Saturday, November 18, 2017

Begin

“You invented me.”
The frozen dirt crunched beneath our feet and I studied the path, seeking out the best way forward.
“What do you mean?”
“Do we really have to go over this again?” She stopped and turned to face me. The brisk air stung my nose. “You don’t live in the real world, Eric.  You don’t face problems, and every time I turn around I’m hearing you tell me something new about myself.”
“Like what?”
“Like... well I don’t know.”  She turned to continue down the trail.
We kept on in the relative silence of the mountain path for a while before she said, “I don’t like tomatoes.”
“What? Yes you do.”
I regretted the words as soon as they left my mouth.
“See?” She laughed bitterly. “This is exactly what I’m talking about. I’m so sick of those sandwiches you make me try every day and all their tomatoe. It’s so squishy and acidic. I’ve told you four times that I don’t like them but you’re always off in another world. You don’t see me and you don’t care.”
“Jovi, that’s hardly fair.”
“Isn’t it?”
“I love you, Jovi.”
“You’re doing it again!”
“What?”
“Avoiding. Avoiding your problems, avoiding this conversation, avoiding real life!”
Our pace had quickened and we barely noticed. I shoved my hands in my pockets to try to warm my fingers. They were so cold they felt wooden.
“I’m not avoiding, I just-”
“Call her then,” she interrupted.
It took me a moment to realize what she was talking about, and when I did, my stomach dropped.
“Call who?”
“Don’t pretend like you don’t know.”
“Babe,” I said quietly, the frustration gone from my voice.  “That’s different.”
“No it isn’t.”
She stepped over a log and continued on at our brisk pace.
“I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”
My left foot made it over the log, but the tip of my right boot (a size too large for me) hooked under the log and down I fell. My hands were in my pockets, so I turned a shoulder to the ground in the half second of realization I had before I landed with a sickening crack.
For half a second I thought it was a branch breaking, but then lightning shot up my leg and I stifled a moan.
Jovi walked on, still talking, while I laid there for seconds unmoving, trying to figure out what to do.

Friday, November 17, 2017

Hook

I love you is how we sign off with the people we love. It’s the last thing we say at night to our spouses or children, it’s how we end phone calls.  I love you is how we say goodbye.

So I suppose it shouldn’t have come as such a surprise.

Tuesday, October 17, 2017

The Winding Road

So. I want to write a great twist.  Maybe even a double twist.  I love them to death, some of my favorite parts of my favorite books are when I come upon something I didn’t see coming and all of a sudden the game is changed. It’s like magic, the way authors can lay down the hints and wrap every thread of a book together so that one twist suddenly makes everything fall into place like a giant puzzle who’s picture was a mystery without that final piece.

But I have this teacher, one of the best personal authorities I have when it comes to literature, who has said before that he doesn’t like twist endings the likes of O Henry and such.  Now, a twist for its own sake, or one that doesn’t improve the story is to be avoided.  And I think he was talking about turning literature into a gimmick - 

“Hey look, I can trick you into thinking one thing and slam you into a brick wall at the end by doing something completely different!  Wasn’t that fun?”  

Yeah, not the type of twist ending I want to write. Instead I want to write something so good it makes me feel like an all-out genius.  My, we authors are a presumptuous crowd, but it's true.

Twists are tough, though.  They can be done so wrong that they ruin the entire book.  So how do you write a good twist?  I’m not trying to plan out an entire book in advance, but twists do generally work best if you know the twist is coming (as the author).  So.  What are my favorite twists and why do they work?  (I'll limit this to twists within the genre I'm writing, so as not to make this post 150 pages long)
*Spoiler alert!

The Fault in Our Stars
Two kids with cancer fall in love.  The girl is in bad shape, the guy dies.  When I found out that it was Augustus that was dying, it completely wrecked me.  I was so sure it was Hazel that was in worse shape, he was in remission, it wasn’t fair. I’ll never forget the line “my scans lit up like a Christmas tree, Hazel Grace.”  Or some such.  I think what really made the twist hard to see coming was the misdirection (like any great magic trick).  I thought I was supposed to be gearing up for the death of Hazel.  I was looking right where the author wanted me to be looking: at the distraction.  So what makes this twist great?  The misdirection, the tragedy of death and young love coming to an end, I wasn’t unwarned – he said at the very beginning that his cancer could come back, and it was the very same thing I was so afraid would happen – to someone else.


We Were Liars

Okay, this twist was great because I knew something was wrong the whole time but I kept ignoring it.  Nothing made sense but I kept ignoring the obvious conclusion – she had a head injury and was seeing things.  The unreliable narrator is sort of a controversial thing – are you cheating?  Are you lying to your audience?  Personally, in this case I think it works because you know she's injured and you know that things aren't lining up.  But a main character outright lying, for instance, would not work for me.  So if a narrator isn’t reliable, but mostly because they aren’t in possession of all the facts, that can work.  Plus it was just so tragic and startling – her best friends were dead and we just loved them all by the time we understood.  So much possibility came crashing down, and suddenly everything made sense.  If a twist can somehow make everything make sense, that’s an accomplishment.  


So misdirection, staying honest, characters not being aware of all the facts of the story are all good ingredients.  But it's still a tricky recipe to get right.  Thoughts?  



Thursday, October 12, 2017

Line #1

If we allowed ourselves to crack, I’m sure we would crumble beneath the weight of it all.  Perhaps it is better to keep this cold brick wall between our heart and the world around us, perhaps it is how we survive.

Decency

I don’t believe in final rites - words that must be spoken by priests or other religious leaders in order to help someone secure a place in heaven. But I do believe in decency.

Earlier this year, the largest hospital in my area chose to do away with the positions of paid on-call priests and pastors.  Some have graciously chosen to stay on - on a volunteer basis.  You may say that it ought to be volunteer work in the first place, but the position includes subjecting yourself to the job of being woken or pulled away at all hours in order to council physically and emotionally hurt  or possibly dying strangers.  If some chose not to stay on as volunteers, to retire instead, this sounds very human and reasonable to me.  It is not a job I would envy.

However, someone died today. We knew it was going to happen, but as one of the nurses said “she’s not ready to go, the priest hasn’t arrived yet.”  She hung on for a half hour longer than some thought she would, and the medical secretary tried and tried to make sure a volunteer priest would make it on time. But they didn’t make it.  She died, waiting. She died, probably filled with anxiety that she would have to die before the priest arrived, and guess what? Her last worst fear came true.

This is unjust, this is unkind, and this is indecent.

And if I am able to bring this before anyone who will listen to me, I will also add that this is terrible for the name of our hospital.  Family was there, aware that she had asked for a priest that we did not provide.  This is every bit as important as other functions of a hospital, because in the end it all boils down to the experience the patient is provided with - be that in their medical care, or whether or not the nurses came back with water they promised, or whether or not the patient was able to receive their  last rites before being rolled away in a blue-draped box. Patients don’t come back from the morgue, we don’t get a redo.

Of course, this goes beyond last rites for me, because they took away the pastors as well.  The men who, if on call, would arrive and share Truth with trauma victims and men and women who would soon meet the eternity they’ve come so close to.  This is something I cannot give up without a fight.

In a state where drug addiction is an epidemic, and in a country where hate crimes make the weekly news with almost predictable constancy, the last thing we need as a people is to have less men and women promoting peace and giving comfort amidst tragedy.

Perhaps nothing will ever come of this, but my blood cries out at injustice and it runs hot with the passion to right wrongs. And if this patient’s terrible, unfortunate passing can serve some sort of purpose, I will try to be sure that it does.

Because it’s the only decent thing to do.


Tuesday, October 10, 2017

Rescue 7 on 3rd Street, pt 1

It was 02:32 when Rescue 7 (the ambulance stationed in the thick of the city) responded to the call.  The men rolled from their mattresses and pulled on their uniforms. Within a few minutes they transformed from sleeping figures to medical professionals, ready for the call.

The operator told them as much as she knew - unconscious male patient, twenty seven, at 37b third street. Police en route.

“Could be drugs,” Mike said to Jethro.

“Could be someone partied too hard,” Jethro countered as he began sorting through the calls he’d taken with similar patients, trying to determine which skills he might use.  He knew he’d be taking point on this call, he was only a year out of paramedic school, but Mike was still only an EMT - the lowest rung of the medical ladder. Mike wasn’t even permitted to administer most of the drugs needed for a regular call, let alone an unconscious patient at 2 in the morning.

When they arrived at the address, Jethro grabbed his bag of supplies and lead the climb up the dilapidated porch stairway, avoiding the broken and rotting steps. They’d beat the police, which was unusual, but not completely uncommon. Jethro raised his gloved hand and rapped on the door. A frantic woman, who was probably twenty-eight but looked forty, lead the two men up yet another stairway to the bedroom.

“What was he doing before he passed out?” Jethro asked the girl, who was strangely serene. Unnaturally calm, actually, which set off alarm bells in Jethro’s head.

“Nothing, just watching some tv. He was, like, fine until I looked over and he’d passed out.”

A likely story.

The woman pushed open a door without a knob and Jethro’s eyes found a man lying on the ground.  It was obvious within a moment - Mike had been right. Drugs. No pains had been taken to hide the needle that had done the damage, it was lying next to the man, amidst odds and ends that nearly covered the floor - from dirty laundry to half-full takeout boxes.

At what point do you stop smelling this? At what point do you stop noticing what your life has become? The thoughts crossed Jethro’s mind in a moment as he began his work.

After a preliminary survey of the patient, the overdose was confirmed and Jethro was able to tell that though unconscious, the patient was breathing and his pulse was alright. He was stable, for now.

“Narcan?” Mike asked.

That was the question, and it played in Jethro’s mind.  To administer the Narcan (the antidote for the overdose, which would wake the patient) right away, or to wait until they were loaded in the ambulance and a few minutes away from the hospital. He had to make a decision.  The choice seems simple - you wake the patient up of course, and solve the problem. But patients don’t always wake up feeling civil. The Narcan is similar in effect to a shot of adrenaline and often the patient wakes up angry and confused and in pain.

Still, so much could happen between that moment, kneeling beside the patient in his grungy room, and the time it would take to load him. If he coded, well, that wasn’t going to happen. He had to make a decision.

Where was the cop? He should’ve shown up by now, Jethro thought to himself.

“Jethro?” Mike was trying to keep the deer-in-the-headlights look from his eyes, and though it had only been five minutes since they first walked through the door, Jethro knew he had to make a decision.



Saturday, October 7, 2017

NOK/Emg

Twelve updates to complete and I’ve only just arrived for my shift at the ER. So I grab a clipboard and a demo sheet, then head to room 14 to update with my first patient for the evening.

I’m only a “patient access associate.”  You could say I’m the lowest rung on the ladder of importance at the ER, but that might be giving me too much credit. I’m the first person some people see when they come through the doors of the ER: when I’m not running updates I just sit at the front desk, register and wristband the patients, then take down their signatures (which give doctors permission to treat them, so yeah, I guess I’m not completely useless).  However, I’ll never save anyone’s life, diagnose afflictions, or even administer something to ease the pain, so it’s easy to feel a little useless.

Today I was on update duty, the dreaded job that entailed lots of walking and talking and asking uncomfortable questions.

I stopped outside room 14 and listened for a moment. Doctors and nurses don’t appreciate being interrupted and I hate being in the way, so it’s better all around if I can avoid barging in. I didn’t hear any voices though, so I double checked my information. She was a young, female patient with abdominal pain and nausea. Not uncommon chief complaints, but the patient can present in a wide range of discomfort (or lack thereof).  I took a deep breath, knocked softly, and stepped in.

I was greeted with a small girl in her early twenties with dark brown hair.  She seemed more uncomfortable from her circumstances than from her pain, and I greeted her with a soft smile. I learned early on that false cheeriness is not appreciated, but my sympathetic (almost apologetic, I’m afraid) smile usually doesn’t offend.

“Hi, I’m with registration,” I said to the girl. “Do you mind if I do a quick update with you for our system?”

“Sure,” she said. She was sitting with her feet dangling off the edge off the bed, too short to reach the floor. Her color seemed good, perhaps the nausea wasn’t so bad or it had let up a bit. Her arms were crossed over her stomach, in a way that made my eyes linger there for a second longer than I meant to.

It’s part of the job, when working the front desk, for me to sum people up as quickly as possible. Even though I’m “just in registration,” since I’m often the first person a patient sees, even before the triage nurse, it’s my job to take their story and boil it down to a “chief complaint” so that the triage nurse has an idea of what they’re walking in on when the time comes for their initial evaluation. Plus, if someone comes in and explains anything that sounds like a stroke or a heart attack, Ineed to go tell a nurse. Stat.

If I were to sum her up after the twenty seconds and three sentences we’d exchanged, plus the nausea sh was complaining of,  I would’ve called her chief complaint “pregnancy.” But who knows? I’m not medically trained. A urine test is smarter than me at this point.

“Can you confirm your date of birth for me?” I asked, and she did. I then ran through my list of basic information questions, like mailing address and phone number, primary physician and marital status (single by the way).

Then I came to the tricker part.  Her Next Of Kin and Emergency contact fields had been left blank from whenever we’d seen her last.  These questions were my least favorite to ask, being somehow so much more personal than everything else.

“Who would you like listed as next of kin?” I asked, hoping she’d have a ready answer and that we simply didn’t have time to get that information before.

Her eyes flicked from then floor back to mine. “Um, there’s nobody I guess.”

“No one?” I pressed. “This could be anyone, someone we could contact...?”

I left the end of the sentence unfinished, I always do. I’d hate coming right out and saying “You know, if today or if ever you’re here dead or dying and this information is all we have to go off.”

She bit the inside of her lip. “The address I gave you is my school address, I just got here two months ago and haven’t really made any... there really isn’t anybody here. But I guess I can give you my foster brother.”

I took down his phone number and address, grateful that there was somebody out there for her, trying to ignore the fact that he lived half the country away.

“Is there anyone else?” I asked.

“My grandmother is who I used to live with, but she doesn’t answer the phone anymore. Can’t hear it.”

I nodded and swallowed hard.  “Okay, well that’s everything I need for right now.  Thank you for your time.”

I turned to go and put a hand on the door knob. I still had eleven other patients to go update with and probably more coming in every minute, but I couldn’t just leave her.

I turned back.

“Is there anything I can get for you?” I asked. “A warm blanket?  Anything?”

“Actually, some water would be good,” she said. “I’ve been here a couple of hours and I’ve been thirsty.” She was embarrassed to ask, I could tell. But beneath the embarrassment was a desperation for a basic need, and I understood. Not completely, but enough to know that this was a small way that I could really help.

“Sure,” I said, eager to fill the hole her filtered story had shot through me.  “I’ll check with your nurse and as long as it’s alright, I’ll be right back with it.”

She smiled and thanked me, and I glanced at the dry-erase board for the name of her nurse. After I tracked down the nurse, busy at her desk, I meekly caught her attention (I hate being in the way) and asked if the patient in room 14 could have a drink of water.

The nurse stopped what she was doing, checked and the looked back up at me. “Sorry but no, not yet.”

I nodded, and went back to the room. I listened, knocked softly, and then entered.

“I’m sorry,” I said, coughing a little in an attempt to clear the tightening in my throat.  “You nurse said you can’t have water just yet.  But as soon as you can, I’m sure she’ll be able to get some for you.”

The girl’s eyes misted over. She had nothing else to look forward to. No one was coming to take care of her. No one would call her tomorrow and make sure she was alright.  All she had to look forward to was the water I was bringing, and she couldn’t even have that.

“I’m sorry,” I said. I honestly, truly, helplessly meant it.

She nodded and shrugged. “It’s fine.”

I left then, hoping she wouldn’t cry once the door had closed behind me, but feeling pretty certain that she would.

I walked back to my desk to plug her information into our system.

People say that at a hospital you’re just a number, you’re looked over, and you’re just a nuisance to the terrible staff. But I don’t know, I’ve seen a lot of doctors and nurses that just honestly care. Besides, as I sat there and entered her “number,” into my computer, the hole in my chest throbbed and my face grew hot with the tears I held inside.

That girl was not a number. But there was nothing I could do.

I said a quick selfish prayer then, thanking God for my undeserved emergency contacts.

Friday, October 6, 2017

3am after the storm

I still think about that day, or night I suppose. I still lie awake at night and replay it, wondering what I should’ve done, wondering about the scenarios in which I realistically could’ve avoided it.  When I first ran into the people that were a part of that night, when I ran into them here in the after that is, it made me sweat. It’s a strange sort of panic, my face turned red while my lungs inhaled remembrance and exhaled regret. It still happens now and again, though I pretend it does not.

It was my hurricane. Please don’t think I take that metaphor lightly, I don’t.

Like with hurricanes, I had warning. I knew it was coming and I tried, oh I tried to stave it off.  I saw the bleeding and pressed gauze over the wound and taped the bandage against my skin. And then I kept movng, denying my mind when it whispered that I should check the dressing again - that it might have bled through, that it needed more attention than I was giving it.

But I didn’t check it again until it was too late. And then the hurricane set in and I no longer denied the fear and pain and helplessness.

But now, here in the after, the hurricane is over and residents are banding together to find a way forward and through and upwards.   This wound is healed, though it did not leave a scar to prove the pain, to justify the fear, or to make sense of it all. I can’t walk with my head held high when I remember the hurricane, it is still too fresh and somehow soaked with shame. It is a dearly held lie of mine that it’s always okay, even when it’s not.  (Pride can kill, you see.) But I try not to think of my hurricane during the day, and at night... well, I try to let it teach me.

Perhaps I will learn to recognize a wound before it drains me.

Perhaps I will.




Monday, August 21, 2017

The Contraband of Stolen Music

“Hey Danielle,” he said, smiling up at me with that cheeky grin.  I swear if that grin ever disappears because he’s too old or cool, it might just break my heart.  And those freckles?  Goodness, he may only be eleven but he’s going to break a pile of hearts someday.

“Hey bud, what’s new?”

“I got an MP3 player.”

“That’s pretty cool.”

“Yeah, it’s my first one.”

I smiled inwardly, thinking back to when I first fell in love with music.  My first MP3 player actually belonged to my mother, but I would sneak it into my bedroom and listen to her workout playlist (the only music she kept on it) when I was supposed to be sleeping but couldn’t remember how.  Eventually when I reached my young teens, she gave the thing to me and I began discovering some of what would become my all-time favorite stuff: Jack Jonhson’s lullabies, Frankie Valley and his four seasons, Acapella’s soulful worship, and the soundtracks my father used to put on CD’s for me when I was little.  I explored, no longer nervous of being caught with the contraband of stolen music.

“I thought maybe you could take it.”  He produced the shiny little blue device seemingly from midair and slipped it into my palm.

We were sitting in the backseats of the family truck, on our way to some now-forgotten event, and I realized that this conversation was not an idle eleven-year old’s way of passing the time - it was premeditated.  

But for the life of me, I couldn’t figure out why.  I was pretty sure it wasn’t a gift, so what did he intend for me to do with it?  What had I missed?

He glanced at me furtively as another sibling climbed into the vehicle. 

“Um, you want me to…” I hoped he would finish the sentence but he kept quiet.  “Oh, want me to load it up for you?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he shrugged, playing it cool.

“Cool.  Like some acapella stuff? Or something more exciting for swim meets?”

“Or that thing we talked about…  If you want?”

He glanced back at the sibling who had just joined us, another big sister, and it suddenly dawned on me.  He had asked me ages ago to make him a new CD of Hamilton music since his previous CD had gone missing.  I’d forgotten (for the space of a couple of months) and he’d taken matters into his own hands by buying an MP3 player just so he could listen to Hamilton.  Recalling how had reminded me at least once or twice, a pang of guilt constricted my chest. 

It’s hard sometimes – being the sister he only sees on the weekends at best. 

His furtive glances at our other sister made sense now too.  She didn’t exactly approve of our shared love of Hamilton.  It’s a fair enough stance, the songs I don’t listen to have some foul language in them that’s unfit for eleven-year-old ears.  But then again, our mother is okay with the clean songs and with the couple of clean versions of songs I found edited on youtube and she is the mom, so it wasn’t against the rules. 

Still, it concerned his little mind so I played right along.

“Oh, gotcha,” I said, slipping the device (and charging cable he thought might be necessary) into my pocket.  “I’ll get it back to you soon.”

“Thanks,” he said, buckling in as we back out of the driveway.

“What are you guys talkin’ about?” the sister on the end of the row asked.

“Nothing,” Eli and I said in unison.

After a few miles he leaned over and whispered,

“You won’t forget?”

“Don’t worry,” I whispered back.  “I’m not throwing away my shot on this one.”

That response accomplished what I’d hoped, earning me another grin.

Sitting here now, hundreds of miles away, it makes me a bit tearful to think that I get to be his big sister.  That I am allowed the honor and responsibility of helping to mold his little mind and his tastes, that I get to know this amazing person and watch him grow, that we get to share in this great big scary wonderful world together. 

The music he wanted me to load on his player was the clean (or cleaned-up) songs from the Hamilton soundtrack.  It’s a beautiful and thrilling retelling of a true story – and the voice talents and story line are heart-breakingly amazing. It’s the sort of written thing I can’t even be envious of, I’m just grateful to live in a time where it exists and I can be a part of it by listening.  Hamilton is a play about a man obsessed with the legacy he leaves behind.  Who lives, who dies, who tells your story? is a line oft repeated.

I’m not sure if anyone will tell my story, but I’m not sure that really matters.  I think the legacy of a simple, faithful life spent for the Lord and lived alongside cheeky grins and contraband music is enough. 


At least, it is for me.

Tuesday, June 13, 2017

Goodbyes

   "Now, your report card is out on the counter, and guess what?"
   "What?" he looked up at me from the boat he was repetitiously sinking into the water.
   "I even put stickers one it."
   "Stickers?  And the stickers will be for me?" he asked.
   "Well they're stuck to your report card, but you'll get to see all the things you did this session in swim with me.  So it's time to get out now, go see your Daddy and you can get your report card."
   A miracle happened then, for the first time in eight weeks, the adorable, spoiled little preschooler got out of the water without a fight. No coaxing necessary.
   The next half hour was empty due to a cancelled class, so my fellow lifeguard, Cal, and I began cleaning up the deck.  From across the pool he shouted my name.  I looked up to see a childish grin on his face, he was holding the frisbees I'd used in class (entertaining props, not just for preschoolers) and he wanted me to catch them.  I had to jump to catch the first, but the second came straight at me.  I smiled inwardly that it was sort of aimed at my face, funny how the creative life can spill over into "real life."
   "I'm heading out then," Cal said, his shift over.
   "See you later," I said, heading to the women's locker room to get out of my wet bathing suit.
   I got through the door and grabbed my towel before turning back.  I was glad to catch him still out on deck.
   "Or maybe I won't," I said.
   "What?"
   "I might not see you.  This is my last shift with you before I take off for the summer, and you're leaving in the fall."
   "Really?  Man... Nah, I'm sure I'll see you again."
   "Maybe," I said, "if you can't find a real job."
   He laughed.
   "That's a possibility.  But if I don't see you in the fall, I'll see you way later."  He made a big gesture with his arm, as if throwing a sloppy shot with a basketball.
   Reminded of the knowledge of our shared heritage, growing up in gospel-preaching churches, a smile spread across my face and I nodded.
   "Yeah.  Way, way later."
   "See you then," he said.
   We parted then, and I didn't see him again.  But it is good to know that I will, later on.

Sunday, June 11, 2017

The sun still rises, and she's still here

How do you look at the love of your life and tell her, through her tears, this is where I leave you? How do you premeditate an earthquake, see the damage it will cause, and wreck it all anyways?

It's a great cliche, I can see that.  I didn't tell him that he meant a lot to me, not recently.  I didn't say thank you and now it's too late.  These are the types of things that people say in soap operas, worn little regrets that have been used so often, they no longer hold any meaning.

Until you go to what was his house and for a split second, wonder where he is.  What a stupid thing to think when you've gone there to bring flowers to his wife because he is irrevocably gone.  The mind does strange things to cope.

I am not enough for times like these.  I am less than what is needed, less than what is deserved.  I have been a peace-maker among my siblings, my friends - there's a puzzle piece in my soul that yearns to set things right.  I can't make this right.  In fact, I cannot even use these words that I've practiced, not in real life, not when it matters.  When face to face, all I can do is allow useless tears to roll down my cheeks.  Stupid, selfish, useless tears.

Friday, June 9, 2017

Chlorine mixed with tears

I walked down a winding lane today and watched a couple, grey-haired, kissing one another goodbye. Yet they could not be content with one kiss, but shared in three. I saw a mother holding the hand of a small boy, blonde curls framing his face and the remnants of lunch on one cheek. A messy little angel he was. I watched cars drive by, one after another after another and I wondered at their mysterious and complex lives. 

I thought to myself, but life is beautiful. There is so much to love and so many to be loved by. 

I am not angry with you, yet at times I am furious. The feeling that predominates is a greater weight in the region of my heart. You let me down, but more importantly, you let two curly-haired, dimpled little boys down. Little boys who looked out their window and dreamed of the far reaches of the galaxy. Little boys that I am supposed to protect, that I cannot protect from what you did to them. I did not have to bear such truths when I was their age. 

Why? I wish you could tell me. Was it isolation? The inevitability of oblivion that your world-view had convinced you of? Was it your health? What was the pain that you felt you had no other escape from?

And my biggest question... how could I have lifted this pain for you? What have I done?

I could have done more.  There is always that truth, that bitter seed of knowledge. Yet, I know it was not down to me. It was down to you and your burdens.

Was the weapon really lighter than the weight you bore? I am sorry and I am angry and my throat is much too tight.

You knew the God of creation, you saw Him in the mountains out your front window. I don't know how to pray for you, but I pray for the wife you left behind. And the two little boys and the little girls you hurt. Their precious tears mixing with chlorine, it is all much too terrible. I pray for it to become a gentler pain washed softer with time. 

I hope to see you again, I hope you are alright, and I hope.



Thursday, June 8, 2017

I can't find my own words tonight, I will have to borrow another's. I don't think Leonard would mind.

THERE ARE SOME MEN

There are some men
who should have mountains
to bear their names to time.

Grave markers are not high enough
or green,
and sons go far away
to lose the fist
their father’s hand will always seem.

I had a friend:
he lived and died in mighty silence 
and with dignity,
left no book, son, or lover to mourn.

Nor is this a mourning-song
but only a naming of this mountain
on which I walk,
fragrant, dark and softly white
under the pale of mist.
I name this mountain after him.

(L. Cohen)

Saturday, May 6, 2017

Piano Keys Amidst Chaos

I'm sitting in the library after a particularly full week.  I don't want to call it a stressful week, because it contained good elements, as well as elements that caused a great deal of anxiety.  It was a week full of ups and downs, and I couldn't help but feel as though it was a week of concentrated time - so much more was stuffed into each hour and day.

But I took time out from errands to sit in the library with my computer to write for a while.  I was typing along when I took out one of my headphones and heard that from the other room, someone was playing the piano.

And not just playing the piano - this stranger was working in harmony with their instrument to create art. There's a difference.  My sisters and I have all played various instruments since we were little, and I've seen the violin and piano become artwork in their hands.  It's incredible.

To my sheer enjoyment, the song choices ranged from Music of the Night, to Edelweiss, to The Rainbow Connection - all songs that I could sing along with if I so chose (no worries, i'ts a quiet library and I'm still sane, I did not so choose).  But they were all songs that I could listen to and be filled by - relating with them with nostalgia instead of enjoying them abstractly.

I think all great art is a collaboration of sorts.  The pianist's music in the other room is made more beautiful by the enjoyment I (and others) derive from it.  The book that I have safely tucked away in my bag is just a collection of ink and paper until I take it up and collaborate with the author, settling into their pattern of thought and the universe they've spun.

Art imitates life, and thus our lives are made richer the more we collaborate with others.  Our lives become more meaningful the more we take time to enjoy the beauty of what others are creating, the more we attempt to understand their stories.

The world isn't always a beautiful place, but it's wrong to think there is no beauty in it.  It's just that sometimes beauty is something we have to look for in order to see - in people, the art of their lives, and in the complexity of this great earth in which we get to live.

Monday, April 24, 2017

Questions I don't know how to answer

Someone asked me what marriage was.  I didn't know what to say and I almost gave the one-word answer of "persistence."

It wasn't a bad answer, but I was half-joking and it didn't really sum everything up.

Marriage is having someone in your corner.  It's coming home at the end of the day to someone who wants to know how yours was.  It's being yourself and being liked for it.  It's also being annoyed and even flat out angry now and then, but it's having enough humility to say you're sorry afterwards, or to accept their apology.  Even if they never said it aloud.  It's eating together, a lot.  It's being on someone's team and having them on your team too.  It's caring, it's being kind.

And it isn't half bad.

My heart and the words

Words are everything.

Oh, my darling, use yours carefully.  Because once said they can't be taken back.  And no matter how I try, I can't forget them.  I carry the curse of remembrance and once something is put in my little head it won't go away, no matter how I scrub.  I know you're hurting and so am I but please know that lives rise and fall on words, written and spoken.

Whenever I think of your words, my chest constricts and I'm startled by the hurt.  Every single time it startles me - the hurt.  You'd think I'd be used to it by now.

I don't want regrets, but it's too late now, there are too many words.

Life isn't a game.  No matter how many kind things are said to mend, the words spoken to break are stronger.  They cut deeper and they're easier to let fly.

Next time, perhaps our words will be a little kinder.  Perhaps we'll reach inside and use an bit of extra understanding that we couldn't find before.  It's so easy to slip, but I hope that we'll find the strength to stand.

Friday, April 21, 2017

Strangers

Stranger
Noun
An individual that one is not acquainted with.

I have developed a talent and honed it over the years. It is not a talent I am proud of or one that I tried to succeed in - this talent of turning friends into strangers.  For some reason I seem to enjoy giving my pieces to those who will some day become someone I am not acquainted with at all.

...

In the end, we're all lonely people searching for belonging, and for someone to see everything inside us, and to stay anyways.

Friday, March 17, 2017

Loneliness

Everyone needs someone to hold - some fix that dream in their mind and relinquish  all else, others cannot help but turn to the nearest soft and welcoming arms.

Wednesday, March 15, 2017

The Anchor, Sinking

     Years ago, when my ship drifted lonesome and without direction, I yearned for you.  I yearned for something, anything really, that could ground me and give me rest from this ceaseless tossing about and being tossed upon the seas. There were many times when I was almost thrown overboard - when I almost lost my necklace (my only possession) and yet I did not die.
     At last, I found you.  You were an anchor and when I fastened you to my ship, things changed.  At first I was skeptical, thinking that you would be of no use.  I had been drifting for too long - too long.  But when I lowered you into the waves and set you in your place, my drifting stopped.  I was finally able to make sense of this sea that I was traveling upon, and I knew where I needed to go and how to get there.
     Peace found a home in my little ship.
     Then, unbeknownst to me, a storm gathered just beyond the horizon.  I ignored the distant thunderings, judging them to be some trick of the night sky, some gull's cry contorted by the wind - nothing else.  When the storm struck, I was caught unawares.  So long had I been at peace, I forgot how to look for storms.
     The waves crashed and the thunder broke over me.  Again and again the sea tried to wreck us and I feared for my little ship and the anchor I had begun to call my friend.  At last, the inevitable happened, and my ship's hull was broken upon the rocks.  We were smashed to pieces when you, my anchor, failed and our ship drifted to dangerous waters.
     Too late to save all else, and in a frenzy not to lose you, I detached you from the ship's broken pieces and held onto your chain.  I was torn from the ship and I held onto you, and you alone.  But with no ship left to stand on, you, my Anchor, betrayed me.  By holding onto your chain, you dragged me down, down, down to the shadowy depths, battering me against the rocks as we sunk.  When we came to rest with a sandy thud on the ocean's floor, I noticed a calm that had not been present in the storm that still raged above.  Here, grasping your chain, there was no wind or rain or jagged rocks.
     Here, the storm was in my lungs.  They began burning with need - need for air and breath and life.  Danger flashed inside my mind, and I gripped your chain and swam towards the surface with all my might. But I could not move you.  You would not budge, and so I could not move while holding on to you.
     Darkness edged into my mind and I looked to you, saltwater burning my eyes. Dark shapes loomed in the murky depths.  I knew that to stay would be the end of me, yet leaving you was too full of sorrow and regret.
     In a moment, I let go and swam upwards, towards the storm, and sorrow, and regret.
     Breaking the water's surface, I found a piece of my beloved ship and I clung to it, letting the storm's merciless power drag us far away from you.  Yet, I was too tired and empty to care much whether we weathered this storm or not.  A different kind of peace that looked more like defeat came over me.

     Finally, after time had passed and no longer seemed to hold meaning, I felt the warmth of the sun again.  The storm was over and I thought I could see land on the blue and hazy horizon, but it could have been my weary eyes fooling me with hope.
     I remembered you, my anchor, and how I left you behind.  There was nothing for me now, all I had left was my one possession.  With one hand, I clutched the albatross necklace that hung about my neck, and with the other I held on to the only remaining piece of my little ship.  It was all I had left to keep me afloat.

Wednesday, March 8, 2017

Smoothies and Old Love Letters

     I feel a bit like a smoothie.

     Once, I had many unique feelings, thoughts, and emotions.  There were ripe, juicy raspberries, sooth, rounded scoops of yogurt, and dollops of peanut butter. But now everything's broken. Sliced to bits until all I'm left with is a weak resemblance of what was there before.

     Metaphors are horrible ways to express yourself.  Why then, do I employ one here?  I think it is because it creates some comforting emotional distance.  But perhaps I'll try being more specific.


Some documented things you have said to me in the past:
You are never "just" anything.
I love being a part of your life.
Of course you're not boring.
I miss you.
I have told him so many times that I wish you were here so that I could just roll over to one of the fifty other beds and talk to you.
I never knew how much I needed a friend like you in my life.
Our friendship gives me so much courage and strength and peace.
I'm sorry.
Always yours. Always.
Of course I'm not mad.
I love you, and that won't change.



     Shortly after my uncle left my aunt, I wrote a journal entry making a list of all the things I loved about my MIA uncle.  Below the list, I wrote that I didn't want to forget, through time and bitterness, that there really were things about him that I loved.  (Truthfully, I was a bit less eloquent at the time, but it was long those lines.)  I don't want to forget our four-year friendship either.  I don't want to forget what you meant to me, and what I meant to you.  Before two roads diverged in a yellow wood and our paths grew apart so gradually that I didn't know what was happening until it was too late.

     I think the hardest part in this is having to wonder... how could I be so forgettable?

     Because when something earth-shattering and life changing happens to you, I find out after the fact that a half dozen of your friends were there with you.  And for those who couldn't be there with you? For those people, you updated them personally throughout the process.  Yet I have to wait with the crowds.  Unsure what's going on.  Praying from the sidelines, updating social media again and again, looking for the only update I can hope for.

     Forgotten.


     Well, my dear.
     I loved being a part of your life.
     You were never "just"anything to me - there were times when your words meant everything.
     You were not boring, we had so much fun together.
     There are still times when I wish I could roll over and talk to you the way we used to.
     You were the friend I never expected to need.
     I miss you too.
     Our alienation makes me feel fearful, powerless, and unsettled.
     I'm not sure why, but I'm sorry.  Really, honestly sorry if I failed you.  I'm sorry to abandon you to your path, regardless of whether or not that's what you want from me.
     Of course I'm not mad.  I'm frustrated, confused, and withdrawn perhaps.  Yet, for the sake of everything we were four years ago, there will always (always) be a piece of me that feels only hurt when it reflects on you and I.
     Because I love you, and that won't change.
   
   

Sunday, January 22, 2017

Lifeguard Saves Life While on Duty!! Extra! Extra!

Lifeguard Actually Saves Life While on Duty!!  EXTRA! EXTRA!

I am approaching this piece with some uncertainty. I fear that my title is over-sensational and sensationalism is something that I do not strive to attain when it comes to these articles. Also, the content of this article (though it was an adventure!) is quite varied from my usual discover-Maine style.

But read on, dear reader, and perhaps you will find it worth your time. I think it might be.

Lifeguarding is a sort of bread-and-butter job for me. Until, of course, the day comes when I break through as a writer, buy the house next to Stephen King's, and write full-time.  Our story opens upon  an evening that felt like any other, just a normal day of lifeguarding at the indoor pool here in Maine where I work.  But then I spotted a young man struggling to swim in the 6ft section.

I kicked off my flip flops in anticipation of being needed, and watched as he struggled doggedly towards deeper water.  I readjusted the strap of the lifeguard tube that hung across my chest, making sure that the line would not be in the way, should I have to use it as flotation if things went badly.

When you lifeguard for any amount of time, you learn to look for patterns that could mean that a swimmer is not strong, and this young man was displaying some of these patterns. But I have been wrong before, and after lifeguarding for almost four years, I have only ever pulled one kid out of the water before and it was long ago, and at a pond. I am rarely called upon to use my lifeguard certification for actual lifesaving.

Sure, we retrain often and we know that we might have to go in at any second, but a good lifeguard's job lies mostly in prevention, and the people that frequent indoor pools often know how to swim.

There's less glory than they tell you in the movies.

I continued to watch as he pulled his friend underwater in an effort to stay afloat (I hesitated for a moment then - was he messing around, I wondered?). Then his friend swam away, oblivious. And then, this young man slipped underwater.

I jumped in then, and surprised myself by how quickly I was right above him, (this is why we retrain, I thought to myself) then, using my weight to counterbalance his, I pulled him up and onto my rescue tube.

He had only been under for a few moments, so he didn't cough much.  Then looked at me with surprise in his wide eyes and exclaimed,

"I can't swim!"

I almost laughed right then and there. But instead, realizing that such behavior might be inappropriate under the circumstances, I simply asked him if he was alright, and whether he needed help getting to the shallow end or if he could get out at the wall where I had brought him to.

He said he could get out and so he did.  Then I did the half hour of paperwork due every time a lifeguard has to jump in (another thing they don't tell you in the movies), then I changed out of my sopping wet clothes, and went home.

No thanks. No glory.  That was all. But I don't do it for the thanks, so it doesn't really matter, right?

Right. And besides, he was only acting the way I knew he would - his box demanded it, after all.

You see, we humans enjoy putting people into boxes. Tie the bow nice and tidy, and we won't have to have our world-view questioned. We'll never feel uncomfortable! Pride is so familiar and warm, like a wood fire in a Maine winter.

And this young man was part of a group that comes to my pool every week. I have them all in a comfortable box. They are from a college nearby and they tend to be oblivious to the fact that I just mopped that floor, or that I don't really want to watch them make out during the half hour weekly that I must guard them.  Put quite simply, their conduct can be (at times) disorderly at best.  That was all there was to them.

Or so I thought.


Until he came back with his group tonight. He had been banished to the shallow end, perhaps been taken down a peg or two, poor guy, but he did come back and that I can certainly respect.

I saw him and made eye contact as I was about to go on deck and relieve the guard that was stationed out there. I saw him just in time to hold the door so that he could go through before me.

I gave him a small smile, wondering if he remembered me. And he looked straight back into my eyes and said, "Thank you." He held my gaze just long enough for me to wonder whether he was thanking me for the fact that I was holding the door for him, or for what I did for him the week before.

I suppose I'll never really know for sure, but I choose to believe the latter. My silly box isn't that important, after all.

Friday, January 20, 2017

Thoughts on a Life

We humans enjoy putting people into boxes. Tie the bow nice and tidy, and we won't have to have our world-view questioned. We'll never feel uncomfortable! Pride is so familiar and warm, like a wood fire in a Maine winter.

I rarely actually have to use my lifeguard certification.  Sure, we retrain often and we always know that we might have to go in at any second, but a good lifeguard's job lies mostly in prevention, and the people that frequent indoor pools often know how to swim.  There's less glory than they tell you in the movies.

So when I kicked off my shoes and jumped in last week, I can assure you it surprised me as much as it did him.

You see, there's a group that comes to my pool every week. I have them all in a comfortable box. They are from a college nearby and they tend to be oblivious to the fact that I just mopped that floor, or that I don't really want to watch them make out for the half hour that I must guard them, and their conduct can be (at times) disorderly at best.  That was all there was to them.

Until one of them started struggling and then slipped under the water.  And suddenly I was right above him, using my weight as a counterbalance to pull him up and onto my rescue tube (this is why we retrain, I thought to myself). He had only been under for a moment, so he only coughed a little, then looked at me with surprise in his wide eyes and exclaimed,

"I can't swim!"

I almost laughed right then and there. But instead, realizing that such behavior might be inappropriate under the circumstances, I simply asked him if he was alright, and whether he needed help getting to the shallow end or if he could get out at the wall where I had brought him to.

He said he could get out and so he did.  Then I did the half hour of paperwork due every time a lifeguard has to jump in (another thing they don't tell you in the movies), then I changed out of my sopping wet clothes, and went home.

No thanks. No glory.  That was all. But I don't do it for the thanks, so it doesn't really matter, right?

Right. And besides, he was only acting the way I knew he would - his box demanded it, after all.

Until he came back with his group tonight. He had been banished to the shallow end, perhaps been taken down a peg or two, poor guy, but he did come back and that I could certainly respect.

I saw him and made eye contact as I was about to go on deck and relieve the guard that was stationed out there. I saw him just in time to hold the door so that he could go through before me.

I gave him a small smile, wondering if he remembered me. And he looked straight back into my eyes and said, "Thank you." He held my gaze just long enough for me to wonder whether he was thanking me for the fact that I was holding the door for him, or for what I did for him the week before.

I suppose I'll never really know for sure, but I choose to believe the latter. My silly box isn't that important, after all.

Thursday, January 19, 2017

I am not regurgitating useless words, I am regurgitating words

Why am I my own worst enemy?  Why does my pride and vain ambition, my desire to be liked, my desire to be right, plague me so? And oh, the bitter knowledge that these are just a few of the pennies in my jar that’s filled with all the things that I hate when I remember the words I've spoken, when I remember what and who I truly am inside.

          And then there is the trait in me that seeks to escape oblivion.  The trait that tells me that I can, I should, I must.  Yet, when I square my jaw and clench my fists and shout to the world,
“Do your worst, I can take it!”
…somehow I am surprised when the world answers by doing just that.  When they pick up their gloves and swing, burying their fists in my stomach, my eyes fill with tears and I lose my breath as if I hadn’t asked for it in the first place.  As if it wasn’t me who sent out those query letters. As if someone forced me to go to two auditions in three weeks only to be answered by that deafening sound of silence. 
Rejection has become my only friend.
Because those who I gave my heart to (freely, freely) have given it back.  It is not wanted they say, there is no room for me in their heart.  Not any more.  
        I thought we would raise children and experience all of life together. We promised that we would.  Now whenever I see her, she speaks Words when she used to speak Meaning.  When she used to speak tenderness.
But that doesn’t matter.  Or maybe it does, but all I know is that I want to be ferocious and a force to be reckoned with.  Instead, all I seem to be good at is honing my pride and driving away the people I love.

       Such a vast number of the words written on the internet prove to be nothing more than a regurgitation. Just noise, noise, noise and words that are meant to draw you in and then empty you, never filling you. And maybe I'm regurgitating too, but I hope that you'll see that I'm meaning to be more. I'm trying and failing and trying to make something more.

And still, there are those who have stayed.  I am always afraid of taking them for granted.  But I know (I know) that I do that, too.  The people who  have stayed are the people who gave me the world – Parents who give their love and pride and understanding, never wavering.  Siblings who listen to me and forgive me.  A husband who thinks I'm a beautiful soul who can do anything that I put my mind to.
So I circle back to what I cried out in the first place.  I am the enemy inside of me.  And though I suspect that what I really need in the end is sleep, my words will not let me rest until they are written.  Until they are placed on the page – a promise that I will pick myself back up, dust off the pain, and try again.