierre and Todd stayed to enjoy the Coors they brought with them (and one for me).

We visited about house projects and trees and angels walking among us. We talked about how much of life is really good even in the midst of loss. We spoke of gratitude and what it means to have your heart turned off and the work needed to turn it back on.

Bryan knew the importance of gathering places, especially in the interstitial spaces between the public and private. Those buffering zones allow us to share a little more intimately with our community–deeper conversations than a tip of the hat and “how do?” on the sidewalk.

I have made sometimes glib comments about “church of the porch” or “church of the patio,” but I think spaces where people can be open and vulnerable with each other even in small measure helps us to be more connected. Those connections are bonds forged, fabric woven.

In the immediate aftermath of Bryan’s passing, I wrote and spoke of feeling adrift–a boat untethered in stormy seas. My friends and family have thrown buoys and lifelines of encouragement, reminders of the truth of myself. In more recent days, I’m rediscovering and redefining Becci.

Sure, my heart aches. I want Bryan to see the patio and the stream repair. I want him to see all the changes I’ve made in this home, in my art, in my work, in my pursued interests. I showed Mary the patio first upon its completion. No one had worked harder moving those bricks from place to place as a kid. She got the privilege of the first viewing. While standing there admiring the skilled laborers’ work, I said I hoped Bryan would have liked it and been proud. Mary, in her wisdom, gently, firmly said, “But Becci, do you like it?” Yes. Yes I do.

I am finding my confidence again, my voice again. A man who came into the office today called me sweetheart. I told him to please not do that as only one person on this planet had the right to do so and he was dead. In my more vulnerable, squishy moments, I might have let it pass. But no, this is a boundary for me. And I told him so. I also thanked him for his apology later.

Just as I paint a canvas with deliberate brush strokes and a wild array of colors, I am constantly creating a life and way of being I choose in the same way–vivid, passionate, full of energy and emotion, and color…so much color.

I’m no Amazonian princess. I still have weepy, vulnerable days. I had one recently at work. My boss recommended a song by an artist I admire and enjoy quite a bit as a pick-me-up. I share it with you now in case you have felt untethered, unsure, and need a little reminder of who you are, too.

I know a guy who used to drive a bunch of us kids to summer camp, inventing riddles and puzzles to pass the time, buying us breakfast that consisted of Belgian waffles with the works.

I know a guy who would take us tubing in the snow in the mountains or for REALLY long hikes or to put up a bluebird house just for us.

I know a guy who would put teenagers and unemployed 20-somethings to work doing odd jobs around his house.

I know a guy who has a yearly tradition of sending cookie care-packages to kids who are away from church.

I know a guy who could organize a field hospital in a blizzard with one arm tied behind his back and make everyone involved feel like they were part of something really important.

I know a guy with a big heart and more energy than ten average people.

I know a guy who walks his talk and his faith.

I know a guy who loves unreservedly, unabashedly, and with honor.

I know a guy who did everything he could and he still had to let go.

I know a guy who will carry that love forward.

You never forget the first adult who really treats you like an adult. For me, that’s Lynn Rattray. I was probably about ten, maybe eleven, I couldn’t say for certain. It was definitely in the midst of my parents’ divorce and while we still lived in Yakima. I had some mistaken ideas about a few things and guessed at the reasons behind them, then voiced those guesses. There I was in her living room, my best friend’s mom, my mom’s best friend–elegant symmetry. She explained the truth of things that were hard for me to hear and she was firm, direct. For the longest time, I thought she didn’t like me because she had done that. Most adults I knew danced around partial stories and euphemisms, no doubt as a form of perceived protection. This woman loved and respected me enough to tell me straight. I didn’t figure that out for a while, but man when you grow up and see the full picture of things, you know what that means. That means someone loves you a whole lot.

Bryan was direct like that. He used to quote a grandmother: “there is nothing so cold as a discussion and nothing so full of love as a fight.” We could argue the semantics, but at it’s core the difficult conversations, maybe even loud, difficult conversations are fueled by the hope of getting to the other side of it with more understanding, more growth, more love. Our respective communication styles were our biggest hurdle but also our greatest source of growth and understanding. Bryan was an external processor. He liked lots of people and heated arguments to fine tune his ideas, sharpen things. I’m an internal processor. I ponder alone, sometimes for days to really flesh out what I’m thinking. Seldom do I react in the moment because I usually want the right words, the precise thing. So there we would be mid-argument and I would say “I’ll have to think about that.” And I legitimately would. A few days later, I could come back to him and continue the discussion. He had to learn patience. I had to learn to process quicker. Every argument we ever had was a rung on a ladder toward a better relationship.

Lynn’s directness, much like Bryan’s has been one of her superpowers. Those of us who know and love her can take a page out of her book. When love is the source, the difficult conversations are always worth it.