Get busy

"Do you ever think about dying?" a friend asked today which stands in contrast to recent thanksgiving holiday conversation spent chatting about martinis and dead plants. Yes, I'm aware that we're all going to die sometime sooner than we'd like; however, I'm not as worried about dying as I am about living.

I once had a bucket list in my early twenties. In making it I realized I was better off tossing the list for some deep work on a few things. 

In the movies the villains are identified by their lack of humanity and self-serving ways; they don't need much. Villains roam about alone with every pleasure met and in command, until they are not. Life too tends to celebrates aloofness and the fruits of self-control from graduation to promotion to physical commitments. It's easy to forget that the self-serving ways and lack of humanity toward others is what does in the bad guys. That and stagnation, the refusal to grow or change. 

"Get busy living or get busy dying," said someone, Red I think, in "Shawshank Redemption." The world shakes you up, swishes you around, and spits you out. It should change something in you or at least make you want to hang on to whoever's next to you. If you keep pulling back from others, letting go, you might be busy dying. If your hands are full from encouraging and holding others, well, you might just be busy living. I aim to live like I might die in the sense that I need to be kinder, softer, and more, well, more connected. 

Connection interests me because it's at the heart of community, vitality, and it relies upon openness, trust, and an inner resilience that springs from a faith in fellow beings as helpers, encouragers, and as vectors of good. Connection is hard, it can hurt. It's scary because it makes you vulnerable, but shutting yourself off doesn't work so great either. We don't always get to be givers. Sometimes we have to receive. Ask for help. If this feels hard, then this definitely applies to you. If you're of the opposite camp, always in need of help, go help someone else.

That crack in your heart that we are all so busy protecting, yeah, somebody is going to jump on that, let it be a springboard to something good instead of a pit into a vast darkness. Death isn't exactly waiting for you to eat the salmon mousse. A little sunshine, some patience, some quiet time- ask someone to rub your feet, you'll be just fine and better for asking for it or for giving it, just get busy, living. 

The Gift of the Messenger

I have a theory that books can save lives, mine in particular. I think that the magic book or words will appear when needed. It's the middle of the night, but I'm in need of some saving so I open my Kindle and find this:

"Sure burnout comes from not taking care of yourself and burning the candle at both ends, but, more often, burnout comes from one or a combination of the following: 1. Lack of connection to purpose in what one’s working on, resulting in boredom, disinterest, and apathy 2. Lack of connection to people; not feeling seen or cared for, and not having a shared sense of purpose 3. Lack of celebration, appreciation, and acknowledgment for wins (little or big) 4. Lack of safety for vulnerability, creative expression, and authenticity 5. Lack of a reboot and recovery between projects or trips 6. Lack of empowerment and accountability, and not being and feeling well used 7. Lack of intention, presence, and therefore boundaries." 

-Anese Cavanaugh, Contagious Culture

A few pages later there is this example that brought into focus the discrepancy of views of the same problem between a leader and the team.

"In their eyes, Jackie swooped in constantly, disempowered her team, made them feel inadequate, and then turned into a martyr at sunrise. It didn’t feel good. Let’s play it out. Jackie had unintentionally written herself into the role of hero in that no one else could do the job but her. (But the team was actually highly capable—the team members just needed clear communication and direction.) She then quickly stepped into the role of perpetrator, energetically blaming and judging the team for not being capable, and taking opportunities away from team members. (They felt small, judged, and robbed of experience.) And then she fell victim to being overwhelmed. Because she was so overwhelmed, she was often late to meetings, didn’t respond to e-mail, and left meetings early. Her team members felt she thought she was more important than all of them. By not speaking up, the team members had played right into the cycle with their own story, making the cycle even stronger. The fix was simple. The team members gave feedback (with care) and then made requests. Jackie owned her impact and made amends. Then they all redesigned agreements for how they’d move forward together. There was no drama. Just accountability. We write ourselves into roles every."  

- Anese Cavanaugh, Contagious Culture 

No drama? That's out of my hands. With care? I need more information here because I put a lot of thought into the message, and it exploded big, fat, and ugly. Screaming, "The messenger is not the message," is of little use. It dawns on me, this problem is as old as time.

Messengers get shot or need to run fast. 

The message is only relevant if you search inside yourself, and it sticks. Soul searching has a way of making us better human beings if we do it honestly, and no one wants to tell you this stuff because it's hard. It's uncomfortable. Listen. Listen deep in your heart. I'm trying to help you. It's a gift to get a message like this, one that makes you wince, yes, but if you use it... 

Use the message to make you better, not to shoot me.

Lessons from a Funeral

In no particular order, these are some of the thoughts that have stuck with me these past days with the passing of my mother-in-law.

1. “How old was she? Was she sick? Oh, it was expected right?” I’ve cluelessly said some version of this myself. No, I wasn’t expecting it though I was expecting it because she was sick, but I can’t really believe someone’s gone until they're gone which then feels unexpected and out of no where. She was gone before she was gone, but it was important to me to witness that last little bit of the going and then it still felt like a surprise.

2. “I’m sorry for your loss,” is enough. Get comfortable for an awkward millisecond, I’ll come ‘round.

3. Don’t lay your loss on me right then and there, I’m staggering already. See above, just a little bit said is really enough.

4. Flowers are for the living. Have all the dang flowers you need, beauty helps in these moment.

5. Rituals, friends, community, and random people with their stories of, “She helped me,” helped me. Eventually, you have to stagger out on your own two feet, but there’s a time for support. Later, years later,  the loss will catch you off guard, but for right now, closure, a way to say goodbye, and an opportunity to share the grief and memories are enough. Sharing stories about the person who is gone helps, just not the one about when you lost such and such at least not right here, right now- see above.

6. I thought my father-in-law was going to die watching my mother-in-law die. It pained him to see her suffer, but it almost killed him too. Dying is grueling. Pace yourself. The living must rest, relax, chill, take a break, eat good food, go for a long walks, you just have to do it especially when accompanying the dying.

7. My mother-in-law was a dynamic woman who made lots of things happen in her life. I had moments of doubt that she always meant well, but I see clearly now that she always had good intentions. It occurs to me to trust that most who cross your path, mean well. Second guessing is a waste of energy.

8. Photos collages recollect all of the times, roles, and parts that the departed have played in life. It’s good to gather and assemble a lifetime of photos.

9. I’m avoiding the cards. More cards have arrived than at Christmas. It’s a little overwhelming. I’ve stacked them up for my husband, but he hasn’t opened them either. I’m slightly afraid of the grief that will be shared or maybe it’s the dazzling sentiments that I’m ducking. Who knows.

10. Every person who came, wow, just wow, it means a lot. When my husband’s college buddies, who were also in our wedding, walked into the church for the funeral, I lost my composure.

11. You get through the messy stuff of life because other people don’t let you fall through the cracks even though you are surrounded by flesh eating sinkholes. Just showing up helps, see above.

12. In the end your body is just a vessel for your soul or whatever it is you call the difference between a corpse and someone you love. You don’t take the body with you. I realized it’s ok if it’s got holes in it or parts missing. I thought the body and keeping it intact from medical interventions was way more important than it turned out to be. The body eventually fails and falls away, it's part of life. Be an organ donor, have the procedure done if it might help.

13. My mother-in-law nearly died last fall, but she came back, however, her body no longer worked very well. She gracefully accepted the changes as she tried to recoup her physical strength. I seriously doubt I could be as magnanimous as her. Honey, let me go the first time round, and I know I’m being selfish in asking for this. Those extra months she got really helped me appreciate what she was going to have to do to get back to a level of activity. When it’s my turn, have mercy on me, let me go. She was a saint, I'm an ogre- no testing necessary, I'm confessing now.

14. In life, we need less stuff. I’m as guilty as the next person for having stuff in my closet and life that just takes up space. I don’t care why you love it, but only keep the stuff that brings you joy. Otherwise, thank the unneeded stuff and pass it on.

15. It’s never what you think will do you in that does you in. Was it the chemo or the cancer? I tell you this, it wasn’t the Piña colada, exercise program, or cruise to the northern climes that did it. I’m not saying smoke the smokes, but do live a little, you can’t take it with you.

16. It’s going to take me a while to write thank you notes. I don't want to think about it all for a while.

17. That was physically an exhausting experience. I could easily spend a week maybe two in hibernation. I have pains that I've never had before. I’m definitely an introvert.

18. Every face, every smile, every nod felt like encouragement. I couldn’t have done it without all of you. Thank you for making the path brighter and the way, lighter.

19. The day of the funeral, I played my Moody Mama playlist. R.E.M.’s “Everybody Hurts” and Sade’s “By Your Side” helped.

20. My kiddo had a nightmare shortly after the funeral. She couldn't go back to sleep so she got up uncharacteristically early. I didn't press, but a few days later, she told me about her nightmare. She said, "Someone stole Square Pig  (her "lovey"), and I couldn't get it back. When I woke up, I wasn't holding even one of my stuffys." Oh! Crackle my heart. Death snatches our loveys from us,  and we don't get them back.

The Problem with Spring

Spring makes me glad all over again that we have long cold dark days that ripen into flaming petals of outrageous colors, visual performances onstage of words written in the late night hours, and of little girls leaping in tutus with steps learned week after week during the long months of buildup. Every spring as the tulips wave their colorful hellos from the beds, I think, "I'm planting more bulbs in fall." Every fall, I fail to plant the hundreds of tulips I had envisioned seeing in spring. 

The problem with spring is that you have to do the work in the dark days to get to the sunny ones.

Sunburnt Feet & Frostbitten Toes

Barring four years in high school, I spent most of my childhood down south. However, I'm a Yankee, of some sort, by constitution. I tend toward writhing glances versus the spoken word, unsweet tea or, even worse, hot tea instead of sweet tea ya'll, and reading books, not the bible, in coffee shops. It's not just the heat that stifles.

Lured onto the church bus by promises of candy and prizes, my mom rightly let me figure out for myself that my butt on a foldout chair or planted on a wooden bench were the real prize. My fascination with droning fans probably began at a three hour bible study I demanded to attend. By age nine, I started declining bus rides to bible study even though it cost me a few friends. 

I wanted to fit in, but an uptight bookworm with a misguided sense of equality and a modulated Midwestern cadence is not easily accommodated. I liked all the wrong things- anoraks instead of polos, funky shoes instead of flipflops, and the occult held more appeal than the Southern Baptist church.

"Do you take Jesus Christ as your personal savior," a young man queried me in earnest before having the gumption to ask for a date. "Personal? No. No, I don't," I replied. "Well then, there's nothing more for us to talk about," he said. Open and shut, black and white, and the world of gray, Protestant, dismissed in the blink of an eye. The heat of my car welcomed me as the feeling of having just missed a death knell to my spirit washed over me. 

Still, nearly every woman I knew or knew of, got married around this time. I began to get comfortable with the idea of being single forever even if it did feel like a case of leprosy. I counseled myself that Christ ate with the lepers. 

Then there was the time a neighbor threatened that something might happen to my house because my roommate dated a black man. "Some people frown on that sort of thing around here," she said. I shrugged at her comments. There was not much that could be said to the neighbor though she did tell me it wasn't her that I needed to worry about but those other people. "Other people?" I asked. We left the middle of the road by the mailboxes in a stalemate. I didn't act as frightened as she intimated I should be. I opted not to mention it to my roommate, it was the little thing I could do to stop the insanity from spreading. 

The stifling window of how a woman may conduct herself, what interests are deemed appropriate, and my own inability to fit the southern girl mold with aplomb sent me in search of alternatives.

Now, I visit the Redneck Riviera, admire the fit and not so fit ladies, and linger over the long drawls, noting the ways I never could quite catch. I eat grouper, greens, and grits. The handbags bursts with color. The beer is mass produced. I drink a cocktail, walk in the sugar sand, and I am grateful for staying true to some parts of myself. There's still plenty more lost causes filed away in my drawer of truths to reckon with someday, but for now, I'm glad to be heading north with both sunburnt feet and frostbitten toes.

. 

A Lesson from Marie Howe

A few months ago while ambling along the Hocking River, a voice rich with wisdom came through my headset via a podcast. In hopes of divining further truths, I listened to it again and again. The voice belongs to Marie Howe, the poet, who happens to be at the Spring Lit Fest at Ohio University. 

Howe's podcast talk of poetry akin to spells got to that funny place inside me where light can penetrate undiscovered territory. Oo oo, I thought when Howe said, "... we all need to walk around with, a handful of counter spells, you know. And, and poetry, when you think of its roots, you know, is that." I bought her book The Kingdom of Ordinary Time so I could sit with her words on my search for counter spells.

Howe read her own poetry on opening night, but I had missed it so I hustled to Alden Library for her talk- in case you noted a black blur streaking up East State Street. Except she wasn't first so I was alright, and Brian Doyle was wonderful, but I'll save that thought for another time. 

This day Marie Howe read others' poems. Then she talked us through the fine words and quiet spaces found within those poems. She told us that poetry holds a silence at the center of it, "the what that cannot be said or reduced." (No wonder I can't write a poem!)

Then, Howe gave us a writing assignment. She asked us to contradict ourselve, to force ourselves from where we want to go. This was Howe's writing prompt "I did not know...."

Here goes...

The Man Who Could Not Hug

When it came to choosing a career, I wanted to do something real, that was action oriented, and that could be done in a variety of settings. I  became a nurse. However, I did not anticipate that I would watch the dying or listen to others' pain, nor did I imagine the hands I would hold or the old skin I would polish until it gleamed. Sometimes things smelled awful, but still it was a job made of moments tangible with presence, the real stuff I had sought and more.

Now I sit here with words. Words do not smell or weigh of anything and yet with words I am in a hospital room where a man’s blood pours out, gushes like a spring river, from every cavity. The smell of lead or maybe something dying permeates the moment in my memory. The rustle of blue plastic pads and the hum of fluorescent lights throb in my brain. The sounds are punctuated by a vision of hands and arms that disappear into the deep cavities of a man's body.

Someone at every limb pours something into him though his insides seem to be coming out faster than we can pour it back. The team presses on, there are bags and bags of fluids, blood, fresh frozen plasma, staff replacements rotate in, we can keep this up seems to murmur in the energy of the room. 

In my memory, there are ten of us to the one of him. The senior nurse encourages me, "We can do this." She must see the doubt in my face. I nod my head unsure, but keep my eyes on my hands, my work. I have never seen anything like this. I will never again because before long I will choose other work, but in that moment I am appalled at how close to the edge we are with this man's life going out of him like a waterfall.

We fight, each on our front, with his body at the center in hopes of restoring him, of calling him back. Our weapons of choice are blood, fluids, and medicines. It goes on and on for hours. When I leave at day’s end, the floor is littered with empty plastic bags.

About a year later, I am floated to the Surgical Trauma Unit on the day shift a few days before I will be moving across the country. That afternoon, a man with no arms walks into the floor, to say hello to a place he can’t quite recall, but his family can.  He has come back to see the place that saved him, I think.

Only it never works quite like that.

As a crowd of nurses, residents, doctors, and other staff spontaneously gathered around him, I remember wondering, What will he say? Maybe he'll thank us for our hard work. Only a few patients returned to the units when I worked there.

This man who had lost his arms, to his shoulders from an injury that had brought him to us, said this gem, “I miss being able to hug someone. I didn’t know how important that was when I had arms, but now that I can’t, I know it is the greatest thing I’ve lost.”

I turn and walk away so I could stuff my heart back down into my stomach, or under it, or wherever the hell it is supposed to go or stay.

I keep going back to that wretched moment where I turned and walked away from that man and the group surrounding him, too much pain. See, I’m that weepy soul that cries over every little thing if I don’t keep a collar on it- I pull, it tugs, shimmies, and morphs as if Houdini so I tookoff in part to avoid spilling tears at work.

Howe's prompt, "I did not know," however, flipped me to this story that I keep telling, the story of the man who could not hug, because it touches regret and lost chances. I see now that through the pain lies the path to what is important. It hurts because it matters. My stuffed downed regrets lead me back like the trail of moonstones that Hansel left in the woods. Pains linger and remind me that they must be faced before they can truly be put to rest.

When you fear giving a hug consider the idea of not being able to give a hug.