Tag: writing

Lucky

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Bryan often spoke about how lucky he felt largely due to the relationships and people in his life. Bryan had plenty he could have complained about–a cancer diagnosis at 50 that he managed with grace and aplomb, another one at 58 that would give him less than five months to live. Even so, he practiced gratitude, particularly with regard to his daughter and wife, his friends, his healthcare providers, the quality of the pork chop served by the hospital kitchen at St. Mary’s. I’ve never heard anyone wax lyrical about hospital food, but he sure did. Bryan was lucky to be surrounded by so much love, but he fostered that in his confidence, his ability to know himself fully in order to put everyone else around him at ease.

I find myself trying to emulate his practice. The more I notice how lucky I am, the luckier I seem to get. In the past two weeks, especially, I’m reminded how the people in my life make me lucky in a similar manner. I have friendships, durable relationships that have lasted decades–friends who have known me since first grade, or middle school, or the whole time I’ve lived in Walla Walla (18 years this month, can you even?!) They have seen me at my best and unfortunately at my very worst (yes I did flip cold French fries off a plate in a fit of pique/temper…I’m not proud of it, but it’s funny to tease me about. And don’t get me started with what happens if I forget to eat breakfast). They span continents and time zones, which makes these middle-of-the-night musings welcome in Australia or to my bestie who works the night shift a few time zones away.

When someone doesn’t believe me, they’re all ready to line up and give testimonials of my character. More importantly, they remind me of myself, giving ME testimonials of how they see me, my heart, my intentions. It’s never fun to have the worst believed of you or to be painted with a brush meant for someone else, but at the end of the day, that’s not my business. What is my business is to tend this garden of friendships, of durable relationships because they’re the ones that see me through when my heart aches, when my person is dying, when the world is on fire. I am lucky because they see me and love me.

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?

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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Softball

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When I was a sophomore in high school, I tried out for the JV softball team. The summer before I had played slow-pitch in the city’s parks and recreation program. It was a lot of fun. My dear friend had played JV our freshman year and said it was really cool and that I should give it a try. Why not?! I’m a decent batter–never one for home runs but fairly consistent at dropping the ball between second base and right field. “Put the ball where the people aren’t,” my dad used to say. I had enjoyed pitching slow-pitch and wanted to learn fast pitch. I had a heart for the game and was so eager to join. The day came for the announcements of who had made the team and who had been cut. I wasn’t on the roster. I was heartbroken. I had worked so hard. I had wanted it so badly. And it didn’t matter. I had lots of theories as to why, but at the end of the day, it didn’t matter. My name wasn’t on that list.

That evening, after my dad got off work, he came in to check on me. I had isolated in my room, crying. Why didn’t they pick me? Wasn’t I good enough? There were a lot of tears. I have to commend my dad, he gave me just enough time and space to feel my feelings, then he gave me a piece of advice I really appreciated. He gently and firmly encouraged me to go to every practice and game anyway–to participate, learn, and grow, to not throw in the towel, to refuse to be sidelined completely.

That season I became a softball “manager.” I helped with equipment and keeping the records during games. I went to every practice, did all the drills, and worked really hard to be a part of the team even though I didn’t get to play in the games. At the end of the season, we had a celebratory picnic/bbq. Much to my surprise, I was awarded “Most Dedicated Player.” My junior year I did make the JV team. And while I had failures and successes, I had proven that I was willing to try and do the work. Truthfully, summer league was always my favorite because it was more about fun than during the school season. And don’t get me started about the inequity between the boys’ field and the girls’ field…*insert eye roll here. Nevertheless, softball was an incredible learning experience for me in school. Invaluable.

I think about this time with great fondness for my dad’s wisdom and love. I think about being a kid facing rejection, feeling small and less than, being left out and doing so with grit and grace. That kid is still in here teaching me how it’s done.

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