Tag: writing

Manifest

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As an adjective, it means readily perceived or obvious.

As a noun, it’s an inventory list.

As a verb in a more modern context, it’s to bring about with intention through thought, word, and action.

Looking back at this year, it’s pretty obvious there have been a number of challenges, some devastating losses, and some major positive gains. I had significant health concerns that led to some awful dark thoughts which turned out to be an easy fix after a long slog of persistent self-advocacy. I created art of which I’m very proud–100 days of watercolors, a bedroom mural of flowers, redecorating my living room (a place I studiously avoided because of the heavy memories into a space that I have surrounded with warm light and comfortable seating to make gathering pleasant and easy for new memories). The losses were heavy–a dear friend, a precious cousin’s mama, my Aunt Daisy, my Uncle Bob, my kitty Seamus. There was hard work in the garden, in the basement, a yard sale, making space for nephews. A new job, a new-to-me car, a new kitten, a new rhythm of being, so many more good things too. There have been new discoveries and maybe old reminders, too, like hey, life is worth living and time and people are the best joy nuggets (my 30th class reunion had a lot to teach me there), cooking for and with people I love is soul medicine. I was also reminded repeatedly that some relationships are worth pouring energy into and some simply are not. And that’s okay. Time and effort reveal much. Dating apps are for the birds. Yes I tried (un)Hinge(d) and Bumble (aka Stumble) to no success. Regardless, deliberate gratitude, playful humor, and seized joy make EVERYTHING bearable.

For an inventory list or the manifest of what I’m taking into the new year, I’d say the realization that I’m allowed to want good things for myself, hope for those things, a willingness to accept them, and wisdom and discernment to tell what is good for me and what just seems pleasant in the moment. And I’d like to strike through the following items on the list as they are weightier than I can carry: shame, fear, guilt, and cowardice.

In 2026, I’d like to continue growing in my artistic development. I’d like to step out of my comfort zone and try news things, maybe SCUBA or fencing or open mic nights. I think the only thing that keeps the brain from turning mushy is to force it to grow new neural pathways doing stuff it hasn’t ever done before, thinking thoughts it hasn’t thought before. I also want to put myself in new places to meet people I’ve not met before. I have a lot to give to this world even yet and maybe I’ve been a little too comfortable, a little too hidden. And I’m willing to say I’d like to meet someone special. It’s hard to type that out for a lot of reasons. I miss Bryan so much. I always will. But having my nephews in my home has reminded me how much I’m built for sharing time and space and meals and conversation in this home. It’s so lovely to do that with my dearest friends and family. I live for dinner parties and cookie parties and porch gatherings and patio picnics. And I also long for the intimacy and affection and touch of someone who puts their whole heart into loving me back. I’m not ashamed to say I still want that.

Okay, 2026. I’m going to put my helmet on, buckle my seatbelt, and brace myself for as much joy as you can throw at me.

Season’s Greetings

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I’ve never been a Christmas card writer. It smells of a forced “have to” that I balk at, but sometimes the mood to share what is good strikes anyway. I’ve tried to make a consistent habit of a Friday invitation to reflection of what is good both for myself and others. I think it’s a habit worthy of continuing. Maybe an annual reflection isn’t so bad either. Often, it can come across as a brag, humble or no, and can be off-putting. I hope to circumvent that, but we will see…

What a difference a year makes. Truly. Last year at this time I was sad, angry, overwrought, in no way wanting to be cheerful or celebratory. It got colder sooner. And I waited to start my full-spectrum lamp. Lots of things conspired against me while my own mood and attitude were conspiring against myself. It’s funny how those negative feedback spirals can build on themselves and grow momentum. But in like manner, positive feedback loops can also build momentum and grow.

This past year I struggled to understand some health issues and then got resolution. What a relief. 100 days of art, doing small watercolor paintings before breakfast, was absolute medicine. Creating a floral mural on my bedroom wall taught me that a. I can do home projects and b. I can do hard work to give my future self a gift. Believe me when I say this bright, cheerful garden in the middle of winter is doing exactly what I had hoped. My garden, Mill Creek, time with friends and family, have given much-needed solace, too. My 30th high school class reunion met up in Athens, Ohio this summer. Did we all get Covid afterward? Yes. Was that kind of the pits? Also, yes. Was it an amazing gift to be with people I love and am learning to love? Resoundingly, yes!

While there has been heartbreaking loss, which always seems to be the way in this life, those losses also remind me of how precious our time together is and how lucky we are for that time. I miss my Aunt Daisy every day–she made me laugh so much. I miss my Uncle Bob’s humor and charm. I miss my Seamus-kitty who was such a loving, community ambassador. There’s no end to hurt, truly, but it is always intermingled with love and gratitude.

I am typing with a brand new kitten napping next to me-my little Luna-berry Malcador Lubbers. Yesterday, I made peppermint patties with my cousin’s youngest son. Today, my kiddo finishes up her first term in graduate school. I am over-the-moon proud of her hard work and diligence and know her Dad would be in the same boat. Next week, I will host my annual sugar cookie extravaganza. And for the past few months, I have had the honor and privilege of welcoming a couple of nephews to stay at my home. Life is hard and rich and amazing and hilarious and heartbreaking and so beautiful. To quote the late, great Bryan Lubbers, “I am the luckiest son-of-a-bitch who ever lived (sorry, Mom).”

The Magic of Puttering

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The amount of work I can get done around the house with a little music and permission to go slow, to get distracted, to play in the midst of it, is pretty incredible. I seriously think I’m undiagnosed ADD. The way my mind works, it’s hard to settle, I’m bouncing from idea and topic like the pollinators in my backyard garden. Now, I can dig down and find the places to do the gritty, hard work when necessary, but that’s not where I normally live. Don’t get me wrong, I get stuff done, but it’s ANYTHING BUT LINEAR.

This morning, for example, I’ve bounced from laundry to dishes to communication with friends and family to getting things ready to bake cookies and now writing a blog post. To me this is ease. To me this is natural. I build in the ability to get distracted from one task to work on another and not be ashamed because the results speak for themselves–the projects get done and I have a fine time at it. It would probably make any type A personality start to get an eye twitch.

I think so often it’s easy to get trapped into thinking there’s the right way of doing things. There’s only one, idealized way. I know I’ve spent an inordinate amount of time in my life thinking I’m not good enough and finally, I’m starting to give myself a little grace. I’m not going to get on my hands and knees and scrub my floor every Friday at 5:30pm. Not gonna. Won’t. Refuse. I’ll clean it when it needs it. Or inspiration strikes. Or I have company coming. It’s remarkable when we give ourselves permission to be ourselves and then with a quirky twist begin to realize that person is likable.

I like that I spend a Sunday morning doing five different chores with a sense of whimsy and the randomness of my mood. The dishes are done, the oven is preheated, the laundry is getting taken care of, I’m writing. I’ll bake some epic cookies, too. I write all this as an invitation–an invitation to give yourself grace, to think about your way of doing things as neither right or wrong, just unique, and that maybe in the noise of everything around us, it’s okay to like the quiet rhythms of living and being authentically ourselves.

Blackberry Picking

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It’s August in Southeastern Washington and that means one thing–blackberries! Last weekend, I had to pivot to a new weekend plan. I had every intention of going to Portland to visit my cousin when my mechanic friend and co-worker recommended I’d better put that plan on pause until I get a few repairs done (another story for another time). Disappointed barely scratches the surface. I’d already missed out on a fun scheduled weekend with Mary, her Mom, and her godmother–the infamous “Moms Weekend”–to Portland a few weeks prior due to a savage bout of Covid. Ugh. Thwarted. Twice. Talk about bummed. In an effort to rebound, and redirect, I went for a walk at Mill Creek Friday evening–always a recentering. Saturday morning I enjoyed some coffee and classical music on my back patio. Then I decided to do something outside my more normal routine. Was it a fun trip to Portland? No. But it was good.

Years ago, Bryan took me to a place just past Waitsburg on the way to Dayton, up in the hills on an old gravel road near wheat farms. On a bend in the the road up a ways there’s a great place to park and a whole swath of blackberry bushes fairly easy to access and not terribly picked over. He had told me, Sara, Mary’s mom had shown him this place years ago. I made sure to wear a long sleeve flannel button-up, jeans, and socks and tennis shoes (in August!), giving the brambles less of a chance to tear into me. Anyone eavesdropping might have heard a rainbow of colorful expletives worthy of a sailor’s blush combined with an updated version of Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy.” There might have been some prayers and minor begging for snakes not to find their way to me as well. As you can see from the photo above, my quest was successful. Later that day, I turned these berries into two pies. The next day I took one to my dear cousin and her family who live in town (yes, I have a LOT of cousins.)

I often think about solitude, loneliness, rugged individualism, and all that jazz. It occurred to me on a day where I was very much alone physically that I was in reality surrounded by people, by memories, by love. I started with a phone consultation to my baking mentor, my big sister. When it comes to pie, I’m going to refer to her expertise before the internet, before Betty, before anyone or anything else. She makes more pies in one session than I might for a couple of years. She doesn’t mess around and she’s honed her recipes and technique. Add fresh lemon zest and juice, you don’t need more than 3 1/2 to 4 cups of berries for an 8-inch pie. A pinch of cayenne will enhance the flavor. While she wasn’t in the kitchen with me, she was very much present.

The entire drive to the berry thicket, Bryan was with me in my heart and memories, journeying over roads we’d been on so many times, laughing, reminiscing. Sara was there too in a place she had shown him so many years before–a gift given to him then given to me. Later, in the kitchen, I pulled down my Betty Crocker cookbook with the broken spine. It’s one I found at a thrift store or yard sale. It had reminded me of my Mom’s and I had to have it. My Mama used to quote my great Auntie Iris when someone would compliment a baked dish or some culinary delight “Just Betty and me.” There was my Mom, my auntie, and Betty. The crust I make is one passed down from my sister’s mother-in-law, Erma Torretta. She worked in the kitchen of the old Walla Walla General Hospital. Her oil crust recipe was designed to make a large number of pies at once. Cut down to it’s smallest iteration I still end up with one 10-inch and one 8-inch pie. So there was Erma in my kitchen, too.

I can get so wound up in my pity parties of how alone I am without Bryan. And you know what, it’s a worthy thing to be sad about. I miss him. I miss the spirit of fun and teamwork and humor we shared. He was so interesting and smart and full of life. Kind. Good. Loving. The house is quiet without his presence and I often feel overwhelmed by the magnitude of all that has to be done. But this past weekend was a good reminder that I’m not truly alone and that even when things don’t go exactly as I planned or hoped, there is joy to be found and connections to be made.

Sunday, laden with garden tomatoes, basil, mozzarella, balsamic vinegar, blackberry pie, and vanilla ice cream, I headed to my cousin and her family’s house on the Old Milton Highway to enjoy the consummate Walla Walla brunch in August–caprese and blackberry pie a la mode. It was bliss.

[If you find that you get a little extra out of my writing you’re welcome to buy me a coffee or leave a tip in my virtual tip jar here: https://venmo.com/u/Rebecca-Lubbers-1]

The Stories We Tell

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When I was little, I remember my Mom saying my oldest brother, Todd, was the artist in the family. He showed early talent and seemed to enjoy it. I guess that settled it, role of artist filled, go find a different thing. Upon reflection as an adult, I don’t think my Mom was trying to exclude anyone else from the idea or opportunity to be an artist. Rather she was trying to encourage my brother who had a lot of self-doubt, as teenagers often do. Nevertheless, the act of restating that story had an impact. I couldn’t be an artist. Todd already was “THE” artist of the family. Turns out, all four of us kids are creative and like to make things whether it’s painting, pottery, woodworking, jewelry-making, or music. Sometimes the stories we tell don’t tell the whole truth or paint the full picture.

This past Saturday, cousins of mine on the Moore side of my family put a lot of time, work, effort and love into putting together a family reunion. We haven’t had one in over 30 years. Right now, that’ll be part of the stories I won’t tell. It was great seeing many cousins I hadn’t in a long time. Overall, it was a positive experience; I’m glad I went. While there, I was reminded of one of the stories we were told and apparently folks still tell that I’ve decided to reconsider and look at as an adult. “Aunt Trudy was so spoiled” is one refrain I’ve heard all my life.

Was she, though? Aunt Trudy, my Dad’s baby sister, was the youngest of eight children. Those eight kids spanned a lot of years. (Rawr, Grandma and Grandpa…GET IT!) Anyway, she was born in the early 1950s. Things were a little more stable economically in our country than the 30s and 40s. She had indoor plumbing and flooring as opposed to an outhouse and dirt floors. She also had one niece older than she was and many nieces and nephews near her age or just a little younger. They were often dropped off at the farm for Grandma to watch while their parents worked. In the stories I’ve heard, Aunt Trudy wouldn’t share her candy, she got to have nicer things, etc. From a little kid’s perspective, that would seem grossly unfair. From an older siblings perspective, it would seem this kid had all kinds of luxuries.

I started thinking about it from Grandma and Grandpa’s perspective. How would I want to communicate or demonstrate to my child that they were not the same as a grandchild? What would I do to make sure she knew where she fit as lots of kids were coming in and out of her home, dividing her parents’ attention away from her? Would I let her have more privileges than the grandchildren? Would I let her keep some things to herself? Why wouldn’t a parent’s first obligation be to their own child? That makes sense to me and I think Grandma and Grandpa did admirably.

It really does come down to perspective though. Nowadays, dropping the kids off for the grandparents to offer free childcare is a lot more rare. I don’t know that Grandma was compensated for her labor. I don’t know if the older kids brought extra groceries to help out with the food bill. I do know that my older cousins got the privilege of spending a lot more time on that farm with grandparents who were younger and had more energy. Spoiled is a relative term.

At the end of the day, Aunt Trudy busted her chops raising her kids primarily alone. She often worked two jobs. I spent the summer with her before her big surgery and I watched as she got up early to fold clothes and keep the house tidy, work a shift at the Forest Service, come home and do a couple of therapeutic massages as her second job, make sure the kids were fed, the house was picked up and folding more laundry before bed. She maybe slept six hours a night if she were being decadent. She always decorated her home for holidays and made the best treats, peanut butter fudge or tapioca pudding were some of my favorites. She was fun and made sure her kids had fun memories. She was kind. And she died in her early fifties of brain cancer. In my opinion, if anybody on this earth had a right to be spoiled it was her.

I used to think my older three sibling had it best because our parents were together, young and energetic, and the kids had each other as best friends and playmates, but they also had hard times that I didn’t experience. On the other hand, I got benefits and privileges as the youngest that they didn’t, but I know of a certainty not one of them would have traded places with me in my adolescent years. Perspective, grace, and gratitude are the antidotes to feeling like you didn’t get as much as someone else or something you felt like you were owed.