GETTING RID AND WRITING

A Cathartic Short Story

 She ran the hot water to get it boiling hot. Hot water will bring it to the surface, she thought as she folded a washcloth up tight and soaked it in the blazing stream. If she popped it now, it would not be angry and red by the time she visited her boyfriend.

These things have to be thought through.

It was a good thing she was a Forward Thinker. Imagine the horror of leaving it another day or two—allowing it to get larger and more inflamed. At that point it would be too late to take care of. It would be a pustule-filled wet blanket on the weekend. She had waited too long to see her boyfriend. And she wouldn’t be able to see him again for a while. She could feel the stress of a perfect weekend making her skin more oily.

He was a freshman at a college upstate 2 hours away; she, a junior at home. The age difference might mean something now, but when they were old and in their 30s no one would even care. She packed a few outfits she looked good in and her laciest panties and bra, put her bag in the AMC Hornet and got on the road. She planned to arrive when his classes were out at 2pm.

That night, fumbling in the dark in a drunken fog, he was having trouble getting the key into the dorm room lock. “I can’t find the hole if it doesn’t have hair around it,” he said, and it had taken her a minute to get the joke. She was drunk too, making everything witty and so much more funny. She laughed, feeling included and popular, and part of something inside and dirty. The best. Included is absolutely the best thing to be. She was having fun. This is what people do. She was so glad she had come.

After more beer and a joint, her boyfriend crashed on his dorm bed—not enough room to even turn a phrase but she was fine on the floor. Everyone crashed around 2am in varying places and positions; his roommate passed out lying in the wrong direction on his own little cot. Her head—spinning like a tilt-a-whirl at the State Fair and that constant cottony ringing in her ears—just finally turned off. She dozed for an unknown amount of time.

When she awoke, she wet her lips and rolled off of her numb hip. The floor was cold and hard. The blanket was thin, inadequate. Above her she heard voices.

Her boyfriend’s roommate was whispering. She could hear soft little kisses, saw the shadow of his hand push away a lock of hair from her boyfriend’s sleepy face. She felt sick. 

Hemingway said, “Write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence that you know.” I can finally write that sentence now.

We are the sum of our scars, and it’s the scars that make us beautiful.

I have vivid snippets of memories from my early childhood education: singing in kindergarten chapel at Kingsport, Tennessee’s Episcopal Church; dreading recess because no one would play with me or even let me on the jungle gym; a very large deciduous tree in the far corner of the fenced-in playground that dropped wildly interesting nuts; something about Three Blind Mice in the basement of that ancient stony place; naps on a mat in warm, filtered afternoon sunlight. 

But these strong memories pale in comparison to the time I insisted on wearing just a shirt and leotards to school. And my mother letting me. 

Oh J. Alfred Prufrock, if you only knew.

In your “Love Song,” you ask if you dare disturb the universe, noting that there is time in a minute for decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse. That’s one minute I might wish to reverse. I can still feel my awkwardness: the realization dawning on me that I was only half-dressed in a room full of laughing boys and girls, and tugging at that shirttail as if I could somehow stretch it enough to cover my embarrassment.  

And I have known the eyes already, known them all—

The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,

And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,

When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,

Then how should I begin

To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?  

The memory of my own pinning and wriggling—standing in line to go to chapel, and art, and recess, and myriad other activities that day that required me to stand up and be caught not with my pants down, but with my pants completely absent—is forever burned into my frontal lobe where personality hides. There is no spitting that out. There is only living with the scar from the pin’s incision. 

Oh but it’s the same tired tune, J. Alfred--the one all inwardly-driven types sing--quietly, and to themselves so that no one else can hear. I made a bold choice that morning, and I stuck to my decision. My mother allowed me that autonomy, never realizing of course that it would scar me so deeply. Who can know these things? Certainly not my five-year-old self, who, knowing what I know now, might have done as instructed and put on a pair of britches.  

But looking back on my kindergarten experience I realize I learned—or rather, taught myself—that God’s crayon box contains primary colors only. We are free to stay the color we are born. Or we can allow our experiences, decisions, and sometimes sheer will to mix in a neighboring color. Although the boundaries between the three basic, pure colors cannot be breached, we are free to experiment, to soften our edges. We can choose to mix in experiences that change our hue within our primary boundaries. This is our limited palette; there is no changing that basic crayon God wields on each of us. But some change is possible, if we choose to change. How much is entirely up to each individual, and the experiences they draw. 

That early event was scarring, but it moved me—for better or worse—just a nudge along my color wheel. I’ll always be an introvert, but that doesn’t necessarily mean I must always be a pure, primary introvert. I chose not to wear pants one day when I was 5, and it affected me. But I lived through it. I could have retreated into my shell like ragged claws scuttling, but instead I chose to poke my head out and move forward. My choice. My palette.  

Do I dare disturb the universe? I do commiserate with you J. Alfred, my wriggling friend. It’s so much easier, and way more harder, to just stay on that primary color swatch. But there really is just one answer to the question: yes. Yes, let’s.

If I had to choose a thing that best described my personality, I would choose a mountain. I am pathetically inert, slow to change, and will remain isolated rather than risk involvement with the human community and its causes. Mountains are quiet things, preferring the sound of wind and birdsong to the cacophony of human voices. 

This does not mean I am a dispassionate mountain. Perhaps it means quite the opposite. I see so much wrong with human kind that it is utterly overwhelming to me. I feel the weight of inertia, of complete hopelessness, dragging me down. I want to retreat into my shell like a snail in defense of a man’s boot—knowing it’s just not going to make any difference. Too much is wrong, and even if some things can be reversed, where in the world do I choose a starting place? 

The older I get, however, the more I feel convicted to advocate for our environment. I openly cry when a bird is hit by a car. I dread spring because too many young animals are vulnerable to inattentive or uncaring drivers who are late for work, juggling a cup of coffee in one hand and their cell phone in the other, and steering with their knees. Development of almost every kind is dreadfully sad to me. I worry about the desecration of open spaces, the filled-in wetlands, the loss of habitat. I do not even know what to pray for, and so I depend on the Spirit to intercede with groans that words cannot express.

We humans have a responsibility to protect all life below us, not only for the sake of the plants and animals in our care, but also for the sake of mankind. We, as stewards of the planet, must be deliberately cognizant that we share this world. Actions that negatively impact life beneath us will, inevitably, come back to bite us. Our fates are connected.  “There, but by the grace of God, go I,” as John Bradford perspicaciously noted in the 16^th century. It is in our own best interest to make difficult, long-term decisions now to insure a healthy planet for all forms of life.  

Mountains are symbols of immovability, but sometimes the fact that they just won’t budge is a powerful force for change. There is a collection of poems by Gary Snyder called “Cold Mountain Poems” that sums up my passion, and how I feel about the big blue ball. It puts words to the emotions my soul cannot say. One poem in particular describes beautifully the nature of wild places, and their value. I may not know what I can or should do yet, but like any good mountain, I have a quiet voice that resonates across the valleys when I am adequately nudged. And who better to speak for the trees than we mountains? 

The path to Han-Shan’s place is laughable.

A path, but no sign of cart or horse.

Converging gorges—hard to trace their twists

Jumbled cliffs—unbelievably rugged.

A thousand grasses bend with dew,

A hill of pines hums in the wind.

And now I’ve lost the shortcut home,

Body asking shadow, How do you keep up? 

In a tangle of cliffs I chose a place—

Bird-paths, but no trails for men.

What’s beyond the yard?
White clouds clinging to vague rocks.

Now I’ve lived here—how many years—

Again and again, spring and winter pass.

Go tell families with silverware and cars

“What’s the use of all that noise and money?”

“Is a life most virtuously spent working for the betterment of humanity, or is it enough to have     some fun, do some work, love a few people and try to be good?”  

This is the question Rose Curtland posed in The Book and the Brotherhood. My family has debated this question off and on for some 25 years. It's been an interesting insight into each other's opinions, core values, and personality traits. My writing buddy and I took up the assignment recently, putting forth an argument for the answer we believed to be the most virtuous way to approach life.

The question implies that there are only two answers. But when I began the writing assignment (50 words or less….ouch!!), I noticed for the first time that the question is neither mutually exclusive nor mutually inclusive. A life can certainly be called virtuous when lived for the betterment of humanity. But a life can also be called virtuous just as truthfully when someone "meets expectations."

I understand the premise. We should not squander our singularly greatest gift: the uniqueness that is each of us, embodied in a corporal shell--our soul's home here on Earth for some undetermined number of days. But who gets to define "virtuously spent?" Who gets to decide if it is “enough?” Will we trade papers? You grade my life and I'll grade yours?

 I believe the question itself is fallacious. All paths, if lived genuinely, have the possibility of leading to the same goal. Simple, unremarkable lives might not make headlines, but that has never been the litmus test for a life’s potential for influence.

So the answer to the question above is Yes. All of the Above. One answer does not preclude the other, and there are no “wrong” answers, except no answer at all.

 

When I leave this realm, I can honestly say I’ve had some fun, which I have tried to share with others. I’ve enjoyed meaningful work, which I did competently and with respect for those with whom I interacted. I’ve loved a few people, and I am hopeful my feelings helped them on their path to becoming who they are. I’ve tried to be good by making honest, rational and caring decisions, keeping in mind we are all on this ride together. Will I have "bettered" humanity? Maybe not. But I'm not grading the papers. None of us is, Rose, not even you. 

My heart leaps up when I behold

A rainbow in the sky:

So was it when my life began;

So is it now I am a man;

So be it when I shall grow old,

Or let me die!

The child is father of the man;

And I could wish my days to be

Bound each to each by natural piety.

 

William Wordsworth

 

Hurricane Matthew—a storm the size of Arizona, one newscaster called it—recently caused our normal routines to be drastically altered for almost a week. We did not evacuate so, for us, there was no displacement nor strange surroundings that always follow temporary uprootings. And gratefully, the storm was almost a non-event by the time it reached our area: the worst of it was winds gusting to 75 mph, causing some branches to litter the yard. Even the rainfall was a drop in the bucket compared to last October’s 1,000-year flood. We lost power for a few hours—a mere inconvenience in an otherwise blessedly dull denouement.

Wordworth’s poem keeps running through my head, not because there was a rainbow after Matthew lumbered beyond our coast line—there wasn’t one. Nor does the poem haunt me because I am headed into my “twilight” years and am hoping, much like Wordsworth, to be an aging person who would rather die than lose the capacity to have my breath taken away by God’s handiwork. It isn’t because of those last two lines, which seem to imply a desire for living fully in awe, appreciative for all the blessings of this physical sphere and for the elemental awareness in our DNA which points to the Father of the man, arriving as the most unlikely miracle of all: a helpless baby.

Nope. My Heart Leaps Up for none of those reasons. My Heart Leaps up for the only line I remember from college:  “The child is father of the man.”

 My father has been very sick. Over the last few months he has been in the hospital or in a rehab facility. He went in a grumpy old man. He came out someone I hardly even recognized.

 My dad. The optimist.

I don’t know how or why it happened, but somehow in the midst of his storm, he managed to find the bright side of life. In the midst of his storm—a Cat 4 that could have killed him—he found a rainbow.

And he’s not letting go of it. He is making adjustments in his lifestyle, and he is embracing those adjustments. He is cheerful. He gladly contributes to conversations. He laughs and jokes. He is appreciative. He is happily fighting his way back to health.

 As time goes by, he may slip back into the curmudgeon I know and love. But for now, my father’s heart leaps up, for the little things that bring him joy. A warm blanket. Lunch. A visit from someone. Another day of life. A trip to Disney World, for crying out loud.

 If that’s not God, I really have to wonder what is. And my heart leaps up for that.

Remember My Name

"Be not afraid of greatness. Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them." - William Shakespeare Twelfth Night

I am revisiting my earliest insecurities lately: I have breached the “100^th Query” ceiling in my submissions to literary agents, trying to get representation for my novel. I’m running out of agents and every “no” is an opportunity to remind the young child in me that I’m not good enough, that I don’t have what it takes, that my dream will never be realized. I will never achieve greatness.

Some part of me says that’s o.k. If my book never becomes successful, then I don’t have to deal with success. Oh well. I tried, I can tell myself. And that’s permission to keep on feeling bad about being me.

It’s one of the most basic human emotions. At our very core, every single last one of us wants to be remembered for something. We all want some part of ourselves to live beyond our life span, whether that means creating a child, or an idea, or an invention, a work of art or a book. It’s common knowledge that public speaking ranks above death on the fear factor scale, but on the iwanna scale, I believe the desire to be remembered for something great—beyond the reach of one or two generations—ranks above any other human desire. And that's not necessarily hedonism. That is just simple, elemental addiction to the belief that we will not pass this way again, and dammit, we want it to count for something.

From my own life, I can point to my single greatest accomplishment: my child. She is my opus and I am so proud of her I could bust a gut. She goes to college at the school  I chose to attend. I was keen to go there because it was a top-notch university that offered excellent training in my chosen field, and because a very dear friend was going there too. But it was expensive.

Mom and Dad scraped that tuition and room and board together though, and I packed my belongings and went there. For one year. I absolutely hated it, almost immediately. It was a very long year.

But because Mom and Dad had given me that opportunity, our daughter was able to attend the university of her heart's desire. She wouldn't have been able to go there without the university's legacy scholarship, awarded to her because I spent two miserable semesters at that institution.

Does that make Mom and Dad great? Does it get me remembered? Perhaps not. Beyond our daughter, the story is likely never to be told. History will probably not record that fascinating piece of higher education trivia. But it does make me feel like I made a difference. And I hope it makes my folks feel like they made a difference too.

And that IS the difference.

I truly believe that those who are born great, achieve greatness, or have greatness thrust upon them are mostly just following their hearts, trying to have an impact, hoping to make a difference. I believe these special people—people just like you and me—have a God-given passion that absolutely propels them to do a thing. They are ordinary bipeds who passionately pursue a dream without regard for the historical footnote. It is something they can’t not do. That is greatness, in and of itself. That is more greatness—if there is such a thing—than doing a thing just for the accolades.

That realization takes all the pressure off. It frees me to relentlessly follow the desires of my heart out of gratitude to God for the life and gifts I’ve been given, without regard for the footnote.  I can leave it to someone else to pass judgment on whether it was great or not.

As Patti LaBelle wisely notes in the song attached below, one of these mornings—it won’t be very long—they will look for me, and I’ll be gone. That’s really the only book I hope to see my name written in.
One of These Mornings

Etymology of Love

Does it ever cross your mind that, when you die, someone will probably search your computer’s web browser and find out all your nasty little secrets? All your weird little google searches and favorite pages…what would they find?

Before you post answers below about what you THINK I mean, let me clarify.

 

What subject would your computer records say interests you the most? Maybe most of your web searches are for vacation rentals. Maybe you google shoes. Recipes for diabetics. I don’t know. I can only answer for myself.

And for me, the answer would be “etymology of…”

I type it in several times a day, with different words. “Etymology of ‘licentious.’” “Etymology of ‘groovy.’” “Etymology of ‘etymology.’”

I am fascinated with words. I want to know where they came from, when they came into use, how the diagram tree breaks down, what part of speech they are, how they’re used in a sentence, and (have I already lost half of you??) their definitions—then and now. When I die, my computer will lay to rest the huge debate—finally—over whether I am, in fact, a nerd. (Noun, from the 1950s, origin unknown.)

I bring it up only because a member of my extended family--someone who means quite a lot to me—faces some new horizons soon. This person is scared about these new horizons. I use the word “scared” because change is frightening. But a better word might be “apprehensive,” which means anxious or fearful that something bad or unpleasant will happen.

So I typed in “etymology of apprehensive,” just to confirm that I had chosen the best word for this situation.

And because I’m a nerd.

The word actually hails from late Middle English (who knew? Right??!) So it’s been around a while, like a long while—since the 1400s. Our English word springs from the Latin word “apprehendere” and from the medieval Latin word “apprehensivus.” Along that same Medieval Latin timeline came the French word “apprehensif” (with an accent grave or aigu over that first “e”...sorry Miss Morgan, I forget my basic French). The word originally meant “to seize or to grasp.” The cool little diagram tree is pasted below for your enjoyment:

 

 

So if “apprehensive” really means to seize or grasp, as in without fear, as in wholeheartedly, as in with everything you got, then that puts a whole new spin on my family member’s new horizon. Apprehension is not fear and loathing. It isn’t that little sick burp you taste in your mouth when you’re so nervous you’re afraid you might puke. Apprehension is quite the opposite, apparently. Something to be pursued.

So I was wrong about that. Wonder what else I was wrong about. About which I was wrong.

Could my definition of “horizon” also be erroneous? I wondered. Maybe “horizon” doesn’t mean boundlessness. Maybe that’s the wrong word to use for my family member’s new horizons. Better check….

I typed in “etymology of horizon” and damned if I didn’t miss that one too. The original definition was not what I expected. Again, just the opposite. Horizon meant “limiting.”

Hmmm. Square One again. I thought I knew more about this stuff. Maybe I should search the etymology of “knowitall.”

Isn’t a horizon something to pursue? Isn’t a horizon something to be seized, and grasped?! Something to charge into with verve, as if everything depended on getting that thing for yourself? Something of excitement, and value, and warm fuzzies and Darius Rucker singing, “It’s awlright”?

Apparently not in late middle England.

Then I remembered something I read while researching my novel. It’s a quote from William Penn, founding father of the Pennsylvania colony back in the late 1600’s. It is also a funeral prayer: the time when most of us feel our saddest, as if everything has been lost. Hopelessness and grief crowd out everything else.

Penn said:

“We give back to you, O God, those whom you gave to us. You did not lose them when you gave them to us, and we do not lose them by their return to you. Your dear Son has taught us that life is eternal and love cannot die. So death is only an horizon and an horizon is only the limit of our sight.”

A horizon is only the limit of our sight. We can’t see around that bend, but it doesn’t mean there isn’t something wonderful waiting for us there.

There’s so much hope in that, don’t you think? That just because we can’t see around the curve, that doesn’t mean it isn’t there, ready to be seized, welcoming us, and offering so much more than we could ask or imagine? Horizons, then—those  limited views of ours—are  something to charge into, to chase apprehensively, to seize and grasp without fear and trepidation. With everything you’ve got.

So to my family member, I say, Grab your future. I love you. I know what you're capable of. Of what you are capable.

 

I'll see you around that bend.