Traveling the In Between

My grandfather isn't doing well. There are things...things that happen before the end. Things they say. Things they do. Things they don't do and don't say. I think we're running out of time.

I know I'm not ready, but now I'm just terrified. I'm afraid I won't be there for the end. I'm afraid that he'll slip away and I won't be here, I'll miss those final goodbyes, words said, and flowers draped over wood. I'm in this position where I can't do anything about that without big repercussions. I'm scared.

He asked for me. He wondered where I was. I have felt for two days now that I needed to talk to him. When I called, he told me to keep being a good girl. He asked about my boys over and over. It was short and quiet and he was so, so tired. I couldn't remember if I said, "I love you." So I called again, just to be sure. He told me that I said all the time that I loved him—and he knew I did. I didn't know he knew. I'm so glad he does.

My rational brain understands the cycle of life. The quietness in my heart knows this is all but a moment in a greater whole. But whatever this human part of me is? It's without sense or the rational or even the calm. I've lost loved ones in my life before, but never quite like this.

My mother told me, "Trust God." I do. I know He has a plan and a purpose. He'll always steer me right. This isn't about trust or faith or believing in a place of reunion. It isn't about the death of mortality blossoming into forever. God and I talked that one out. We're good. This is about being unprepared. This is about facing down something I've never really experienced. This is about helplessness and standing on the precipice of something I don't know how to process.

I am traveling somewhere I've never been. A road taken one step, one breath at a time. I know where I am and I know where it all ends. It's the places in between and the ways they will change me that I know nothing about.

*Update*
Nothing much has changed but I'm feeling a lot better about where we are. I don't really want to talk specifics so all I'm going to say is that I feel peaceful. Thank you for your love and concern. Your kindness makes more of an impact that I can adequately express. God bless.

Icicle Beats Cyclical

I've been thinking—which, frankly, is sometimes not a good thing. But I haven't managed to leave my head behind me yet so I think about:

Life and Death and the Hereafter

Family (all sorts)

Friends (ditto)

Writing

Reading

Success and Failure

Insecurities, Comparison and Coveting, Self Improvement and Awareness and whether all of that makes me a narcissist and do narcissists know they're narcissists? 

God

And many times I think, "Boy, a coma sure sounds nice right about now." But then I start wondering if you think even more in a coma and I'm right back to over-thinking it all. Reading helps. A lot. And movies sometimes.

I think about what to write about on this blog (which many blog writers seem to think about from time to time). I used to write only about writing. Then I started inserting stories here and there. Now and then, something less defined slipped in—really just something where I worked out thoughts and emotions. And then I decided that I'd only write about writing when I felt like it and that I wasn't going to use my blog as a platform so much as I wanted to use it as a simple way to connect with other people.

But I start thinking about it and wondering if I've done this whole thing the wrong way. Was it stupid to stop "platforming?" Do people care about personal stories? Am I just a braggart when I write the emotional weirdy stuff? And then I start thinking that I want to stop thinking and we're right back to Wishful Comas. (And then I start thinking about how insensitive it is to think that way when people face personal tragedy involving comas and how I ought to censor myself more.)

With thoughts so cyclical, I start wishing my brain was an icicle instead. Frozen. Quiet. Maybe a little melty. And, oh. That sounds so good.

That Day

My ninety-four year old grandfather was rushed to the hospital today. Ninety-four. 94. That's a long time. That's a lot of time many people don't have. I'm lucky. So very, very lucky.

But I'm rotten selfish.

Ninety-four isn't enough for me. I'm not ready. I'm just selfish enough that One Hundred and Four isn't enough. One Thousand and Four. One million and four.

It's not enough because I haven't learned enough. My grandfather and I don't see eye-to-eye on many things, on a lot of things. I'm ashamed to say that I wasted too much time not looking beyond those things. I have regrets. And there's not enough time to take those away.

My sister told me some time ago that she had a candid, personal conversation with my grandparents. She settled things. She said things. They said things too. And she said she has no regrets. She knows she's used her time well to love them well. Loves them well. She has no regrets—but she isn't ready either.

What is ready? Does Ready actually exist? People say it does—but is it the people who are Ready to Go? Because I think the people who Stay are never ready. Not really. Because I thought I was Ready when my father's mother passed away. She was Ready. She was sick and tired and aching to be reunited with my grandfather. And I thought I was prepared to let her go because she was so, so Ready. And then she died and I was so, so Not. I hadn't enough time to learn and look beyond the things. I am still trying to see them.

And everything may turn out okay today. Educated doctors and nurses may patch up my fiery old grandfather and send him home in time to see his granddaughter and grandson graduate on the same day. He's so excited for them: two of his own, graduating with greek letters and honors and top percentages and both of them going on to Graduate school and greatness. And they're His. Parts of him that go on to greatness. And he's so excited.

All he ever wanted was to live as long as his father did. And he has. Surpassed it. So he sets little goals: "Long enough 'till Christmas...'till February...'till we get together in March...'till Graduation..." Long enough. Long enough that isn't enough.

Everything may turn out okay.

But someday it isn't going to. Someday I will not be ready and he will. Someday it will be that day. I just don't want it to be today.

I just don't want it to be.

Happy. Sweet. Kindness.

A few days ago, my sister went to the bookstore with the express intent of buying a short story anthology because she knew one of my stories was inside. It was published some time ago but she didn't own it and even though she'd read it before (via email), she bought it just to support me.

Yesterday, a friend took time out of a very busy day to go to lunch with me. She'd even already had a light lunch but sat down, talked about everything and nothing, and boxed up her leftovers when we'd finished. And after all of that, she still spent an hour more just chatting, just because.

Last night, my husband sacrificed personal time to help me hang a curtain rod. I'd ordered it online and was so excited to get rid of our old crappy blinds. He saw that excitement, brushed off his own weariness, and patiently taught me how to use his power drill. The curtains look lovely and let in so much light.

This morning, my sons climbed into my bed and leaped across the Stay-Puft Feather Comforter just to hug me and tell me that they'll miss me when they go to school. One of them rubbed his face into my shoulder and made that "mmmmm" sound. You know the kind you make when you're cold and get all bundled up? Or when a sip of hot chocolate tastes particularly yummy? That sound. The comforting, content sound.

My grandmother called me to ask me if I was feeling better. I've had a mild, irritating cold. None of my illnesses or challenges are mild to my grandmother. All of them are worth calling, worth checking in, worth comforting. She loves me. Always. Unconditionally. Quietly but with rich power.

These last months have seen so much unkindness in the world, so much hurt, so much loss. Kindness makes me happier. Kindness heals the heart-scars. Kindness is kind.

So, I'm sharing some kindnesses. Happy. Sweet. Kindness.

Little Bird, Little Bird, Fly Through My Window

Yesterday I saw a white bird on the wing. It was just outside my car window as I waited at the light, a round-bellied little thing with long, graceful wings that curved just so. The wind was pretty fierce, the kind that whips and turns and changes its mind. And the funny thing was, the bird just went with it.

For a minute, the bird dipped and sailed on a strong current and when that current swept away, the bird beat its wings in a quick whap, whap, whap. In an eyeblink, the wind switched and the little white-feathered fellow went right back to tilting and gliding and letting the air buoy him as it would.

In less than five minutes, this cycle must have repeated itself a good six or seven times. Wind meets bird. Wind lifts bird. Wind abandons bird. Bird chases wind. Bird lifts itself. Bird falls back into wind. What a thing, to swoop and sail and fight and strive.

And as I left I thought to myself, There's a lesson in that.

*Post title from Elizabeth Mitchell's song, Little Bird, Little Bird

The Great, Vast Secret

I'm a big fan of Patrick Rothfuss and so naturally, I social-media stalk him on Facebook. Today he shared this post by Neil Gaiman (who I'm also a big fan of) and I think to myself, "There's some kind of magic, some soothing timbre of his voice that gathers up all the thoughts in my head and heart and fits them all together."

If you've ever listened to Neil speak (online, in person, wherever), you know just what I'm talking about. The man is an artist in virtually every medium I can conceive of but what I think I like best about Neil is that he is so very, very human. When he speaks about people, about the world, about life and learning and art and being oneself, there seems to me to be a great, churning undercurrent beneath his words. And it isn't a wild thing. It isn't overwhelming or torrential or forceful. But it's vast! Vast and deep and brimming.

He's created this 12 month project that involves feedback from everyday people. People share their thoughts and he absorbs them, shapes them with his own words, and gives it all back. Here's a 1.5 minute video about it. It's the kind of thing you really want to hear from his own mouth.

I'm just going to disclose that I watched this and got teary. Not just because of the music and the beautiful filming or Neil's dogs tromping through the snow with him. I'm touched because under all of the words and music and images is that vast undercurrent Neil so often touches on.

I'm a heavy thinker. Often too heavy. And one of the things I think heavily on is humanity and God and where it fits together, when it fits together, how it will fit together. I muse on what things make us human and what connects us and what remains when body and spirit are no longer connected. I think so often on life experiences: good, bad, tragic, furious, joy-bursting. And many times I ask myself what it is we're learning here on this great, fat planet.

Sometimes, this place sucks. There are times I think I'd most certainly rather be somewhere else. But...it doesn't suck. Not really. Sucky things happen, perhaps more than non-sucky things happen, but something amazing happens here too.

I treasure this place. I treasure the incongruity and the mess. I love the discordance and brief glimpses of symmetry. I revel in the interconnectivity because at the end of the day, we're all together in this. I live in the western hemisphere and may never meet someone from the eastern hemisphere and yet we both exist in this messy old world. We both have pain and happiness and fear. We love. We fight. We live. Oh, we live. And the truth is, nothing can replace that. Nothing can take the place of these shared experiences and good or bad, we are having them together.

Like Neil says, so much of what a writer does is done alone. I sit here now, alone but for my sweet dog curled nearby, typing this by myself. In a moment, I'll push "publish" and my words will go places I cannot. A part of me will flow into that vast under-river and somewhere, something I am will brush up against something someone else is. And that is so beautiful to me. Beautiful to know that we are an imperfect wildness that for all our differences and ugliness and resplendence, we are doing this thing together.

In my heart, I think there will come a day when sense is made of this strange life we live. I cannot say how and I do not know when but I know deep in the marrow of me how grateful I am to the people living life. Here. Right now. With me. We're the only ones who can get it, who can understand what it is to be here. The person across the street and across the world is part of something that only we will ever have. In our deepest loneliness or our heightened bliss, we are each other. What a gift that is.

Distorted

My head feels like an overfull oil drum. Like someone's smacking the side of it and the contents are sloshing and spilling out and raising such a clamor as to drive me batty. It's not a physical feeling, not a tangible reaction like a migraine, but it's under my skin and just won't go away. It's a symptom of my brimming thoughts. A doctor once told me it was my "unquiet mind." Apt.

I do what I can to balance it. This last year has taught me to face myself and look hard. It means I've got to be brutal in my honesty because if I don't understand the image in front of me, I'll only ever see the distortion.

And I have to wonder, how often do we only see the distortions? How often do we listen to the things people say to us—and about us—and accept them as the truth? The preconceptions of society? The offhand remarks? The slights—real and imagined? And what of the fears or doubts? Where in all the fog of wondering can we see the glass?

I'm learning to accept that I'm not for everybody. No one is. It's a simple truth and yet not a popular one. Because even when we can admit that not everyone suits us, it's sometimes harder to admit that we're unsuitable for others. Even when we know this and remind ourselves, sometimes a person will say something and it suddenly seems they're the only honest human on the planet and "they're so right about me," and "I must be a terrible person." Never mind the people in your life who believe you're worth knowing, worth loving. It's just that one person who's willing to give it to you straight.

That's distortion. It's also the kiss of death for a people-pleaser.

Yes, that's me, shyly standing up in front of the podium. "Hi. My name is Laura and I'm a People-Pleaser." I couldn't tell you how many days it's been since my last relapse because frankly, I'm bad with numbers. Also, it's a little hard to pinpoint when my last train of thought derailed—and my mind sort of looks like the graveyard where the Little Engine that Could went to die. Point being, I'm not always good at understanding my own thought processes and how well I'm adjusting them.

Retraining your brain is hard. I second-guess and over analyze and beat that horse straight out of death and into its zombified state. But I'm learning. I'm learning to stop. To breathe. To walk away and shut it out. I'm learning to replace: "So-and-so thinks that I'm [insert negative thing here,]" with "Are you better today than you were before?" and "What do you think about yourself?" Sometimes that means adjusting and sometimes that means heaving a relieved sigh and getting on with your day.

The fact is, my heart breaks to watch other people do this to themselves. To see them ferret out every flaw and examine it with the intensity of a theoretical physicist. To love someone who harvests all of the "bad" and sifts out the good, believing that there's so little good to be had. I see them and want to pull a Clarence & George Bailey so they can actually see how remarkable they really are.

I haven't wanted to post about the things swirling around in my over-thinking brain. They're the garbage thoughts, the one's that profit me nothing. But I have a hard time pushing them away. The only thing I can think to do is to replace them with hope. Hope that the distortion is wrong. Hope that I'm not as bad as I think I am. I tell myself to think about how many times I believe that God has shown His hand to me and whispers that we are so much more than we see.

I think about distortion and my reflection in the mirror and all of the unsuitable things...and how all of them are just the lies I tell myself. I may not be for everyone, but I'm something to someone. And at times like this, that's enough. Isn't it?