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A Part

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I have this part of me that developed when I was a little girl. She’s the part of me that decided instead of being reactive to unexpected hurt (Mom’s going to the hospital. Mom’s getting an apartment and not coming home. Our parents are splitting. Here’s this new lady Daddy likes and spends time with. Your home is broken. Get used to this new normal, which isn’t.) she was going to be preemptive. Imagine every possible worse case scenario, worry about it, worry about even the most inexplicably random, improbable things because, you just never know. You didn’t think your family would fall apart and it did. Why wouldn’t it be possible that you would be a coked out homeless teenager in New York City–heck even Nancy Reagan was warning you it might happen. It’s very much a child’s logic and yet, that part of me has played a large part in my adult life. It doesn’t help when the worst case scenario is realized as it was with Bryan’s illness. It reinforces that thinking.

But here I am navigating the world as a single adult and doing so with some moderately measurable amounts of success. I open the pickle jars on my own. I changed a lightbulb in the laundry room yesterday evening. I’m having a neighbor build me a fence that has been long overdue. Problems arrive and I tackle them with maybe some frustration occasionally that I have to, but then I do it. Some items on my to-do list have taken longer for me than maybe I’d have preferred, but I did those too. I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’m trying to persuade the childlike part of me who deals with heavy big feels and worry that actually my track record in facing hard things as a grown-up is pretty good. And while I appreciate the fierce determination this little person inside has to protect me, it hurts more than my simply dealing with things as they come.

I’m a pretty creative person. I paint and garden and bake and write and I have an imagination that is rich, vivid, and detailed. This is so much fun when it is. And scary as all heck when a childlike skillset utiizes a big, adult brain. Yowza! I’m trying to be soft and appreciative to this part and to let her know I’m the grown-up in the equation now and I’ve got this. It’s okay. You did your job, but I’ve got the wheel.

The Gift of Boredom

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I’m so thankful my parents didn’t jam-pack my schedule with activities. Sure I had piano lessons, trumpet practice, gymnastics–plenty of enriching extras, I assure you, but there was enough downtime for me to complain. “I’m sooOooooOOOooo bored.” Which of course produced the pat responses: “Only boring people are bored.” Given enough time and structure to be left to my own devices, I learned how to entertain myself whether that was surrounding myself with World Book Encyclopedias and nerding out to developing a beaded jewelry hobby that eventually paid for itself.

As a single adult who juggles a full-time job, three and a half cats, a home, a garden, a vehicle, important relationships, all while trying to get adequate exercise/sleep/nutrition/hydration means I long for a little bit of boredom now and then. I remember in times of intense crisis (I have had a few. Some of my people are currently in the midst of it), I longed for just a little bit of boredom. Maybe that puts too much of a negative spin on it. Maybe what I really mean is a longing for simplicity.

I chatted with a friend and relayed how much the act of puttering around my house, a slow mosey of tasks interspersed with creation and snacks, is my absolute bliss. Life is a fast flowing river, sometimes with rocks and rapids, but a little rest in the eddies at the edges is so blissful. If you find yourself in those places, soak up every last bit of that joy to sustain during the rougher patches. Maybe it takes practice to discern when we’re in them. If you’re thinking to yourself , hmmm, I’m bored, maybe you’re actually in the midst of bliss. Most things are a question of perspective, I think. 🙂

Apples of the Earth

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That sounds a lot nicer than dirt apples, yes? For some reason God, the universe, karma, my guardian angel, random chance, something keeps trying to teach me lessons using potatoes. The French call them pommes de terre which automatically sounds fancier and more elegant. Whether you say poe-TAY-toe or poe-Taaaaah-toe, the fact remains, this descendent of Irish immigrants keeps having them appear as metaphor, proverb, thought-provoker, lesson.

In times of uncertainty, humans try to mitigate their fears with planning and preparation. During the pandemic, folks stocked up on extra toilet paper–we still crack jokes about that. I grew up with the notion it would be important to have a ready, long-lasting supply of dried legumes, rice, and canned goods for the Time of Trouble TM. That teaching, those habits are ingrained (pun ABSOLUTELY intended). Whether it’s a threat of a hurricane or a hefty snow storm, people gather what they think they might need. It offers a semblance of control when things are largely out of our hands. Go to any grocery store when a blizzard is in the forecast. See what shelves are cleared out first.

A few months ago, I was sick, I was worried, and I went to the Grocery Outlet with single-minded focus. I needed to stock up. Volatile markets, political instability/uncertainty, etc all offered reminders and telltales of my upbringing and those things nudged me to get to getting at the Scratch-n-Dent. In that process, I bought a large bag of russet potatoes.

Friends, I’m a single woman who lives alone with three (and a half) cats. I entertain small gatherings perhaps one to three times a month. I don’t feed a family of four on the daily. Yet, for some reason, I thought a giant bag of potatoes would come in handy, you know, just in case. Fast forward to the last couple of weeks and I noticed said giant bag of potatoes showing the telltale signs of sprouting. The clock had been ticking.

This morning I texted family asking who might like a giant vat of mashed potatoes. Fortunately I got a taker and will be sharing some of the bounty tomorrow. While peeling, boiling, and mashing an entire bag of Grocery Outlet russet potatoes, I got to thinking about a few things. I’m reminded of conversations I had with Bryan about our garden and how I think the principle applies to catastrophe preparation. Bryan said there’s no use in our growing zucchini in our back yard because so many people already do and often look to offload it. We should instead maximize our small space to produce the things we use the most and that we might best be able to share/barter/trade. I love this because a. I don’t want to grow zucchini (the suckers take over with their sprawling untidiness) and b. We do better when we can specialize and then share.

Do I think we all need to stockpile rations in the form of dried legumes and rice and an infinite supply of canned goods just in case things really go off the rails? Maybe. Probably not if we’re not intending to cycle those things through to keep them as fresh as possible. I think we do better when we rely on each other, working together. I hope someone has the foresight to have a wheel of aged Parmegiana Reggiano put away for when it counts. And maybe someone else has spices and salt. I have had more than one Time of Trouble already and it’s the community and connective fabric that makes survival possible. I know that to be true for the future, too. Tonight I made mashed potatoes and a couple of pans of cottage pie, some for me, some to share. May this be the way of it whether troubled times or not.

I don’t want to be dismissive of anyone taking measures to feel safer, to have necessary items at their disposal. Mostly, I’m showcasing my own foibles in trying to control the uncontrollable when it’s really the relationships with the people around me that are the keys to my survival.

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 ]