Author: ferylfiles

Resolving the Chord

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In (tonal–I should be specific since I’m not an expert) music theory, there is a home chord that sets the basis for the piece/movement in a particular key. This is where things are stable, at rest. The music needs to have tension to be interesting, but the resolution back to that home chord gives a sense of release and relief. The complexity of this dynamic gives music drama, intrigue, a reason to listen. Am I painting with a very broad, novice’s brush, yes, yes I am. That’s okay, it’s my blog and I’ll write how I want to.

Life is less like a 3-minute rock song with obvious chord progressions and resolutions–tension followed by relief–and more like a jazz jam session with amateurs. We have an idea of what’s going on, we may know some of the chords, but we’re kind of doing our own solo hoping for the best, and sometimes it sounds great and sometimes it sounds like hell.

We don’t always get the relief of the chord resolution. What happens next? Is the problem fixed? What do they think of me? What did I do wrong? Will the villain get punished? Will the aggrieved get justice? Do the good guys win in the end? Bryan often used to say that “we’re not in control of the outcome.” I think of that so often and he was right. We’re not. We do our best. We play the notes we know as well as we can and then hope things turn out. Sometimes they do. Sometimes they don’t. And sometimes, we don’t get to know the outcome at all. It doesn’t make the longing for resolution go away, but with time and wisdom, perhaps we can let it go and just enjoy the music for what it is. Maybe we find our own home chord and go back there when the tension is too high–nature, prayer, communing with friends, creation, gratitude. Those are my home chords. What are yours?

Kintsugi

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When I was a little girl in one of our houses in Yakima, I remember jump-roping in the living room. My delight and play turned to chagrin when the rope looped around a porcelain figurine of bright red cardinals, a treasure my mom cherished because it reminded her of seeing those beautiful birds in Ohio. The look of horror, sorrow, and anger on her face still haunt me to this day. I didn’t mean to break anything, least of all this prize possession, but my intent didn’t matter when the damage was done. Unfortunately, there was no possibility for restoration with superglue or gold dust. I had to acknowledge that my carelessness hurt her and broke something irreplaceable. It’s a tough lesson to learn when you’re six. It continues to be a tough lesson no matter the age. Fortunately, my mom didn’t ever hold a grudge on that score. I just wasn’t allowed to jump rope inside the house anymore.

Kintsugi, the traditional Japanese technique and art for fixing broken pottery gives me a little bit of hope. (Go with me on this metaphor, pretty please.) In this tradition, pottery is mended with a lacquer dusted with powdered gold. The effect is extraordinary. The broken part is no longer something to be hidden or even grieved, but the repair turns the whole piece into something completely new and beautiful. Perhaps it is so when we work through hurt caused by careless words or actions. Maybe grace and joy, and most of all love, are the kintsugi gold to our hearts.

Insomnia-induced Creative Writing…?

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Her phone battery died 15 minutes ago. The B&B she had reserved for a weekend getaway loomed frustratingly close, but she hadn’t brought a map or memorized the route. Her charger?  Back at the apartment in a different purse. Kicking herself, desperately needing to use the restroom, and weary with exhaustion from a long drive and an even longer week, Rose pulled up to a house with warm lights glowing. Weighing risk and reward in a two-pan balance, she knocked on the door, hoping against hope a sweet grandma type would let her in to use the loo and maybe have easy directions to her lodging.

Rose knocked once and waited. Then knocked again. Surely someone had to be home. She remembered how she left a living room lamp on in her apartment to give the illusion someone was home. Frantic, she started surveying the bushes and shrubs as possible cover. Things were going from desperate to crisis when finally the door opened. 

“Excuse me, sorry to bother you, but I’m lost and really need to use the bathroom,” she exclaimed in a rush.  When the very rumpled, sleepy man at the door gestured her in and pointed the way to the bathroom, Rose wasted no time. Locking the door and taking care of business, she relaxed enough to realize what she had just done and what might happen.

“Oh my God, I’m going to be a Dateline warning story,” she thought. After washing her hands and looking around, she noted the room was tidy, clean without giving off serial killer vibes. Okay, maybe she’d lucked out and would be able to leave unscathed. Dumb bladder. Dumb water bottle of which she had consumed the entirety. Dumb dead phone. She chuckled when she noticed she had grabbed her bear spray but not her phone charger. Classic Rose.

Hands dried, bear spray tucked up her left sleeve, she threw her shoulders back and opened the door. While she had solved one very urgent problem, she had created about seventeen more. 

“Thank you so much, I appreciate that, I’ll just be on my way.”

“Hold on a minute. What in the hell are you doing driving alone in the middle of the night in unfamiliar territory? And why in the name of Frank Sinatra are you knocking on doors of complete strangers?! Are you trying to get yourself killed?” His voice scratchy with sleep still had a booming quality. No one ever yelled at Rose. She was sweetness incarnate. Her eyes began to well up, her jaw set and her fists clenched.  Just as she was about to give this stranger a piece of her mind in his living room, she stopped to notice he wasn’t wearing a shirt. A nice amount of chest hair trailing down to gray sweatpants and bare feet. His hair was sleep-rumpled and he had creases on his right cheek from the pillowcase. 

“Um, could you tell me how to get to the bed and breakfast nearby?”

“You’ve got to be kidding me. Of course, you’re the writer Sam told me was coming. That makes so much sense.”

“Sam? You mean Ms. Fairbanks?”

“Yeah, my sister. I’ll show you the way. It’s not far, but it’s tricky directions at night. Don’t you have a cell phone?”

“Yes, but I forgot my charger at home.”

The look he pierced her with had Rose equal parts furious and breathless. 

“My name is Rose, by the way.”

“I know. Now let’s go.”

As she got in her car, a number of sailor-worthy expletives escaped her mouth. The grumpy stranger hadn’t even given his name. How rude. She followed him for 15 minutes around winding curves and backroad turns. She would have been lost for sure if she hadn’t stopped. But it was hard to be grateful when she was still seething with anger and unable to stop thinking about the striking figure in gray sweatpants. Whatever this retreat was meant to be, it certainly wouldn’t be restful. “But it won’t be boring either,” Rose said aloud. At that, she smiled for the first time in a long time.

Breathe

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We’re not supposed to breathe under water. We don’t have gills. We crawled out onto land ages ago and really are only meant to visit on top in boats or swimming. But, I’m a little bit stubborn and don’t like being told what to do, so I picked one of the most challenging activities I could think of to thumb my nose at another “should.”

I had signed up initially to take a February class and do the checkout dives near the end of that month. Unfortunately, I wasn’t quite ready so I was invited to retake the class. Boy am I glad I did because I had a couple of patient instructors who firmly but kindly pushed me to be successful.

The four checkout dives occurred this past weekend–two on Saturday and two on Sunday. In order to be considered for certification, each student had to meet benchmarks and demonstrate safety skills in the open water, much as we had done in the pool. No one can explain to you what it feels like to be covered head to toe with gear–boots, wetsuit, bc unit, tank, weights hood–and then slog to the stairs leading down to the water. It’s heavy dry. It’s even heavier climbing out of the water, up the steps, and back up a tiny incline to the parking lot–the soggiest backpack ever.

On each dive we had to demonstrate skills like controlled descents and ascents, neutral buoyancy, full mask removal and replacement, stationary shared air, shared air ascent…these are the main ones I can think of, don’t worry there was a specific checklist and it got signed off on by the instructors. Scuba is a mental game. I’m still breathing. I’m still breathing. I’m breathing so I’m okay. Breathing. Just breathe. And the next thing you know, THERE’S A STARFISH! Sea cucumbers, crabs, anemones, and we even got to see the tiniest little nudibranch (looked like a fuzzy caterpiller).

I can’t tell you the number of times in this process, I thought I wanted to quit. I don’t want to do this. It’s crazy. Who would want to do this. But then I’d think, well maybe I’ll quit after class is over. Or maybe after this dive. But little successes build. They build confidence and momentum and a skillset even. So there I was on the fourth dive, swimming along with my dive buddy, giving the okay sign frequently and absorbing all the wonder of this new-to-me environment.

Once that last dive was over, I was euphoric. High even. It wasn’t just pride over achievement, although that was definitely part of it. It wasn’t just relief at being done, because I’ll be honest this was a tough road and I’m tired, and it was part of it too. But the overwhelming sense of WONDER blew me away. I got to visit another world and be out of the ugliness of this one for 29 minutes at 49 feet. Breathing steadily, holding the hand of my dive buddy, assured that my instructor had my back.

We all have to do hard things life throws at us whether we like it or not. And we do them maybe with grace, maybe loudly complaining, maybe not altogether elegantly, but we do them. Sometimes, however, we get to choose the hard thing and triumph so that it becomes a less hard thing. Then it turns into a cool thing and eventually into a fun thing.

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Touch Grass

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This is a phrase that’s been bandied about the house over the past couple of months, lovingly, even if a little pointedly. (laugh with me) Every part of our lives seems to have some digitization, online presence, or app. I find it annoying, jarring, and addictive. It’s not great. And a lot of it, while feeling very real, vanishes into to vapor really quickly. Texts, emails, IM messages, all give the sense of connection and in many ways they do if there’s already an established relationship, but the bandwidth is narrow and it’s not a replacement for in-the-world activities and interactions. With that in mind, my nephew has encouraged me in this new year to get involved in activities. “Touch grass, Aunt Becci.” He was specific. “Don’t just do activities you already like with people you already know–branch out.” So I took his advice.

I decided to schedule scuba classes during the month of February. This month is a difficult one because it’s the anniversary of Bryan passing. (Three years hardly seems possible.) Why not choose an activity that scares me and seems really difficult both physically and mentally? The first day in the pool, I almost got out and left. Swimming has been a part of my life since I was a kid. I learned from older siblings, I spent nearly every summer from the time I was nine until I was 16 in a pool. Ohio University offered a variety of swimming, diving, and aqua aerobics PE classes and I took every one while attending undergrad. But I’d only been snorkeling once when I was eleven. I don’t swim with a mask, or snorkel, or fins. My breathing became rushed and panicked. The instructors have been endlessly patient with me. Once I practiced with my mask and snorkel, practicing with the regulator and BC device came next. Swimming is about being fast and strong. Scuba is about being deliberate, calm, slow, and methodical. It’s counter-intuitive to my body’s muscle memory which I’m paintstakingly retraining for this new skill.

Being present. Being calm. Just breathing. Slow. Steady. Focused. Relaxed. All of this is the essential while also carrying a buoyancy vest with weights, an air tank, the regulator, the back-up, the gauge, and the inflator hose. Scuba is physics, anatomy and physiology, marine biology, psychology, and philosophy. It’s a lot to pack into one month and I’ll admit, I’m disappointed I’m not ready to take my test yet, but I’m incredibly proud that in every class, I’ve progressed and learned. I’ve touched grass. More classes are on the horizon, but I’m glad for more practice at developing the muscle memory. And maybe it’ll be just a little bit warmer when I do my open water dives.

Beyond the physical and mental challenges, I’ve had the opportunity to meet several kind, patient, professional, interesting instructors who have helped me go from nearly walking away to increasing confidence and competence. I’m also one of four students and the only woman. The guys have been kind and supportive. Two will be taking their open water dives this weekend and I’m eager to learn of what I’m sure will be their rousing success. And I know the other student who is just a little behind like me will keep after it, too. I’m not sure I will be a regular scuba diver, but I would like to be able travel to warmer places that have colorful sea life and get to see it in person. Who knows, maybe once I’m certified I will want to participate in more PNW dives. It’ll be summer before we know it.

The act of doing something so far outside my comfort zone reminds me that I’m still alive, still growing, still learning, still meeting new people. I’ll be honest, it’s a whole lot harder than when I was 10 learning how to waterski, but accomplishing something when it’s harder means even more.

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