Heirloom Friendship

These gorgeous heirloom tomatoes were left on my kitchen counter by a woman who  graces my life with joy. She listens intently to my stories, and I am entranced by hers. She often challenges my staid ideas and forces me to think beyond what I’ve always believed to be true. We share books, recipes, and tears. She is a phenomenal woman, and I am grateful to call her my friend.

The dearest friends in my life are treasured heirlooms. Precious and rare, they fill the empty spaces in my heart, and like heirloom tomatoes, they are more flavorful than bland store-bought acquaintances. These are individuals with strong convictions and passionate dreams. Not content with silly gossip, we dig deep into life’s messes and help one another tackle our demons. We acknowledge differences, yet support the wackiness that defines us.

My friends are all extraordinary. Some I've known since grade school, a few from high school and college years, and others just recently walked into my life, but all are part of my complicated puzzle. Each one fits perfectly, bestowing grace and forgiveness and wonder.

As I approach the last months of my 59th year, I hang on to these friends with a determined fierceness. I cherish every visit, email, text, Facebook message, and phone call. These sweet, unpredictable beings may be odd and quirky, but they grace my table with their unique presence. They are my heirlooms.

Heirloom tomatoes: open-pollinated tomatoes (Vegetables pollinated by insects or wind without human intervention. Most heirlooms come from seed that has been handed down for generations.) Heirloom varieties boast greater flavor than that found in hybrids (intentionally cross-pollinated varieties of plants that aim to produce an offspring that contains the best traits of each of the parents). (bonnieplants.com)

Listen for Hope

I am often a messy mix of joyous and sad. I often battle these conflicting emotions, which I guess makes me human. I celebrate nature’s beauty while acknowledging the sorrow that permeates the world's soul. I sit with both.

Yesterday we rose early to head downtown. We first ate breakfast at a little outdoor breakfast joint that serves heavenly eggs and exquisite blueberry pancakes. The cream fresh. The coffee exquisite.

We then headed to the grand city park that graces acres of green space.The weather was perfect. As we walked past fields of wildflowers and graceful bridges spanning calm waters, I felt nature whispering, “You're going to be okay.” The beauty and simplicity of nature heals and soothes the heart.

I look around me and see God, but I also know the devil lurks. The devil isn’t some mythical creature clad in red. The devil exists when we turn on one another with violence and malice, for when we give into that, evil is winning. No president, no four star general, no religious zealot can lead us out of this mayhem. We are forced to look inward and decide who wins. We must fight the horrors that lie within ourselves. We battle and brawl until we have no more strength left, and then the next day we begin again.

If you are a student of history you know we humans have been heinous to one another since the first man stood upright. Millions have been slaughtered in the name of power or glory or whatever god they worshipped at that time. Bodies continue to litter the landscape while “leaders” claim triumph. Just uttering the names of Stalin, Hitler, Genghis Khan, Pol Pot, Idi Amin, or Henry VIII sends quakes of sorrow throughout the world’s graveyards.

But we human are also remarkable. We love and nurture and protect with such fierceness. We hold each other up. We grab hands. We look evil in the face and yell, “No!” We are Ripley in the movie Aliensas we scream, “Get away from her, you bitch!” We are Oskar Schindler. We are Mother Teresa. We are Rosa Parks. We are John Lennon. We are Joan of Arc. We are Harry Potter. We are Hermoine Granger. We are Anne Frank.

The battle we face today is fear. The fear of what we imagine has been taken from us. The fear of who we see on the streets is different from what we see in the mirror. The fear in our own hearts of what we can’t explain or rationalize away. All of us are engaged in this battle every day. We win when we push back the fear and embrace the unknown, the scary, the doubt, the discrepant. We need to walk with it and feel it deep within our spirit.

My friend Nancy talks about the energy in the universe, and in order to combat the negative we must send out the positive. The other day the great Anne Lamott wrote:

“Get outside, even just to the front porch, and look up at the sky and into the treetops, and say the great praise prayer: WOW! Listen for the sound of birds - or bird...close your eyes and really listen. If birdsong was the ONLY proof we have that there is a bigger deep reality than what transcends what we are seeing on the news, it would be for me. Eyes closed, breathe, listen - secret of life."

So this morning I will head out for a walk before the heat rises. I will hear birds sing their hymns. I will fight for love. I will battle for peace. I will sit with my discomfort. I will resist. I will be loud. I will be quiet within my soul. I will resist. Because even though my grief is deep, I will not let go of hope. As James Baldwin wrote, “Love does not begin and end the way we seem to think it does. Love is a battle, love is a war; love is a growing up.”

“But one day I’ll be gone; or one day you’ll be gone"

“We all know we’re going to die; what’s important is the kind of men and women we are in the face of this.” 

~Anne Lamott, Bird by Bird

We humans seem to have a predilection to hurt one another. Pick up a history book. Turn on a cable news show. Peruse the news feed. Look at the pain inflicted, the chaos caused, the fires lit. We judge, discriminate, enslave, marginalize, lynch, cat-call, intern, bully, torture, kill. We wreak interminable harm that seeps into our collective souls. Bruises never heal. Nightmares haunt. Grief sits an endless shiva.

Do we continue to hurt each other because of the hurt? Have we not been given the tools, the wisdom, the ability to stop the cycles of pain? If misery is all we know, will we continue to pass it on, thinking it is the only way?

Many of us do not want to admit we have hurt others, especially those we claim to love. We throw around hateful words, seeing what will stick, not comprehending the deep suffering we cause. We use guilt as a weapon. We hold our love hostage, negotiating unfathomable terms. We cling to ancient grudges, not wanting to let go of the safety net of anger.

Where do we find wonder in the depths of so much pain? How do we let go without ignoring the agony of others? What is the path to compassion, empathy, forgiveness? 

I believe most of the answers to these complex questions are accomplished with small gestures. Give to a favorite charity. Smile at a stranger. Hold a door open for someone. Let go of your fears, your prejudices, your preconceived impressions. Open your mind and invite in new ideas, even if they go against everything you have been taught. Question injustice. Step away from drama, from toxicity, from people who do not serve your joy. Work on healing your damaged heart. Sit with the hurt caused by others, and then forgive them. Acknowledge the pain you have inflicted, and then forgive yourself. 

We are only here for a short time. None of us will get out of here alive. Know we are both shadow and light, yet choose to walk with grace. Free yourself from the pain that has permeated your heart, because “one day I’ll be gone; or one day you’ll be gone.”

Maybe time running out is a gift

I'll work hard 'til the end of my shift

And give you every second I can find

And hope it isn't me who's left behind

It's knowing that this can't go on forever

Likely one of us will have to spend some days alone

Maybe we'll get forty years together

But one day I'll be gone

Or one day you'll be gone

“If We Were Vampires” Songwriter: Michael Jason Isbell

The Heart of a Father

I love this picture of my dad and me. He in those ultra hip sunglasses. Me in my sassy red swimsuit. I see so much in this one photo: his youth, our smiles, the shadow of my pregnant mother who took the picture, the twinkle of my other siblings not yet born, the beginning of our life as a family.

But as time goes on, this old snapshot has faded. The colors aren’t as bright. The lines are starting to blur. I should get it restored, but I can’t bear to part with it, so it sits atop a cabinet in our family room. My sweet daddy is always there with his arms around me, always looking down on me, always there for me.

A few months after my dad died, my husband and I went shopping at a mall up north. As we wandered in and out of stores, many of the clerks asked if we were shopping for Father’s Day. My heart broke a little with every inquiry. “No, because my father isn’t with us anymore,” I screamed to myself. I realized these employees were just doing their jobs, but it cracked my veneer, and the tears flowed. I think it was the first time since his death I really accepted he was gone.

Almost ten years have passed since that first Father’s Day without my dad. Ten years of family dinners without him at the head of the table. Ten years of graduations and Christmases and weddings without his toasts. Ten years without his stories and jokes. Ten years of life spent without seeing his sweet face over a cup of coffee at Panera.

There are unexpected times when I will catch myself missing him. I see a well-dressed older man cross the street and for a moment I think, “Well, there’s dad.” I glance at a hose ready to water a manicured lawn and gulp down sobs. I think of all the moments he has missed and my eyes mist.

My dad, like the photo, is still here, though. He is in my sons' eyes, my brothers’ hands, and my sister’s laugh. He is in my nieces’ grace and my nephews’ goodness. He’s in every one of the stories my mother tells about him. My father strengthens us through our family ties and our communal bonds. He is our glue.

Both of my boys have tattoos honoring my dad. I often think of those tattoos when I’m feeling lost or sad, and I know he is there watching over them, keeping them safe, and hopefully whispering advice on how to be authentic and honorable men.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad. You are with me every day in the words I write and the love that surrounds me.

“The heart of a father is the masterpiece of nature.” - Abbe Prevost

A Room of My Own

Most writers need a space to call their own. Some have lavish offices with grand desks. Others prefer small closets. A few write at coffee shops, and others find inspiration at the kitchen table. Stephen King wrote in On Writing that he had always dreamed of having a massive desk that dominated his office. After his initial success he acquired one, but after six years of pounding out stories while drunk or stoned, he got rid of what he called “that monstrosity,” and replaced it with a small desk he tucked in a corner of his office under the eaves in his Maine home. Sober for over thirty years, he still works at this little desk, “with bad eyes, a gimp leg, and no hangover. I’m doing what I know how to do, and as well as I know how to do it.”

Most writers will tell you the key to writing is this: find a space that inspires you where you can write and read most every day. It is a pretty simple formula. My little loft office has been a work in progress since our move a year ago. I’ve relocated my desk at least three times, trying to find the perfect light. I don’t play music. I find it distracting. I prefer the quiet snores of our fat, furry cat who often plops himself down by my feet. I recently acquired a cozy reading chair where I often curl up with a book and a cup of tea.

At the corner of my teal green desk sits my talismans, a collection of items that inspire and calm me. The crisp white linen handkerchief and felted soap are gifts from author Elizabeth Berg. The writer’s workshop I attended at her home a few years ago gave me the confidence to continue this journey. The ceramic frog is a symbol of good luck and abundance, both of which I welcome. The Hummel is from my Aunt Bug’s collection. I cherish this tchotchke because it is reminder of all the strong women in my life who guide and love me. The coffee cup was a going away gift from one of student teaching classes almost forty years ago. This cup sat on all my desks throughout my teaching career. It is chipped and stained, but, like me, despite all its imperfections, it is still here. I bought the little green bird at a local shop because it looks like Kevin, the bird Russell and Mr. Fredricksen save in the movie Up, a story about love and friendship and following your heart. One of my favorite old neighbors gave me the little pie pen. Even though I’m not a true food blogger, I often write about how pies are not only dessert, they can be stories of flaky joy and hot messes.

I write most every morning, first jotting down rambling thoughts in my journal and then moving on to writing, research, proofreading, or editing. My writing grounds me. It holds me up. It is flawed, but it helps me sort through difficult questions. It is my therapist, my anti-depressant, my bartender, my friend. With each word I discover the strength to stumble through rough times and gratitude to appreciate simple bliss. I appreciate when others find wisdom or comfort through my words, but selfishly, I mostly write for me. 

This space is mine. My desk. My computer. My journals. My books. My chair. My space. My words. My wonder.

Because, as Stephen King wrote, “It starts with this: put your desk in the corner, and every time you sit down there to write, remind yourself why it isn’t in the middle of the room. Life isn’t a support-system for art. It’s the other way around.”