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Communication

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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.

The Illusion of Control or The Gift of Menial Tasks

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When I had graduated from my undergraduate studies at Ohio University, my Dad asked if I would go to Vancouver, Washington and spend the summer before my French grad program started up to stay with his baby sister. My Aunt Trudy had two little girls at home, she worked a full time job at the forest service, had her own massage therapy business, was going through a divorce, and was preparing for significant brain surgery near the end of the summer. A full plate hardly captures the essence of what she was navigating and he wanted to help her so he had me go in his place. It was my absolute honor even if I didn’t know exactly what I was doing, what I was supposed to do, or what was coming. Nevertheless, my auntie made sure we had fun trips with the girls. We went to visit my auntie in Bend. We went boating with my sister’s family and Aunt Trudy showed her girls that yes, even their mama was willing to go tubing behind the boat. Aside from the less-than-pleasant interludes dealing with her soon-to-be-ex, most of that summer was really good.

I remember I read some of her vampire novels and started having terrible nightmares while there. The deadpan delivery of her “maybe you shouldn’t read those anymore” will live in my humor center forever. Yeah. Maybe I shouldn’t. HA!

As the time for her surgery arrived, I took her girls to the bead store while everyone else accompanied my auntie to the hospital. Later that day, my cousin had to deliver some pretty devastating news and she did it with more grace than I could have mustered at that time. Aunt Trudy’s surgery didn’t go exactly as intended. In the process of removing a tumor, she had a bleed they didn’t anticipate and couldn’t quite control easily. The ramifications were that she had to be put into a medically induced coma until the swelling could come down and the longterm effects were as though she had suffered a stroke. That first evening and the immediate days following were some of the most brutally painful I had experienced up until then. What we had expected had gone to the wayside and a new reality confronted us.

I remember one instance where I felt so untethered I needed something to do with my pent-up energy. I remember scrubbing her kitchen floor. That was the first time the act of a menial task as release crystallized. I could not control the situation. I could not control the outcome. I could control for that one moment how clean the floor was. Now before you get all worried that I Joan Crawford-ed things a la Mommie Dearest, do not fret. It was a one-time thing.

But the lesson of the gift of menial tasks remained. Flash forward to the last several years. I have been working on the river rock and black plastic removal around the Newell house, taking it in sections. Could we have chucked it all into the back of the pick-up and taken it to the landfill in a day or two? Sure. But I deliberately asked Bryan if this could please be my thing. I have hand-picked rocks, sifting through nails and chunks of concrete, bugs, any number of gross things. I can also tell you that this meditative, laborious act has been a gift. I cannot control the Supreme Court. I cannot control climate, plague, war. I cannot make someone who I love very much who is very sick become well again. I cannot make anyone love me who doesn’t. I cannot control the outcome.

In the meditation that comes with menial tasks is the knowledge that no, we cannot control the outcome, but we can contribute to the process. And we get to choose our response to the outcome. There is tremendous free will and power there.

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I Miss My Friend

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Early July brings all kinds of mixed feelings. I love the words of the Declaration of Independence. One year, I hand-wrote it out word for word to really concentrate on the meaning of the words. What it must have felt like to be under the tyranny of a mad king with no representation for all the people, land, and wealth that he was ruling over. Now, I’m not naive to think the folks who wrote it were inclusive or had any tender political ideals towards people of color or women, but shoot, it was a start and for that I’m most appreciative. Democracy is messy. But it’s better than tyranny. And I’ll take messy democracy any day of the week. But that’s not why I’m writing. It just so happens that this time of year coincides with one of those unimaginable tragedies that we think only happens in horror movies. I’m not going to belabor the details therein when they’re readily available to any industrious researcher or his friends and loved ones who already know. Instead, I’m going to remember my friend.

When my Dad reached out to me in the fall of 2018, Kyle Martz was one of my most fiercesome protectors. He checked on me throughout the weekend while I went down to Bend, Oregon to visit my Dad after a long estrangement. He checked on me as I came home. He walked with me to celebrate and to process. And months later, after my Dad died, he kept walking with me and talking with me and holding me in a space of love, comfort, and understanding.

Kyle was bigger than the space he was in could contain. Big energy. Big love. Big emotions. Big ideas. And Kyle was not tall and not big in size. But, my God, he made everyone he cared about feel big and important, too. The number of people who knew and loved Kyle who felt loved and encouraged by Kyle are more than I will ever know. I am only certain that I’m one of the very lucky ones. And I’m so angry he’s gone. I’m so angry he was taken. We had more walks to go on. More things to share. More things to process. I don’t want to live in the anger. I want to live in the love and light he imparted, but it is so difficult. I could nurse an incadescent rage. But I know he would talk me down. He would say something outragiously funny or poignant or both and help me find center once again.

Kyle was sharp-witted, sharp-tongued, and the tenderest of humans. I can’t believe I got to be on this planet for some of the same time as him. How lucky am I? To all of you who knew Kyle, over the next week and half, raise a glass as often as you think of him. Say his name. Rejoice in all the good he did in this world. And maybe watch an episode or two of The Golden Girls or Designing Women. I watch this clip when I miss him most because I know his love, defense, and protection of those within his fold were equal to Julia Sugarbaker defending her sister:

Checking In

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Periodically, this is a text I send to people I love–a quick “hey, how are you?” “I’m thinking of you,” “I love you,” wrapped up in two words. It is really easy to become subsumed with one’s own life rhythms and struggles. Getting up and facing this world on the best of days takes a lot of energy. And yet, the thing that makes living in this world worthwhile is our connection to one another.

Recently, I went to a work conference in San Diego. The opening guest speaker, Liz Forkin Bohannon (I’m not going to give her bona fides or C.V.–that’s what Google is for), spoke of many things, but two really stuck out to me. One, don’t wait for your big idea to come to fruition. Give your small idea big idea energy and do that thing. Two, loneliness is the number one health crisis in our country. This echoes a philosophy I’ve held for a long time based on a song my big brother, Craig, introduced to me as a little girl in my Sabbath School class. I really love this particular version of “Brighten The Corner” by Ella Fitzgerald: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I-2DgNOtA2o

So let me reiterate, if I’m on the front porch, you’re automatically welcome to come join me. And I am diligently working to remove river rock and black plastic (again…) from the place where our wood deck used to be in the backyard so that I may have a red brick patio installed. That will be the venue for a summer potluck as soon as it’s done. Most weekend’s I’m pretty available for a walk or a cup of coffee. I will also do my best to reach out, too, with a “checking in” or a “come on over.” Our time is so short and our connection to each other is what makes the walk home beautiful. Come walk with me.

In Repair

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When I was in the French grad program at Ohio University, my good friend, Amy, loved and listened to John Mayer a lot. She went to his concerts and was a vocal fan. Aside from “Your Body is a Wonderland” (because who wouldn’t want a troubadour with a guitar serenading that?!?!), I really didn’t get the appeal. Until now. I can fully admit I am embracing John Mayer fandom. His music, in this particular season of my life is hitting hard and I love it.

I didn’t write or post anything about Father’s  Day this year. Instead, I went a quieter more somber route. I have been mulling things over, particularly this song https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=rZLbUIa7exE&pp=ygUsZmF0aGVycyBiZSBnb29kIHRvIHlvdXIgZGF1Z2h0ZXJzIGpvaG4gbWF5ZXI%3D as it relates to my dad and me. You see, my dad was magic—straight charisma, charm, and humor. To bask in his sunlight was everything. But he could turn it off like a switch, perhaps as a defense mechanism for his own tender heart and insecurities. His humor danced a razor’s edge of warm teasing to mocking cudgel. In my 20s, more than once or twice, I found myself drawn to men who had similar tendencies and to be near that magic, that sunlight was enough, for a while, enough to tolerate poor behavior, enough to offer far more than I received. These are easy patterns for me to fall into because they’re so familiar.

Remarkably, however, I did not marry a man like my father. Oh sure, Bryan was charming and charismatic, but I never had the fear of him turning that off. And instead of just shining his light, he sought mine and encouraged me in every way he knew to make my light shine brighter. As the lyrics go, “daughters will love like you do.” I see the way Mary loves her friends, family, work, community in like manner to her dad.

I’m not trying to be hurtful to my dad’s memory. He had moments of great introspection and growth. He worked very hard to be a better dad than his own father and succeeded. And he could say I am sorry and did. Nevertheless, the legacy of father-daughter relationships and their effects echo in the hall. I think wanting to be close to that light and feel warmed by it because it feels good is why I am drawn to larger-than-life, charismatic men and have had a history of subsuming my own interests and pride just to be near the light. It is so good to reflect on that and to remember how Bryan sought my light. I think the ending of this song brings those ideas to bear in a really beautiful way. https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=7VBex8zbDRs&pp=ygUSam9obiBtYXllciBncmF2aXR5

Finally, when I told my good friend, Amy about my John Mayer late-bloomer discovery, she encouraged me to listen to “In Repair” suggesting it might be an anthem for where I’m at. If you can, go find the lyrics. They’re absolutely spot on. I’m in repair from the consequences of grief and bereavement. I’m in repair in many other ways. My friend, N, calls it “doing the work.” It’s important to recognize what has brought us to this point, extend grace, but acknowledge one’s own responsibility to grow, change, and heal. I am “In Repair” and I’m just fine with that. https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=Bq8SBDv7Wn4&pp=ygUUaW4gcmVwYWlyIGpvaG4gbWF5ZXI%3D