Battle Wounds

"Who, but you, would see beauty in barbed wire!" my mom exclaimed upon seeing this picture. 

It depends on the day. Some days it just looks like barbed wire on a rotting post.

Friday night, generations of my immediate and extended family gathered at the farm that claims our common beginning and tried to fit years of memories, stories, laughter, and sorrow into a few hours.

Saturday morning, nearly two years to the day from my grandfather's death, that same family found its way into his same church, even the same pews, to remember his sister. 

"How was your weekend?" my friends asked. "Was it good?"

Well . . . 

It was brutal and beautiful, stained with old memories and fresh tears, but painted with the love, friendship, and shared histories known only within a family. Our renewed heartbreak stood alongside the still-raw wounds of our cousins. It was exhausting and painful to be in the same places for the same reasons. 

Maybe some of this pain never leaves; I don't know. I do know I don't want to forget, so in a way I welcome the scars. 

Scars are both a reminder of pain and proof of healing, so yes, I welcome the scars.

And I search for the healing.

My quest for healing happiness, for a dam to staunch Saturday's flow of pain, took me quite literally to the top of the hill. 

Well, to be perfectly literal, my Jeep took me to the top of the hill and my camera rode shotgun. 

The top of the hill didn't disappoint. As usual, I found what I needed--peace and quiet, peace of mind, and peace in my soul. At the top of the hill, Grandpa's soft chuckle still carries on the breeze and I still see him bend to meticulously separate a mushroom from the ground with the blade of his Old Timer pocket knife. At the top of the hill I can see for miles and the world is crystal clear.

Because Grandpa would have patiently indulged my desire to look just a little more, walk around just one more bend, maybe stay a few minutes longer, I did just that. 

And there, at the top of a hill so special it has a name, I found what I needed. A reminder that what we see so clearly today, what causes us terrible pain today, is only part of our picture. 

Tension pulls us back, holding us taut, vibrant beauty lures us forward, and a lethal barb stands sharply in focus.

I'll take the scars the barb leaves behind, but I choose the beauty. 

Unprotected Life

I am stubborn, independent, and unapologetic. Not news. Also, not changing anytime soon. Not surprisingly, decades ago I insisted upon holding my own hand, even when my mom needed to hold my hand to keep me safe during pesky tasks such as crossing the street. I had to do my own thing and in my own way.

I still do, but I finally realize alone and independent are not synonymous, and that I can be as unapologetically stubborn as I want without turning into a jaywalking hermit. I know--an unlikely combination.

We--my theatre geek friends and I--are on day two of a three-day-run of Tuesdays With Morrie. I've been involved in the entire rehearsal process, so the moving moments of the show are not new to me. I teach the book to my freshmen every year, so I'm quite familiar with the story, the aphorisms, and the emotions.

Tonight, however, none of my familiarity did me any good; tonight I was moved to tears, partly in reaction to the show and our fearless actors, but more  in reaction to my mom and her reaction. Throughout the show I could hear her occasional laughter and could catch, from my seat several rows behind her, the body language wrought of painful memories.

Mom always comes to our shows and is one of our biggest supporters, but this time I wasn't sure she should see the show. She lost a treasured friend to ALS, the same disease that plagues and eventually kills our title character. To be haunted by that connection would be bad enough, but her father died less than two years ago and her mother is playing chicken with death. She had many reasons to opt out, and this one time, I thought I should protect her, spare her.

Instead, she came to the show, laughed at Morrie's smart-ass comments, cried when Morrie's body betrayed his mind, and held my hand as Morrie's last breath whispered through the room.

Maybe the protection I wanted to offer is an illusion. Life happens. Sometimes life really sucks, but not always. Not even most of the time. In the midst of life happening, we just keep living. There is no substantial protection from life; I don't know how to live safely and really live at the same time, and I don't think I want to know.

So instead of protecting Mom from the brutal emotion of the show, I left my seat during the last scene, sat with her, and held her hand. I share her sadness, because her people are my people, but I also share the peace of mind and spirit that come from knowing we love our people well and openly, and that that the things we hold dear--the things that really matter--aren't things at all. It's reassuring to listen to Mitch's final monologue and realize that yes, after a life well-lived,  memories and actions become legacies.

I know Mom's story, and therefore understood and even anticipated her reaction to the show. What I didn't necessarily expect was the feeling of community in our makeshift auditorium. When the lights came up, I realized that the adults in the audience were clustered in small groups, drying their eyes and sharing their own stories.

Everyone has a story.

They may not have seen someone fight ALS and lose, but in many cases the final days, hours, and moments of a life are similar, regardless of the illness or situation. On some level, the stories shared were the same, and these friends and strangers could understand and relate, show empathy rather than enmity. Nobody in that room mocked another for a genuine reaction to an emotional performance. Nobody seemed compelled to hide their tears behind a macho wall. For once, people could just be.

There aren't too many Morries out there; we are Mitches. We are stubborn, independent, and frequently unapologetic. Luckily, though, Mitches can learn.

Most days, I still insist on holding my own hand, but not always. And tonight? Well, tonight I willingly put my hand in my mother's hand and just lived.

Get Out the Map

I admit it--I’m a sucker for beauty, a weakness that may be attributed to the camera so frequently slung over my shoulder.

Some beauty is undeniable. Sedona will never be mistaken for ordinary or ugly, but not everything beautiful is so obvious. Beauty may rest in a touch or a glance, in the tilt of a head or the breath of a word. Beauty may cower beneath layers of hurt or years of pain, or rest easily in untarnished innocence, but beauty is always near.

When I look past the surface, ignore clients' self-deprecating comments, and begin to know my people, their beauty gradually begins to show itself. In the end, they may even recognize their own beauty, the beauty I knew was there from the beginning.

Yes, for me, beauty is everywhere, but the most elusive, reliable, breathtaking beauty of all is both fleeting and frequent.

And a hussy.

In my world the sunset is the epitome of beauty. And, like many great beauties, the sunset enjoys flirting and playing hard to get, offering a bare shoulder or a seductive sideways glance, and then disappearing. Trilling “Come and get me,” and then hiding behind the horizon.

The sunset is cacophonous and peaceful, explosive and fluid, here and gone. The sunset is a tease, making me work for it, beg for it--especially if I might be trying to immortalize its flash of brilliance with my camera.

Because that moment of sunset is a flash, too brief to capture on a whim. The sunset is best caught as a result of borderline-stalker behavior, and even with careful preparation, the sunset eludes me much of the time.

Hussy.

Oddly, I don’t mind that the sunset taunts me to madness; now and then, I time it right and am able to witness--and perhaps record--that moment when an ordinary sky transforms from colorless to vibrant in a matter of seconds. What else but a sunset can put on such a show? (Hussy)

Yes, the sunset is toying with me, and I’m okay with it. I call it a hussy, but the sunset is what it is. Beautiful. Out of my control. Undeniable. Desirable.

An exhibitionist.

Looking west at the right time is up to me.

Live

That poster says it all. Sadly, we (okay, I) don't learn lessons from posters. Instead, I have to learn the hard way. I make mistakes. Big mistakes, small mistakes, medium mistakes--you name 'em, I make 'em.

Then I learn from those mistakes.

Of course, I don't just make and learn from mistakes. I am getting old-ish, after all; I've accumulated all sorts of genuine, time-certified experiences, and I learn from those, too.

So here I am, with some lessons learned and the awareness of many lessons yet to come. I'll never know it all, but at least I know myself.

Now I can tell you my passions. Now I am not afraid to do things I love and be selfish with my time when necessary. Now I know that I have some gifts, quirky and modest as they are, and I am confident enough to use those gifts. I can look at that poster and realize mine is a life not wasted, but lived. A life at once guarded and shared. I can look at that poster and just say, "Amen. the End."

The thing about that poster is that twenty or even ten years ago, I might have smiled, nodded, and enjoyed the sentiment. In fact, I'd have thought, "I get it."

I would have been wrong. I would have been blissfully, belligerently wrong.

But, as I mentioned, I'm getting old-ish.

I watch my family and friends with younger kids gladly dispensing juice boxes and Cheetos, running to practices and games, and I know they are putting their all into parenting those kids. I did the same thing, and was rewarded with kids who are people I want to know--people I like. Yes, I watch these parents happily raise their children and occasionally talk about having no life. "It passes," I say. "You'll get your life--your self-- back." What I can't begin to explain to them is that the self you get back will be different from the one you gladly let fall to the side in a tumble of diapers, dress-up clothes, jerseys, knee pads, and duffel bags.

This self? This new self? You've never met her, but you will. She'll emerge from a mountain of laundry and teenage trials and tribulations a different person, a person who somehow found herself while looking after everyone else.

And then? Well, then you will get this poster.

Can't Fight the River

The creek is encroaching. One row of trees has already been washed away, the water has undercut the fields, there are washes hiding in tall grass, and the riding paths are unsafe. Yes, that high water is causing problems.

So we mow regularly. We keep an eye on certain familiar places in the fields and pastures. We do what we can to keep our area and our people safe.

Today, as I was driving my grandfather's tractor around fields and pastures, thinking about how I'd explain where I'd mowed, I thought, "Oh, I'll just tell them I mowed down by the creek where we played when we were kids," or, "by the hog shed," or, "along the old road." Sounds simple enough, until you realize that "we" encompasses four solid generations. We didn't play there at the same time; most of us have never lived there, but we were most certainly there together.

We saw our cousins there together, waded there together, walked there together, grew up there together. In all of our lives, those rushing waters, those rolling hills, those red barns, those solitary havens, have been the one common constant.

Some of us remember a basketball hoop by gas tanks, a pond raft floating on oil drums, and a silo glimpsed at the outer stretches of a swing's arc, while others remember jewel weed and mulberry trees in the ditch, a tire swing on a hillside, and patches of lawn worn bare by frequent baseball games.

Because of who and how we are, most of us have worked there and all of us have played there.

Every one of us has known love there.

And that love--the shared, enduring love for the people and the place--is what links our many generations and buoys us as dangerously high waters threaten to wash us out and away.

Fighting the water is futile; it will go where it chooses--where it was meant to go--and it will go when the time is right. No, we can't fight the water or coerce the water. We can only keep the paths safe, flag known dangers, and keep protecting the people and places we love.

The river will win; we will do what we can.

The Song of Spring

There is something sublime about a spring storm, about realizing that, while I was busy looking the other way, dark clouds were gathering forces behind the neighbors' houses, just waiting for a blast of wind to send them flying.

I suppose I could liken a storm to the multitude of unpleasant surprises we face, but in my mind it's not the same at all. There's nothing awe-inspiring about cruel twists of fate, the winding down of lives, or the workings of unhappy people. Instead, spring storms are the epitome of the never-ending force and beauty of nature.

I'm educated and most days am able to pass for not-entirely-stupid. I listen to the weather people who tell me to get inside, stay away from doors and windows, and hunker down in an interior room with plenty of flashlights and radios. But today, when the sky shouted from across town, showed itself over the neighbors' roofs, and stirred up the tree tops, where was I? Well, how do you think I know how it looked out there?

I was in my yard, under my beloved trees, listening to the song of spring play through the new leaves.

I stood there on a long winter's worth of empty acorn shells, thoroughly entranced with the kaleidoscope of clouds and leaves, letting the wind buffet me, welcoming a tangible reminder that spring did happen this year.

I need those reminders. We need those reminders. After all, we did survive a long winter, which followed a heartbreaking autumn and stress-filled summer before it.

And now, finally, renewal. Finally . . . life, hope, and a new set of seasons. Fresh air is wafting in through windows, flowers are blooming in spectacular fashion, trees are reliably preparing to shade us, mushrooms are surely about to pop, and the weather--Nature--is putting on her show, reminding us that we are not in charge.

For that reminder, I am thankful. I don't want to be in charge; I'm quite content to be eternally in awe.

Muddled March Musings

I would LOVE to write an honest-to-God blog right now. Really, I would. I know my mind would be better for the writing, but folks, it's just not happening. I've started no fewer than three blogs in the past 27 hours. Sadly, I've finished precisely zero and have decided to resort to a list of less-demanding thoughts, thoughts that politely refrain from insisting that I link them together in paragraph form. Therefore, in no particular order, I present my March Musings.

1. Ignorant, hateful people need to go away.

2. We all need to defend that which we know is right and decry that which we know is wrong, even when those actions cause us discomfort.

3. I am trapped in Bizarro World. Seriously. It's everywhere right now!

4. The Midwest is in a staring contest with Old Man Winter. So far, nobody's blinked.

5. It is MARCH. Winter will blink before long.

6. I have not worried about a filmy hula-hoop tornado falling from the flies for five days.

7. The aforementioned tornado did not fall during a performance. Thank you, God. We appreciate your cooperation on that one.

8. I have not set off a hand-held incendiary device in five days, and I miss it. Maybe tomorrow. Fireballs are great fun when they are intentional.

9. By virtue of hard work, team work, and MUCH work, we did a fabulous job with a difficult show.

10. Free time and normal amounts of sleep are good.

11. That time-consuming, grey-hair-growing, sleep-depriving, trickery-filled, working-with-friends show made winter bearable.

12. Currently, I am hosting a brain riot. I do not enjoy hosting brain riots.

13. Camera-friendly days cure brain riots, so anytime Old Man Winter wants to blink and get it over with, it will be fine by me. Psst! God? You could pitch in if you were so inclined.

14. I am grateful to know the cures for what ails me. Some of those cures come from Walgreens, and some of those cures come from knowing myself and what works.

15. I would REALLY love a day to myself with my camera and some cooperation from Mother Nature.

16. Kid #1 will be 21 in two weeks and is looking at grad school.

17. Kid #2 is working nights.

18. Kid #3 takes the ACT next month.

19. I got old.

19a. Old isn't all bad.

20. Right now, my perfect day (and it could happen whenever you see fit, God) would involve my hammock, my pool, warm sunshine, my camera, my book, Miller Lite, and the time to wander back and forth. I can forgo the beer if it helps.

21. Switzerland may find it unsettling to learn that they were, in fact, a powerful German state during WW II, and that Prussia is a fine place to go if you want watches, chocolates, or secret accounts. (according to a few of my 7th graders)

22. Soon, and for the first time in my life, I will go mushrooming and not be able to share the fun and the find with my grandpa, a realization that makes me ache.

23. I know that I will feel him there with me nonetheless, walking stick in his hand, Old-Timer knife in his pocket, and twinkle in his eye.

24. I am blessed--thoroughly and undeniably blessed--by simply knowing some of the people in my life, young, old, and in between.

25. Just how much would it bug my Aunt Audrey and my math-brained, inside-the-box, perfectly-organized friends if I ended on a number that is not a multiple of five?

26. And I end with a wondering, ornery smile . . .

His Life, Well-Lived

As a child, I couldn’t understand his stoic nature, his quiet demeanor, his steadfast faith, his rigid self-discipline, or his exhausting work ethic. Eventually, though, I started to pay more attention to those around me, and I noticed that there was this look I could relate to--a mischievously crooked grin and quick waggle of the eyebrows--that let me know my grandfather. I grew into him, and now I realize it took me far too long.

Simply put, he was the best and wisest person I’ve ever known. He lived his life with an Old Timer knife in his pocket, a twinkle in his eye, and love in his heart. He adored the same woman for over 60 years and the same land for his entire life. He worked hard and loved deeply, but did both with quiet steadiness. And now, he is gone--gone from our sight, gone from his home, gone from our world.

There is no formal test at the end of a life, no real assessment of how well we did at living life. So, at the end, how will we know? How will we know that our lives were time well spent on this earth? How will we know that we have touched others, made a difference, and left a legacy? What proof exists of a life well-lived?

For this man, for Grandpa, there can be no doubt.

When we drop down into the valley, cross the bridge and see the family farm, the farm that exists for us because one man chose to spend his life on that farm, the farm that is our collective refuge from the world, we have proof.

When children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren rush to the hospital on a Friday morning, we have proof.

When we set our jaws with strength and resolve, even in the face of undiluted terror and unprecedented grief, we have proof.

When our laughter, true and deep, cuts through our tears, we have proof.

When a grown son holds his father’s frail hand in his own rugged grip and daughters tenderly whisper permission and reassurance, we have proof.

When generations proudly step forward to sit at a bedside through long days and nights, we have proof.

Today, we grieve. Today, we are envious of heaven and sad for ourselves. Today, we are quite human.

Nevertheless, his legacy does exist. When we carry on, move on, live on, with his strength, his courage, and his love in our hearts, we will be proof of his life well-lived.

Would You Like Those Tires Gift-Wrapped?

Tires. You want tires for graduation. No matter how many times I ask, how many chances I give you to change your mind, you want tires. "I don't want stuff," you say, "just tires."

Tires it shall be.

Tires to take you to college, to work, to wherever you decide to go.

Yes, the tires will take you, but I will let you go.

Of course I will miss you. I will miss your silent eye rolls when stupidity threatens to overtake a situation, your steady, strong presence in the school halls and your camaraderie in the yard, your guffaw that escapes when I least expect it, and your enduring grin that breaks through when I do expect it.

Still, I will let you go.

A lifetime ago, I wouldn't let you out of my sight, then I wouldn't let you out of the house. Eventually, the boundary edged the yard, the block, and our side of town. Now, the boundaries are nonexistent. Now, I don't want you to stop.

Now, you are ready.

When you offer a frail great-grandparent your solid arm, you prove you are ready.

When you follow the rules that matter and ignore those that don't, you prove you are ready.

When you do the right thing when nobody is watching, you prove that you are ready.

So use the tires. Use the tires and go. Choose your destination, follow your instinct, and disregard all boundaries.

Whatever you do, don't stop.

Day Into Night

Today, I am reminded of what keeps me rooted to this small town I call home.

Off and on for years I have railed against living here, railed against the astonishing familiarity so many people have with my life, railed against the proximity of people I wished to escape, and railed--ferociously--against the numbing sameness of a small town.

But today . . .

Today, someone I've known nearly all of my 39 years, someone my parents and aunts and uncles grew up with, took her own life. It had become a tragic life, punctuated by pain and sorrow none should feel--a life so sad, so broken, that she couldn't find her way back out to peace.

She tried. She clung to her church and to her faith. In the end, though, her despair was overwhelming.

In thinking about her life and death, the web of people around her astounds me. There aren't six degrees of separation. There are no degrees; there is no separation. In this community, with its maddening, smothering, ultimately touching closeness, there is no separation.

No, no separation. Instead . . .

There will be another empty spot in my pew at church.

Her neighbor, who will live the rest of his life with today's images burned in his mind, is one of my father's best friends.

The students in our school will have a new cook.

My parents have lost another life-long friend.

Our rescue squad is made up of her neighbors and friends, her children's classmates, and her coworkers.

All of these are personal to me; for every person who knew her or knew someone who knew her, another list exists.

Our lists overlap.

Our hearts break together.

Our tears fall in sorrowful rhythm.

Our prayers reach out to her tonight.

Together.

Yes, I have railed against much of what makes a small town, but tonight there is no rebellion. Tonight, there is only the comfort that comes from all that makes this small town my home. Because tonight, so many of us are searching for comfort in the familiarity, the proximity, and the sameness. Tonight, we are one, and we are wishing peace for Debby.