Author: ferylfiles

You

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It is very easy to go dark, dark in thoughts, dark in attitudes, dark in words. The pull is strong. In this place, self-doubt, anxiety, worry, heartache, shame, all bubble up. I’m no stranger to this place. I’ve not just been a tourist there; I’ve taken up residence there. It’s not my favorite place to live. Usually, I fight like hell to get out and stay far away from it. One of the constant refrains on the loudspeaker in this place is the lie that those feelings are deserved, earned. Self-worth is questioned. Purpose is ridiculed. I write this as a love letter to anyone who has been in this place and to myself, too…

One of the things I love most about my time working at a liberal arts college is the emphasis on interdisciplinary learning. How there are things to gather from diverse places to create a more rounded out picture. Its a way of thinking that I dabble in and enjoy quite a bit. Recently, I had dinner with a dear childhood friend. We talked about a number of things not the least of which were our respective preferred art forms–writing for him, painting for me. We all have a voice to share and our internal editors can hamper it. Living in that dark place can also hamper it. I recalled a song from our childhood–“This Little Light of Mine.” As much as the modern world would like to say we’re all the same and not special or unique, I would disagree. Are we better than? No. But do we have things unique to ourselves to offer the world. Absolutely. And I believe the purpose of this life is to connect with others, to weave bonds of life–thought and emotion–and ultimately to love. We do this with our own “little lights.”

My husband was a big fan of Crosby, Stills, and Nash. Their music featured largely in our home. It’s not lost on me the humor and delight that countercultural music from the 1960s would echo a sentiment from my Sabbath School class. “I Almost Cut My Hair” has a line “I feel like letting my freak flag fly” and later “I feel like I owe it to someone.” By being you, you give space for others to be themselves. “Hiding it under a bushell (aka large basket)” serves no one, not you, not the greater world.

Whether you believe in a Divine entity who created us or that we are the product of minute changes over millenia–stardust that has become self-aware–or some combination thereof, the end result is we’re here now and that fact is pretty damned amazing. And that we won’t be for very long means there’s no cutting corners, or skimping, or hiding under a bushel. Your “muchness” (thank you Tim Burton’s 2010 Alice in Wonderland), my “muchness”, are desperately needed, for connection, for the sake of all. You are worthy. You have purpose. Bad things and feelings are just part and parcel to a rich life full of every facet of the human experience. Your little light, your freak flag, your muchness are your superpowers and we need them.

My (Not So) Secret Garden

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When I was little, my Mama gave me some illustrated Frances Hodgson Burnett novels, namely A Little Princess and The Secret Garden. I love these stories for the resiliency and pluck of the main characters, but also for their hopefulness, even in solitude and loneliness. Maybe she was giving me a road map she knew I’d need. I’ve found healing in gardens and flowers. I know what it means to be in an untenable situation not of my choosing and how to both survive and thrive in spite of it. These are gifts that certainly endure.

More recently, I’ve been able to witness my cousin and her husband take a rough and abused house and grounds and convert them into the promise of something magical, much like the garden Mary Lennox discovers on her uncle’s property. Their sweat, tears, and laughter (and including a novice like me) ensure this will be a wondrous, welcoming place. In the process of watching the transformation of a wreck into a home, I’ve been inspired to do a small DIY project of my own. After Bryan passed, I moved my bedroom into what was once the office-catch-all-pantry-whatever room. One wall had a lot of patches and holes and needed some TLC. I knew I wanted to do something different, creative, floral, but it was just an idea until recently.

I went through all the steps. TSP wash, painters tape, priming the holes, patching the holes, cutting in the primer, rolling out the primer (a couple of times after a few minor setbacks and mishaps), cutting in the very dark, very dramatic color twice, rolling out twice, and then free-hand painting my own secret (but now that you know, not entirely secret) garden. I wanted something joyful to look at even on my darkest days, which there have been more than a few these past couple of months. This is a gift from me to me now and future me, too. I still have detail work and some leaves to round out the finish. I have a plug-in plate on order that will replace the cream-colored plastic one I got rid of. My sister encourages me to put a small writing desk in my bedroom. I just might do that.

[And if you get something extra out of my writing and would like to leave a tip, you’re welcome to do so here: https://venmo.com/u/Rebecca-Lubbers-1 ]

The Chair

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Lots of things have been tumbling through my thoughts lately. First, I’m not sure I want to go heavy-deep-and-real with the first person narrative of my life quite so much. Plus, I don’t know how much healing there is versus how raw and exposed I make myself. Is it good? Is it helpful to others or to me? I like the writing component, that’s for sure. Playing with words is as fun to me as playing with paint on canvas, plants in dirt, dough into baked goods. Creation is fun. I’ve got lots of ideas swirling around fictional characters and plots. Often with fiction, great truths can be told more boldly. Maybe I’m longing to dig deeper without giving away the farm in the process.

This evening, I had the chance to meet up with Mary’s mom for a beer and time to catch up. It was wonderful. We talked about loads of things as we often do, covering the gamut of home projects, professional endeavors, family, trips, our kiddo, and more. I told Sara about a home dec project I have in mind and how watching my cousins do a complete renovation to a home in desperate need of healing has inspired me. We talked about how houses, with love and attention, can heal from neglect and can have renewed life and joy. She spoke of how old furniture can be like that too. How wonderful it is to honor an old piece, nourish the wood, bring it back to life with new springs, cushions, and fabric, and revitalize what once might have been trash into something cherished again. That gave me an idea…

Once upon a time, there was an old wingback wood and leather chair. It had been languishing in the storage section of a garage, nearly forgotten until it was time to clear out some old junk. But this chair had stories to tell, lives witnessed, seasons celebrated and mourned. Certainly, this couldn’t be the end–a ride in a pickup and finishing up at the town dump. No. This old chair had made its way across great distances to find a new home with new possibilities. It wasn’t going to end like that.

It lived with a family for a number of years until a daughter got married and was planning to move across rugged territory to a new home. Her parents gave her the chair as part of her trousseau. Choosing what to take in a covered wagon was dicey. Every ounce mattered. Every thing selected meant something else had to stay behind. This precious chair made the grade. Long months, fraught conditions, frayed patience and health meant great relief once they’d arrived and settled. The chair had its new home. It became the center of the living space. Stories read. Babies held. Anguish and joy settled into every carved bit of the wood. Stains and worn places on the leather meant this chair mattered. This chair was right in the middle of life.

Then the babies, most of them, grew up and moved out. Grandpa nodded to sleep for good in this chair. Mama read letters from her soldier in this chair. She darned socks in this chair. She hummed hymns of gratitude and hope in this chair.

Time past. The chair grew out of style. Moved to a back room. The guest room. The office. Finally to the garage. No one had the heart to throw it out. No one wanted it either. So it sat. Waiting.

One day, on a lark, the chair was offered to the local upholsterer. “Can you do something with this old chair?” She could and she would. She cleaned up the wood, taking away the old stain and nourishing the wood with beeswax and orange oil. The wood soaked it up like a thirsty man in the desert. The old fabric and padding was removed. New webbing, springs, and cushions added along with a fine piece of rich brown leather carefully pulled into place and fitted around the frame. It almost seemed the back of the chair stood taller. Was that a deep breath and a sigh of relief? New life is possible and is here. A family found this revitalized chair and gave it a good home. Stories told. Hot cocoa by the fire place. A cat nap on a rainy afternoon. Reading a book into the late hours of the night. Ah yes, a very good home.

[If you get anything extra out of my writing, entertainment, edification, intense laughter, and you feel so inclined, you’re welcome to leave a tip here: https://venmo.com/u/Rebecca-Lubbers-1 ]

And yet…

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I tried so hard to plan, to prepare, to be ready for a hard winter. I got a gym membership in late summer to establish the habit. I started using my lamp (finally) in December. I’ve kept up on my vitamins and healthy eating. And yet…

This was a REALLY hard winter for a number of things–illness, bruised heart, anxiety about dramatic cultural and political shifts, cold weather, anniversary of the hardest time in my life. I don’t know if my efforts actually mitigated things and they might have been even worse, or the circumstances of life simply overwhelmed my best efforts.

Finally, it’s March. And I’m emerging from the feelings of “would I have chosen to be born if this is what living feels like?” to hope again. Like I said, a REALLY hard winter.

And yet, in the darkest of moments, I had friends drop off Powerade and tea, siblings checking in on me, my kiddo offering grocery store runs, her mom bringing me lunch. And yet, I had people offering reminders of what is good, why we are here, to love each other, to lift each other up, to remind us of our core selves. And yet, I still had the energy to paint and create. And yet, I had kitties curl up next to me, purring, keeping me warm, offering comfort.

This world seems more absurd than a 20th century French author might even suppose and may continue further on that trajectory. And yet, our commitment to one another, to choosing hope and joy, to building instead of tearing down, to making the table bigger instead of excluding, to asking ourselves, how can I make this journey a little easier for others, to possessing a spirit of gratitude…

And the light and the flowers sure help, too.

two

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Two years ago on this very evening, Bryan Lubbers slipped from the constraints of this mortal plane. I won’t go into the details of that night except to say it snowed…appropriately. I miss him every day and anniversaries like this, his birthday, our birthdays, high holidays, etc. hit harder. It just is. So instead of being somewhere warm, or visiting one of his bucket list places, I hunkered down in our home for most of the day.

Grief is interesting. I mean it’s painful as all hell, but when I step outside of it to analyze it like my mathematically-inclined husband might have, it really is quite interesting. Initially, it hits like a massive, traumatic injury. Acute. Piercing in pain. The body goes into shock. The efforts for triage are to maintain the core functions and to keep alive. Then, as time and a bit of healing occur, things start to get achy, itchy, abrasive, but one has to keep exercising and stretching physically, emotionally, spiritually. Wound care moves to physical therapy. Eventually, an emotional arthritis sets in as one continues to live. The pain flares up in the most unusual places and times. Bryan used to talk about sitting with heartache on a melancholy evening or after a “high gravity day” and sipping a little whisky, raising a glass to memories and even the pain. Maybe that was his acknowledgment of emotional arthritis.

I don’t sit alone in my grief. We are connected. I appreciate the way folks reach out to say I love you, I’m sorry, I hurt too. Bryan was an incredible human who filled a room with his spirit and his voice. His hugs were the best. His laughter my drug of choice. He did everything he could to love and protect Mary and me to the very end and after. I miss him.