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.