Sunday, April 29, 2018

For the Love of Cousins

This weekend, one of my cousins said, "It's really too bad that it takes a funeral to get us to get together.

I agreed, but had to point out that at least we make the time for funerals. Sometimes it is hard to make time... except when you are being reminded that time isn't a guaranteed luxury. In memory of a cousin by marriage -- my Aunt Bonnie's son, Richard Powell -- I spent the weekend with some of my extended family. Cousins arrived from Alabama, Colorado, Texas, Indiana, and Kansas, of course. I had a rather short commute compared to most of them.

For about thirty-six hours, it was like diving headlong into the best best parts of childhood. I just circled and listened, circled and talked. Catching up on kids and partners, lives and jobs. Reminiscing and listening to others reminisce. Remembering those gone by interacting with those still with us.

I feel as if I owe a debt of thanks to Richard for the gift of time well-spent with family. I definitely owe a debt of thanks to Richard's wife, Deb, who opened her home and her heart to so many.

We're already planning an intentional reunion for next summer. Yay!


Friday, April 20, 2018

Reading with Emporia Writers

The local writing group had a reading this week as part of the celebration of The Literary World of William Allen White, hosted by ESU's WAW Memorial Library and Archives.

One of the benefits of getting together regularly with a group of writers is to remind yourself, though you often write alone, you are not alone. Other writers make good cheerleaders. They tend to offer good advice when you are in a writing hard place, or simply cheer you along, unafraid (and sincerely interested) to hear how your current project(s) is coming along.

Sometimes, having writer friends helps you step outside your box. While I've come to enjoy public presentations much more in recent years than I did when I was young, my tendency is often still to avoid them. Yet, when our group got this invitation to participate in this event, I jumped on it. It was fun to round up our writing meeting regulars and focus on a project together. We ended up with a few who were new to sharing their work and a some who were seasoned regulars. I think everyone had a good time, and though the event was small, we pretty much filled all the seats!





Tuesday, February 20, 2018

Reaching out , though it may disrupt our comfort...

Mostly written 2/15/2018

I lost a friend to suicide last year. Not a day has gone by since that I haven't thought about her, thought about our relationship, thought about all that I did and did not do. Though I called her friend, the truth was she could be a difficult person to be around. I struggled between the feeling that she needed me and feeling like I needed to protect myself/distance myself from her. In the end, I'm sad to say, distancing myself won out. In my mind, I told myself that I remained there for her, that I would not turn her away if she needed me, but I stopped reaching out. It was a hard thing to do. I am a person who naturally reaches out. I am a person who delights at getting together to visit with others, old friends and new. I'm not your go-to person for daily phone calls or lots of face time (generally), but I do value my friendships and I love getting to know my fellow humans, story by story.

I stopped reaching out to my friend, and though it took a bit of time, she stopped reaching out to me, as well. Our coffee dates dwindled to none. Our email exchanges grew less frequent and finally stopped altogether. The night before she killed herself, we were commenting on the same post on Facebook and I almost send her a private message. I knew life had been difficult for her. I knew some of her past issues were even more and bigger issues in that moment, yet I stopped myself. I chose to maintain the distance between us, perhaps thinking I just didn't have the time to welcome her back into my life right at that moment. I honestly can't be sure of exactly what I was thinking. Time has a way of of distorting the reality as we grieve. I only know that I did not reach out. And now I will never have that chance again.

These words come out today (heaven knows, I have started and stopped writing so many stories about my friend in the last six months) as I think about a young man who took a gun into a school in Florida yesterday and turned his pain, not against himself as my friend did, but against so many others. And as I am wired, as a person who spends time collecting people, story by story, I find myself thinking about how difficult he must have been. He likely had friends, at least once upon a time. People who cared about him deeply. And I wonder how many people from his life are sitting there today, wondering if there was something they could have done that would have changed things.

There are so many conversations that need to be had here...

But I keep coming back to another moment, just before I entered the fifth grade. I was on a family road trip that summer, reading Blubber, by Judy Blume, from the back of the station wagon. I was so moved by that story that I wrote a letter to a girl I went to school with. You know the girl. I'm sure you went to school with her too. Maybe she dressed funny. Her clothes weren't always clean, or her hair was a little greasy, like she was always a day past needing a shampoo. Or maybe it was something less obvious, like she had red hair, or she laughed a little too loudly, or her allergies meant she was constantly carrying a tissue. I think most of us have had experiences with this person. I think most of us have BEEN that girl/that boy for at least one moment in our lives.

For whatever reason, real or make believe, sometimes we encounter people who are difficult to reach out to, either something about them physically or something that stretches us mentally and emotionally. We pull away. We put distance between us when maybe what would truly be helpful--what would make a difference--would be to reach out.

In my grade school experience, the explanation (on the part of those of us who were not friends with the girl) was simple childhood immaturity. Some of us were trying on bullying behavior. Some of us may have actually been bullies. I don't know. Some of us were just desperately trying to fit in and would do anything, even if it meant shoving someone else out. Some of us had true issues to be angry about and did not yet understand that things were not improved by targeting an innocent victim.

That girl that I got to know was quick with a smile and incredibly bright. She didn't even hold a grudge, as far as I could tell. She and I became friends, at least through our junior high school years. I saw less of her in high school, and as adults we've seen each other a few times and have had our quick catch-ups and conversations as people who knew each other once-upon-a-time do. I don't know much about her life, but I spent enough time with her to learn some of the difficulties of her childhood, and to know that her smile grew even bigger as we left our grade school years behind.

I'm not excusing the horrible behavior of children or claiming that I made a significant difference in one girl's life. I'm simply remembering a moment that was hard, a decision I made that may have made my own life a little uncomfortable at that moment, but now that I am looking back I have no regrets about it. I reached out when I was ten, and it was totally worth it.

Yet as an adult, I didn't reach out... and I have been sorry every day for six months.

Since my friend took her own life last year, I've developed kind of a running dialogue with myself. Not that I had a clue just how bad it was for her. Even when our friendship was the real deal, even when I knew more about the ups and downs of her life, it honestly had never occurred to me that suicide might be one of her options. Call me naive. It feels arrogant to think that my presence would have made any difference at all to her, but it certainly would not have hurt me to reach out to her, to show some kindness.

I hear my inner voice quite loudly these days, saying things like, "Stop. Take a moment. Just say hello. Listen for a few minutes. Reach out. Give a little."

I don't know how to save the world, but I know how good it feels when people notice, when someone takes the time to say hello, and ask how my day is going. And there is no reason to avoid being that person who notices, who takes the time, who asks...

It's so easy to build a bubble and exist only on the inside. I think it is almost dangerously easy to do so even more these days, with communications like those on Facebook taking place of real life interactions.

The night before my friend took her own life, I almost sent her a private message. Instead, I pulled back. I was more comfortable with the distance between us. I told myself that she looked like she was doing well. Judging by the things she was sharing on FB (and we all understand how truth is reflected through FB) I thought she might even be finding some happiness. I reasoned with myself that my presence might actually disrupt her current life, that my reaching out might just bring up old hurts and make everything harder for her again.

I'm not a fragile person. I've long recognized that I have a stamina of optimism that has always carried me through the hard times. Sometimes, in fact, it has taken me years of distance to see how truly low some of the most difficult parts of my life have taken me. At the same time, my empathy for others who are struggling, especially while they are struggling, has too often sent me running the other way. When my mom died, I promised myself I would never walk away from friendship because of cancer. When a friend got divorced, I promised myself I would not walk away just because I could sometimes recognize her struggles in those my own marriage had seen. When my friend took her own life, it became very clear to me that I had walked away for the excuse of maintaining my own comfort, my own happiness.

And what does this have to do with dead children in Florida? I am reading the gun debates and the mental health debates and... while I think there is merit (on both sides) in so many of these arguments, I wonder if the answer isn't a bit simpler, a bit more personal.

Maybe we make a difference when we stop putting ourselves first. Just reach out when you see someone in pain. Endure a moment of personal discomfort and ask the next person you see about their own discomfort. Maybe replace every ranting FB post you write with a genuine conversation with the next person you meet on the street.

I don't know where to end this rambling post.

I don't know when I will stop feeling guilty about the friend I didn't reach out to.

And I know, know, know it wasn't my fault. It wasn't my responsibility to fix things for her. I don't need to be comforted about this fact.

I just need to decide that I will stop focusing so hard on my own comfort... I need to recognize my strengths and utilize them. I need to think more about the influence I might have on someone else's bubble, rather than fear a disruptive presence in my own.


Monday, January 29, 2018

Reality Doesn't Much Matter When We Believe Otherwise

I was thrilled when I got up this morning and saw on my phone that it was 35 degrees out. I've not been walking outside much in the mornings. There was that long stretch of single digit morning temps, followed by a long stretch of morning temps in the teens and twenties. Too cold. I bought a gym membership for the month of January (my hopes set on an early spring).

But this morning, it was above freezing by three degrees! I couldn't make excuses. I got dressed, layered myself appropriately, and then grabbed my coat (the one I use as a top layer on the coldest of days) just in case...

The dogs were thrilled, of course. I think they've missed the walks even more than I have. We took off in the pitch black of morning and I was looking forward to seeing the sun rise, thinking it would come quite a bit earlier than the last time I took a morning walk.

I was sure glad I'd grabbed that top layer, though. There was a pretty stiff breeze. It felt colder than I felt like thirty-five degrees should feel. But it had been a while. And the answer to feeling cold is just to move faster. So I did. And the dogs were eager and pulling me, so that helped!

When I turned north on Commercial, that stiff breeze took my breath away. And within a block I was getting that intense headache I usually get when it's freezing out and the nose pieces on my glasses carry the cold directly into my brain. What a cold thirty-five degrees, I told myself and pulled my scarf up (luckily, I had grabbed that too). I had to pull my fingers up inside my coat sleeves, the gloves I'd put on were my above the thirty-two mark gloves. With that morning breeze, it sure was feeling more like ski glove weather. None-the-less, I was happy to be outside and my core was really starting to warm up.

I was steps away when I looked up to see what the sign on the building at the corner of Commercial and 6th had to say about the temperature. 16 degrees!

Clearly, I had not given my phone time to update when I flipped it over this morning to look at how cold it was outside.

I was warmed up and tempted to keep going, but waiting for the light to turn, I saw my little dogs (still eager, still happy to be out) shivering. We turned left and made our way quickly back home.

There have been winters when I have managed to walk every morning, regardless of the weather. This has not been one of those seasons. It's funny, how warm that sixteen degrees felt, when I believed it to be thirty-five.

Rory and Sherlock, happy to be home after a cold morning walk.

Monday, January 22, 2018

Easy-Peasy Blog Post (not that I'm trying to post weekly or anything...)

I woke up this morning with a blog post neatly formed in my head. I had a plan by the time my feet hit the floor. I'd go to the gym, come home to clear the sink of dishes, enjoy a cup of hot tea with my breakfast, and quickly write my blog post before heading into the office. It was 8:45 when I sat down at the computer. I did give myself a small window of time on Facebook, but then I got write right to work . . . writing!

When I looked up, it was a few minutes past 11 o'clock and there was snow falling from the sky. (Surprise!) And my easy-peasy blog post was nowhere near ready. And it's clearly much, much bigger than a blog post. It will likely be days or years before you read it here.

This is how it happens sometimes. You write yourself into the flow, thinking you are just going to float a little ways down the stream and jump out. But it turns out the stream is actually a river, and perhaps that river is about to dump you out into the big, wide ocean. It's time to don the life jacket. It's time to get serious and swim.

Meanwhile, feel free to enjoy this photo that I was planning to post with today's blog entry.

This is Dobby Grace.



Monday, January 15, 2018

Wherein I Finally Determine What My Tattoo Should Be

Not my Tattoo!
In conversation with a new friend yesterday, I admitted that I had spent the last twenty years planning my first tattoo. I’ve come up with several possibilities, but I always end up dwelling on whether each design is something I really want to define me for the rest of my life. As well, getting a tattoo feels like it would be the ultimate act of rebellion, and though my mom has been gone for twenty years now and, let’s be honest, it would be pretty easy to hide one from my dad (especially if I did not blog about it in a public place or, say, post photos of it on Facebook once it actually happened) it seems funny that I would feel that way about a tattoo, when I think of much of the rest of my life as a gradual act of rebelling against what I was taught I should do/be/become.

Here I am, approaching my 50s, many years-clear of any of the traditional institutions of my youth that would have considered a permanent marking of the body unacceptable (though happily, not the people) and a tattoo still feels . . . well . . . Taboo.

I honestly don’t know that I’ll ever commit, but in my head, I am someone with a tattoo. I am also someone who wears long, flowy, colorful skirts and big dangly earrings that catch and reflect the light and chime softly when I move. (And I move like a dancer, by the way, rather than a person who relies on roll-bar technology in her shoes to keep her upright.) In my head, I am a person who can tell you what phase the moon is in, I know the Sanskrit names for all the yoga poses, and when my life comes to a halt at random moments to leave myself post-it notes of inspiration, I do so in the most beautiful calligraphy.

Sunday, January 7, 2018

Living Timelessly in 2018

Gratuitous Bookstore Cat Photo:
The Raven Bookstore in Lawrence, Kansas
I have always wanted to start a collection
of bookstore cat photos. Maybe this will be
the year I actually do so.
It's a new year and I have not made a single mistake in writing the number 2018 yet. A good sign, as it seemed as often as not in 2017, I would pause before writing the date to contemplate the year. 2010? 2013? Where exactly in time was I?

I did make resolutions this year, and no, I'm not going to talk about them here. You will see the results of them if I succeed. You won't if I don't. Enough said. Once upon a time I called myself the Queen of New Year's resolutions. Then I spent several years saying that last year's plan worked well enough, I'd simply keep on doing the same ole' same ole'. This year I'm somewhere between the two, and I've committed to checking in with my family on working toward some long term goals.

I am trying something different this year, and seven days in, I'm fairly pleased with the results. For many years now I have been a diligent tracker of time. Perhaps a bit of a side-effect of a freelance lifestyle, or simply a need to document how I spend my time to give myself a record of progress made, I can go back many years and tell you how much time I've spent on "job" related tasks, such as working for/in my husband's law office, and working for the farmers market (a job where, though I was technically an employee, I was the only employee and pretty much the boss of me and how I managed my time). I can tell you how much time I spent on freelance work, most years broken down by the type of work I was doing (writing for pay, writing for fun, ghostwriting, editing, and other). In recent years, I've even tracked time spent on some of my volunteer commitments, not because I felt like I owed the communities I volunteered with any certain amount of time, but because I felt I owed it to myself to make sure that I was spending at least as many hours on me as I was on other people. I have a tendency to put myself last in line of importance, and by tracking these hours, I got better at making sure I was putting in time for myself, as well.

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