Free Willy

I hated that movie. I hate all those movies about animals ("Free Willy," "Hoot," "Bambi," largely considered by me as misery-making movies) that slice my heart open and let me bleed salty tears, only to stitch me back up again with some Hollywood happy ending that doesn't really "fix" me back to the point where I was living a happy life, like before I watched the movie. I despise being jerked around that way.

In my last post I mentioned a bit of public speaking that would be required of me at the release party for Janie Mitchell, Reliable Cook. True to form I began obsessing over this task days, WEEKS prior. By Friday night, I was one big coiled up and knotted intestinal tract. X-rays would have looked more like an over-used hair dryer cord, twisted, kinked, practically untangleable, than a healthy section of "people pipe."

It was bad. But, as I like to point out, it can always get worse.

Upon our arrival at 274 Calhoun Street at 4:15pm, I decided it was time to step up the paranoia.

First I almost locked myself in the 200-year-old bathroom accidentally. I could not get out.

Then I gave myself an epic case of dry mouth and began to obsess about when--not if--that thin white waxy line of caked lipstick would form at the point where my lips meet. This caused me to fixate on rubbing my index finger around my lips, again and again, to make certain there was no lip crease. Minutes were clicking off toward 6:30--the time on the agenda when I would "say a few words." I was in one of those abstract paintings with a narrow hall and no doors, descending unremittingly into hell. Six Thirty was coming. For ME.

My friend showed up at 4:30pm. (He doesn't read, so he won't know I'm talking about him.)

With kind eyes, he asked what he could do to help. I told him he could listen to my speech. And he and my husband did that for me, out on the veranda, the piazza, oh the stupid porch.

Then people started coming in around 5:15pm. Some people I knew. Friends and family, there to support me. Others I did not know. So many people that they were lined up outside, waiting to get in. I began signing books. All through the snacks and wine drinking, I signed. I talked with each person individually. I enjoyed this immensely, chit-chatting about their connections with the house, or with Charleston, or offering their own "Janie" stories. Books that were purchased as gifts were personalized. I enjoyed finding out a little about these gift receivers so that I could write something meaningful to them. The room got louder, and louder and louder as the hum of cocktail chat reached that familiar level where everyone must talk at a higher decibel to be heard over everyone else talking louder to be heard.

Our party was a success.

As the time crept on toward 7:15, I noticed the whale in the room. Willy was right there, taking up all available space in The Big House, dripping water across the ginger snaps and baby carrots with ranch dressing. He was thrashing about just like a fish out of water, and I realized I had missed giving my speech. I did not have to do it. A sense of relief washed over me.

Thank-you God, I whispered. Thank-you for saving me, for protecting me from having to do something outside my comfort zone.

And then, right on the heels of relief came a sense of urgency, like a rogue wave at sea.

No.

I stood up. And I asked, aloud, if I could be allowed (pun intended) to say a few words. I said I had practiced what I wanted to say all week. I said I had worked hard at memorizing it. I said I had something I wanted to say to everyone in the room. I said I wanted to practice speaking in public, because I may be called upon again, at some time in the future, to "say a few words" and I would like to feel more comfortable about doing that.

I could have opted not to do my speech. God gave me that choice. But He and I knew there was a fish in that room.

I looked around the room, at all these wonderful people who had given up their Friday evening to be there with me. My sister and her husband, my mother and father, my sister-in-law and my mother-in-law, friends from church and friends from the cul-de-sac. Friends from out of town and business friends--my husband's and mine. The beginning-of-the-evening strangers, whom I had shared pleasant conversation and stories with as they offered their books to be signed. These friends and family who smiled back at me because they love me, and are proud of me, and wish me well. This very large group of whale enthusiasts who were there to help me help Willy on his path to real freedom. Freedom from fear.

I felt as if I was talking one-on-one with each of them, just as I do every day. And I wasn't nervous.

God knows I could have let that whale die, right there on the banquet table. God knows I wanted to. And God knows that, because I chose, of my own free will, to speak up anyway, I will be more empowered next time.

That God. He's tricky that way. He knew exactly what I needed, and He showed up at my party Friday night, with free willy.