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My dearest friend, Nadia, and I went to the beach yesterday. It’s a delightful little gem about 30 minutes away from my house with squeaky-white sand and countless shells. We’ve been beach partners throughout our friendship, so this was a fun way to spend the last day of our weekend together.
We chose our spot and set up. Nadia opened her beach chair with 2 clicks, tossed her towel on top, and slapped on another layer of SPF 30 sunscreen. She had this all done before I had even unwrapped my umbrella. She’s such a beach pro. We’re such beach opposites, but we’re both drawn to the lure of the ocean.
My favorite moment of the day was when I saw Nadia’s eyes open and a smile crease her face as she looked over at me. What a pair we were. She stretched out on her chair with her swimsuit positioned just right so the sun would paint all the right places. I was wrapped in a blanket sized beach towel under an umbrella still wearing my hat and sunglasses.
Yeah, I’m a real beach hottie.
My mother and grandmother just left, and my house is back to it’s typical quiet stillness, except for the occasional sound of dog nails sliding on the floor. I’m sad. This is the exact same feeling I’d get after each holiday or extended visit with my grandparents or cousins when I was a child.
Even though I knew we’d see each other again, I’d sit in the back seat and cry most of the way home. That heart-in-a-vise-grip bawling that never seems like it will go away and makes you feel so silly when it finally does.
And it does. Eventually.
So here I am with way too much work to do and not one ounce of desire to do any of it. I’d much rather hop in the car and drive over to the beach where I could cry behind the cover of sunglasses and the pounding of the ocean waves. But life goes on, and my grandmother purposely cleaned my house so I could focus solely on the work she knows I have to do today.
I wonder why it hurts so much, and yet I already know the answer. I guess I just thought that I’d reach a point in my life when I could say good-bye to the people I love without the lump in my throat.
At least I can recognize this feeling and embrace it, as painful as that is. Two years of therapy paid off in that I’ll sit here and cry just long enough to clear my head instead of eating the rest of the macaroni and cheese my grandmother made for me. Or making a pitcher of margaritas. You have no idea what progress that is for me.
There’s a comfort in knowing that I do view my family as people I’d rather wrap around my life. Still, none of that changes the fact that my heart aches right now. So I’ll let it ache.
Four years ago today I received a phone call from my cousin, Rachel, who sobbed into the phone, “Grandpa’s dead.” He had been sick for a few years, and we knew this day was inevitable, but it still sent shock waves through my soul. I’d love to tell the story of his funeral, and perhaps I will sometime this week, but for now I just want to share some of my memories of this remarkable man.
He was a big man with a gruff voice that scared me when I was younger. I never wanted to make him angry for fear of what he would sound like. And yet, I can also still see him standing next to me in church singing worship songs in that baritone. I can also still hear his voice blessing Sunday and holiday dinners.
The year before he died, we stayed up until the wee hours of the morning on the front p
orch swing. He told me war stories about Navy ships and German torpedoes and how isolated and frightening the South Pacific is in the middle of the night. I also remember wondering that night just when he would stop talking so we could go to bed, and I’m so glad tonight that I just kept listening. It turns out that was one of the few times he ever talked about his time in the Navy.
I once sat across from him at the kitchen table eating cereal. Always aware of my manners, I wasn’t sure if I could drink the remaining milk from my bowl like I would at home. After trying to scoop out the milk with my spoon, he told me, “Just drink it from the bowl” and proceeded to do so himself. He would later offer other useful tips like, “A house is just a place to hang your hat and store your crap.”
We watched a lot of football together and cheered for both the Tampa Bay Buccaneers and the Florida Gators. I still have his Bucs jacket hanging in the closet, and I will wear it even though it is 3 or 4 sizes too big for me. He took me out on his boat more times than I can remember, and that deal worked out well for both of us. He could fish and I could pretend to fish while getting myself mentally lost in the nature around us. He once took me to see Lake Kissimmee in the boat after my endless pleading, and when I asked him to take me down the Kissimmee River to see Lake Okeechobee, his response was a Dean classic: “Have you been to the beach? Well, it’s a big lake that looks like the ocean. You’ve already seen that.”
It’s hard for me to describe how just his presence made me feel safe. No matter what kind of turmoil was swirling in my life, I could just sit in a recliner next to him or lean up against his shoulder and all seemed right in the world. Even as his health declined, I still felt more at ease just being in the same room with him watching Wheel of Fortune or working the newspaper crossword.
For 26 years of my life, this man was a constant. He never varied in his convictions. He loved his family and his Lord dearly. At his memorial service, I remember saying something about how his ideals should live on in his grandchildren and that if I could live even a fraction of the truth he lived, my life would be a success. He left behind some big shoes to fill, and right now I miss him very much.
A lifetime ago I was at Cooper’s Rock in West Virginia with my then boyfriend and one of his college buddies. This was one of the sites Eric knew I would absolutely love, and he was right. The view of the tree covered Appalachian Mountains was stunning. I stood there overwhelmed and dumbstruck. Being outside in the mountains or a forest or the beach leaves me feeling connected to God in a way that a church has never been able to mimic. In this hallowed moment of personal worship (and an appreciation for my boyfriend’s intuitive knowledge of what speaks to my soul), his friend uttered the most ridiculous statement I think I’ve ever heard.
“When I look at that, I think to myself, ‘Wow, that’s a lot of trees.’”
We all laughed.
This statement still pops into my head from time to time, and it did the other night as I listened to a talk radio show. (I’m addicted to talk radio the way some people are addicted to reality t.v.) The host was talking about some study that found a formula for unhappiness. Basically, we are unhappy when our idea of what our life should be is different from it’s reality. Okay, so it was another “that’s a lot of trees” statement, but it resonated with me, and I think you will all agree with it. After all, who includes in their life plan sickness and divorce and betrayal and heartache and stress? Generally speaking, all of these can send our happiness meter into the negative.
Life rarely turns out exactly the way we plan, so I wonder how it is that any of us find happiness. According to this theory, we have to adjust our thinking. As long as I sit here and fixate my thoughts on the way my life is a flawed deviation from my plans, I will never move on to the place where I can find the joy in the moment around me. Once again, I find myself face to face with (1) accepting the moment as it is, warts and all; (2) clinging to what is true in my life; and (3) adjusting the scope of my life’s lens to the light and texture of the moment.
Just for fun…
We had some neighbors visit us last week. I was taping the windows (getting ready for painting) when I saw a small herd of sheep and goats, including 2 lambs, amble through the front gate. They made themselves at home, chomping away at our now overgrown front yard. My camera was in the car, and before I could get out to pick it up, the dogs saw our guests. The biggest goat looked up at the house, straightened his ears, and left. The others followed. I guess we really do live in the country.
In case you didn’t know, today is August 7. I have been waiting for this day for months now, thinking it would never get here and wishing it would take its time because the new school year was just around the corner. Eclipse was released today. My Barnes & Noble gift card has been burning a hole in my wallet waiting for the moment I crossed the threshold into the store.
Everyone who knows me well knows that although I love learning and reading, I don’t particularly care for fiction. Never have. I still read it from time to time, i.e. when I find something that resonates with me or truly revolts me. Poor Nadia has had to listen to me complain about the crap that gets published and I waste my time reading. (I owe you for that.) The exceptions for my anti-fiction rhetoric have been the Left Behind series and the Twilight series (Stephenie Meyer’s fantastic vampire series). Eclipse is the third book.
Finally holding this book in my hands was like smelling a freshly showered man after being separated from all humanity for years. I bought it this afternoon (along with another page turner: “Eight Greeks and Romans Who Changed the World”). I read two chapters sitting in my driveway cooking in my turned off vehicle.
I collapsed on the couch and continued reading until my eyes were blurry and the dogs were circling me with their legs crossed. I forced myself to come up for air and take care of some necessities around the house. I’m halfway done. For those of you counting, I read 3 pages per minute. Yes, it’s that’s good, and I read that fast.
While I’m sitting here ignoring the boxes that are waiting to be packed and the sink from the new place that I need to scrub, my darling husband has been pulling up floors, installing new air conditioning ducts (we don’t have a/c there at the moment), and stressing about how all this will come together. He’s a worker, that man. I’ve never seen anyone so dedicated to the task before him. In less than a week, he has pulled out kitchen cabinets and over 1,000 square feet of tile flooring, mowed 3 acres of the property, bought several truck loads of supplies, and annihilated several species of stinging insects. Part of me is enthralled by his dedication. Part of me feels guilty for not helping more. All of me admires him.
And the voice you need to hear is the true and the trusted kind
With a soft, familiar rhythm in these swirling, unsure times
When the waves are lapping in and you’re not sure you can swim
Well here’s the lifeline
(“This is Love”/Mary Chapin Carpenter)
Several months ago I started putting together my life story in the form of a scrapbook. Tonight, I pulled it out again and took a lovely stroll through my memory. I reached for the last set of pictures to go in the book and stopped at the very last one–my high school graduation.
The event was a little different for me. Basically, I withdrew myself from high school after the first semester of my junior year of high school. Between my mother’s deteriorating mental health and my desperate attempts to hold together the family I had left, I could find no significance to sitting in American Government discussing upcoming football games. High school life seemed so self-absorbed and meaningless…exactly what it should be. On top of all this, I was harassed daily in class and the hallways by someone, and it was just too much to deal with.
I worked full time during the day and finished my few remaining courses at night school. Those few months are still a blur, but in my typical fashion, I pushed myself to get everything done in record time. I held my high school diploma in my hands seven months early.
The adult school had a special “graduation” ceremony for students who earned either their diploma or G.E.D. Although, it was nice to be part of the event, I could help but feel depressed, wondering just what I had traded in my haste. While my friends were still writing term papers and going to club meetings, I was earning a paycheck. I was no longer a part of their club that consisted of study sessions and parties and summer plans. What did I have to show for myself?
On top of all this, this graduation was more low-key than I had envisioned. There were no caps and gowns or alma mater singing, but my entire family was there. My cheering section also included three of the most amazing people I’ve ever known–three of my best friends since junior high. I had no idea they would be there. It meant the world to me to see them there…to have them participate in the ever-so-important teenage rite of passage.
That’s what true love is all about. It’s standing by someone even when they don’t make decisions that seem right or logical to you. It’s holding tightly to relationships, and knowing that the camaraderie we share sustains our souls. It’s cheering for the milestones. It’s crying together in the depths of sorrow. And it’s that kind of love that I know twelve years later will last forever.
My cousin, Rachel, and her almost-four-month-old baby spent the weekend with me. We both needed the down time to sleep and laugh and pour out our hearts (something we’ve been doing since we were 10 and 17). Rachel is one of my kindred spirits who embodies an amazing ability to accept you as you are but not let you walk all over her. It’s one of my favorite qualities in her.
As our time together neared it’s end, we landed in an extremely emotional discussion about choices and consequences and the human spirit. At one point, my faced scrunched up and I yelled, “Why do we have to be so mean to each other?” She looked at me and said, “We all forget that we’re human and don’t like the reminder that we all make mistakes.”
Think about that one for a minute while I compose myself.
There was a time in my life when I sat in my own ivory tower and passed judgment on those around me. I could spot a sin a mile away and rested in the knowledge that I could point out such flaws in others because I didn’t indulge in those behaviors. Although I didn’t say it, I frequently thought, “I’ll never…”
Real life settled in, and I discovered that my ivory tower was made of cardboard. It’s conveniently easy to say, “I’ll never” until you’re faced with those decisions. Moments build and circumstances sometimes within and sometimes beyond our control join forces. Reason doesn’t always triumph emotion. Emotion doesn’t always triumph reason. I can sit here and tell you that I would never have an abortion, but you what? I’ve never been in a situation where I had to make that decision. I’d love to announce that I would never rob a bank. Again, I’ve not been desperate enough to attempt such a scheme.
So I’m left here with my fury and frustration at the human race. How can we sit back and look at someone in distress, ridicule and berate them, and then justify our actions with a simple, “They made a mistake and deserve the pain”? I just don’t get it. It’s only by the grace of God that I’ve not been forced to face more drastic consequences than I have. It’s only by the grace of God that I’ve made it through the consequences I have faced. Who am I to do anything but show that same grace to my fellow man?
I just spent the last hour trying to fax two documents to my new school district (yes, I accepted the “heart” position). It wasn’t pretty. The fax machine ate the paper like it was in the Nathan’s Hot Dog Eating Contest, so I had the bright idea of seeing if any of my 17 email accounts has the option of faxing. They don’t, and it turns out the fax machine’s problem was a paper clip wedged inside. I did, however, find an old email I had saved. This email appeared in my email box December 10, 2000. I still don’t know who sent it to me, but it is a rather interesting note.
Dear Allison,
I’m not exactly sure how to begin. You were my biggest competition when
we were in high school. I always thought that you’re poetry was very profound
and that you have a very inspiring intellect. I was moved by the way that you
were able to paint a picture with the words that you used. So many poets try
to accomplish that goal,but fall short in the end. You should feel very
blessed because, poetry is not something that everyone can do. To be able to
wrap yourself up in a moment or a feeling and turn it ino a picture that
anyone can relate to is utterly fantastic. As in the words of the late ,
great Wiliam Blake ‘ tyger oh tyger, what immortal hand or eye could frame
thy fearful symmetry’ .
So few people can look beyond what lies before them in this world and
make sweet sense of the whole situation. So from poet to fellow poet I would
like to say thankyou for making this life just a little sweeter; because
within the words there is imagination and that can take us any where, any
place, any time that we want to be. Within the very lines that we write
people will find any fantasy that they dare conjur. And with that profound
thought, I ask you, do you realize the unique power with wich you’ve been
endowed?
I’m flattered…and just slightly stunned. For the life of me I cannot remember competing with anyone in high school in the writing field. That’s even weirder because I have this freakish memory. I can tell you who I sat next to in each class and describe each hallway I walked. I still know the birthdays of all my high school friends and most of their high school phone numbers. I can describe people down to the finest detail, but do not remember ANYONE competing with me as a writer.
Now that I am facing a move, I am really thinking about what we hold on to. Our minds and memories and closets are packed with all sorts of paraphernalia that in the end may or may not really matter. I need this reminder today as I’m trying to keep myself from succumbing to the feelings stirred in me from saying good-bye to my home and co-workers and knowing that someone else is saying good-bye to her home and beloved animals (including euthanizing one of her dogs). My life is bittersweet today, and for the first time in my life, I want to embrace the flavor.
I thought it was bad enough today when I waited in line at the post office for thirty minutes to mail a package I promised would go out today. I thought it was bad enough today when I wandered through the grocery store for twenty minutes looking for Cheese Whiz. I thought it was bad enough today when I waited for three hours for my husband to get back from his one hour errand.
That’s nothing.
I’ve stayed in destructive relationships with people just to avoid feeling like the time I spent with them was a waste. I’ve lost years’ worth of sleep staying up late to write because I had to work three jobs to pay the rent. I gave up most of my life feeling like I could never fit in with a group of people because there was something wrong with me. I earned a degree and slaved away at jobs trying to figure out a way to marry my dreams with the dreams everyone else has for me.
I hate wasting time.
Life is too precious.
There once were two dogs who wanted to please their master and earn the master’s love through obedience. They raced to see who would be first to greet their master and then tried to outjump each other to show who loved the master more. Each one would bring the master a slipper and the newspaper, and they even learned how to carry the laundry basket.
When the master wasn’t around, they pushed and bit each other and fought epic battles for the top position within the pack. They counted out the number of kibble pieces and kept track of the length of their walks with the master believing that this would show which dog was more loved. And they compared notes.
“On Tuesday, you got to climb onto the bed. I don’t get to do that.”
“But I was sick, so that doesn’t count. Besides, you got a new collar in my favorite color.”
This went on for years. The dogs struggled and battled and neither ever seemed content in his position within the pack. They wasted so much time that they never played with their toys or chased a squirrel or pranced through the woods or took a long nap in the sunshine. They never knew the joys of being a dog or the comraderie of being part of a pack.
I am one of those dogs; much of my life has been defined by a very similar race. I cannot help but wonder what would happen if I dropped out of the race? Is there still a competition? Am I still in the race if someone thinks they are competing against me?
What I do know is that I’m worn out. You can only run for so far or so long. I’m out of breath and thirsty and oh so ready for a nap. So why can’t I just slip out of the race? My fear is that it makes me a failure and will give the competitor a false sense of victory. It’s a sad and shameful testament to my humanity: I don’t want to go on anymore, but I also don’t want to lose.
