Distance (Part II)

For T. L. and K. R. especially.

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It hits you when you open boxes, digging through things that have meaning so essential to who you are and where you have been: letters of kindness from past lovers mixed in with transcripts from years of college where you didn’t give a fuck; paintings that hung in your grandmother’s home that your small-person’s eyes thought were magical; the honest and intentional letter your now ex-husband wrote as homework for the last hopeful stint of marital therapy that you wish you could unpack a little more now; the heartfelt cards your kids made on your last day of chemo that tell their own story of worry; your mother’s St. Gerard prayer card that hung on her bathroom mirror every day of her journey of motherhood.

You are thousands of miles from many of these experiences; time and physical distance and a long journey of letting muddy water settle into clear has brought you to a new space in a city full of its own personal mark on your life, in a beautiful new home that already feels like the right space for your spirit. And these things make you think of a metaphor that your mentor gave you years ago when you worked in a domestic violence organization. She said “The thing is, Fran, that when you are in the middle of something traumatic, hard, unavoidable in life it’s like you are in a house on fire and you are nattering around trying to decide what to carry out with you. You’re thinking ‘Should I take Auntie Harryette’s doily? Or what about these twist-ties? Where is my juicer?’, all while the house is burning around you until someone finally pulls you out of the house and sits you on the curb across the street. It’s only then, wrapped in a blanket and with the oxygen mask on your face do you realize how things were and how, by anyone's measure, you could have not survived it all, but by the grace of whatever moves things* and people who helped you out, you did.”

Today you are sitting in your new home, in the grey sunlight shifting through the windows of your new favorite spot, listening to the songs friends gave you for the journey here. And you are sifting through these many years of so many things, so much loss, so much love, so many good people that have put their arm around you and guided you to a safer place. And it’s this distance, close enough to remember but far away enough to have perspective on, that allows you to feel the full force of gratitude, of loss, of appreciation, of duty, of remaking, of love and to sit weeping at the weight of it all and in appreciation of the opening that has happened in your life that means the next chapter. That it’s not sifting through the ashes to find what is left, but rather the blessing of the spaces and people that were and are no more, to ritualize the memory and to move forward powerfully, happily, with courage, without anger and into a new life of your own creating. And you are so thankful at this moment for this moment. And you are so acutely aware of friends who need that arm around their shoulders to get them out of their own burning houses. And that’s what it’s all about, this remaking of love and kindredness, of your people, of accepting and receiving love when you can't see what you need but just trusting that others can help guide you. And realizing the path was the path in just the way it had to be.** 

It’s beautiful and hopeful and quite different than anything you've ever felt in your entire life. And you are grateful beyond measure, your heart welling and brimming in its fullness. Amen.

*Jan probably said “God” here, but my father always said never ruin a good story for lack of facts.

**I also remember so vividly a FB post from my friend Lee which recalled a moment when she was lying on her bed so ensconced in emotion and feeling that all of the shit she'd been through had been worth it. I think this feeling is similar. I have held on to that post for so long, Lee, and wish I had the exact quote. Thank you for giving life to it.

Interior: On Writing

I struggle with this idea of writing. There is a part of my heart that loves it, that loves the release that I feel when I put together something that resonates with me, with others, brings others to tears or laughter or whatever it is. I feel like sometimes this will be my mark if everything falls into the shitter and I leave this earth earlier than anticipated, something for my kids and my friends to hold onto. 

And there is another part of my heart that understands the weird precarious nature of writing, the part that doubts that what I do is useful to anyone that doesn’t know me, that pieces are touching because the people that read them are people who already love me, and that for those people it’s like reading a piece torn from a diary from which you can identify parts and pieces that make sense. But I wonder, really, if these things I trace onto the paper make a difference to anyone outside of the circle of my friends who hold me and my experiences close. I’ve had amazing feedback from people that I have loved and I’ve been really wounded by people I have loved not giving me any feedback. It’s an interesting and tender spot that I don’t want to care about, but I do.

I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately, wondering if that is why I have chosen the rapid-blogging format I use (I don’t know if this is such a thing or if I made it up, but this it’s writing all in one shot, less-than-miniscule-to-zero revisions before posting, get it out and get it up style). If I do it quickly, nobody can remark on the quality. If there are no revisions, I can blow off any mistakes or feedback. If I don’t put in the effort and if I only rely on the whim of the moment, I can’t be expected to be serious about this in any real way. In short, I avoid all of the conflict of criticism or the reality of feedback by being 13 again. My mother would laugh out loud at that idea.

So I’ve been thinking about this a lot. I’ve been thinking that I still only really want to write to get things out that I notice, that I love just writing thinking that people I know on Facebook will read it, that I am not a “writer” and I have no aspirations to make this any more than it is. But I need to take this to another level, maybe work in a longer format or build in revisions or begin to take things out of this stream-of-conciousness format that it lives in (as I am typing now) and into something more coherent and cohesive. There is part of me that loves things raw and I have experienced my friends transitioning their gifts from raw talent to tutored and trained talent with mentorship and help and sometimes the transition is rough. I’m not sure what it means to lose your edge and some of the authenticity either. Maybe I’m trying to convince myself already that this is not a good idea, so I’m going to say it before I back away from it completely… I think when I get to Providence, I am going to find a writing coach.

There, I said it.

Now I have to do it. Or come up with a really freaking good reason why not to (which may be, well, I’m not writing coach material).

So wish me luck, friends. I’m peering beyond the edge on this one.

Redolent with possibility

For Alvin, who inspires me and for Paul, who makes me a better person.

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It's hard to imagine what it is like to live in an environment where you don't have the weather to mark the passage of time. Seasons rise and fall in Michigan, none more so on the thumping, wet, cold darkness of Winter and none more delightful than the brilliant rays of the sun in Spring. We emerge, hunkered down from holding on through the most bone-chilling weeks of near desperation to a sky blazing blue and redolent with golden light. And for those months of light, we don't look at the sun as an advantage, we relish it. Seattle is like this too, as is Portland and all other climates I've lived in where people are deprived of the nectar of light. It's delicious beyond belief. It gives us pause. It renews us on a cellular level.

There's a lesson in this renewal, one subtle but worth exploration in trying to clear out the mental models that stand in our way. I sat at a bar the other night and explained to a friend how incredibly horrified I am of growing old, that there is something inside of me that shudders when I think of aging; that not enough of my life has been lived, that whatever shreds of youth I have had left will leave quickly, that I will never have again the time that I squandered when I was young. In my brain, this causes an odd inertia. I drag my feet, like some 3 year old who wanders the room because he doesn't want to leave, hoping time will stop or slow down.

But this year feels different.  Everything feels like it wants to be new. Clicking off miles on my walk to and from work, new skincare, new sunscreen, new bright running shoes on my feet, new music curated by friends, new writing, new reading, new perfume on my wrist, new, new, new.

More new this year than last. This year is about choices. This year is about vision. This year is about bursting with creative ideas, about curating again, about feeling the current of aliveness from discovery. It's the act of assembling and reassembling the parts to find the best combination. It's about paying attention to the little things as well as the big things. It's about being in it, swimming in it. It's about paying attention, having an avocation or two that sharpens your eye. Boldness and subtlety. Braveness and humility. Not being hamstrung by anything. Loving the process and expecting amazing outcomes. Humming at the cellular level with something that stirs your very soul and marrow. To choose to be alive in a fundamentally exciting way, to live a life powerfully evocative.

I love this feeling. I wish I could bottle it, the possibility of it all. In these moments, I often think of my friend Alvin and his ability to keep it fresh, moving, thoughtful; how he is always turning the dial just a bit to find the right frequency. Or my friend Paul whose practice of reflection and personal editing is not a task, but an essential part of his being. And Annie, and Sharleen, and Nicole. All of these people who have curated lives that are rich with interest and possibility. They remind me of how resplendent with interest the world is, how positive and alive it can be when your creative side gets to lead.

How to keep this feeling alive? How to carve out the time for energizing work? How to construct the next stage of life so that the cellular hum remains? Intention, focus, space, opportunity, running lanes, collaboration, courage, joy, choice. Yes.