I’m feeling a bit out of sorts but promise to be back Monday.
Wishing you well…
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My dear friend Bridget came home yesterday, after a two week vacation in California. As we are movie buddies, hitting the Academy Theater together about every other week, I was itching to go. Luckily, there was something we wanted to see, after a very unfortunate dry spell of lack-luster summer movies.
Since her house is on the way to the theater, I always drive, and so, I began to follow my usual route. It was an awfully hot day for Portlanders, 101 degrees, which I think changed the physics of the neighborhood somehow, or maybe it was just the music. I was playing a beautiful Andrew Bird song called Yawny at the Apocalypse, and felt, well, different, dreamy. Darkness was coming on quickly, yet the notes of the song seemed to prolong those last minutes of twilight, and I was acutely aware of all that was happening around me.
The handsome grey-haired man riding his bicycle, back light blinking to the beat of my heart. The sound of the Mini passing the myriad parked cars. The old man, back bent, eager to keep pace with his little dog. More cyclists riding silently, almost floating down 52nd. The world was slow and hot – the impending darkness bringing no relief from the fiery day. I arrived at Bridget’s and realized that the strange light from the heat made everything appear slightly blurred and soft – beautiful. It was idyllic and magical and lovely. We drove on, enjoying each other’s company after our long absence, eager to sit in a cool theater and enter another world.
The world we entered, that of The Fall, was a perfect match for the evening. It was an epic and surreal tale of how broken people become whole again – through story telling, friendship, and ultimately love. The cinematography was exquisitely beautiful – vibrant colors and intimate camera angles, painting a portrait that will reside in me for a long, long time. The cherry on top of a perfectly hot day.
I was lying on the sofa, reading, when I glanced up at the light. Ugh, it’s got dead bugs in it, I thought rather loudly to myself. As I stared at their little dead bodies, I lamented the sometimes insidious nature of insects, and how they often create work for me. Like how, now that I’ve noticed them, I’ll have to go through the hassle of getting the step ladder, carefully removing the fixture, and cleaning it all up – definitely not on the top ten list of cherished activities (though what is? hmmm…).
Then, as I continued gazing at the light, I wondered, how do the little critters get in there anyway? Though you can barely see them in the photo, they only appear to be specks, they seem too large to have crawled in through a hole. Yet, there they are.
This got me thinking some more about how tiny, often imperceptible, holes in my being act as an entry point on a spiritual and emotional level. I thought about people and events that I don’t like, and how little bits of them squeeze their way through a perforation in my shell and infest my mind with angry and unkind thoughts. I really hate it when that happens, especially when I know how much lovelier life is when I’m not tumbling down to the lower depths.
Then, as grace would have it, I also thought about those same holes, and how the most wonderful and generous gifts enter through them: a smile when I least expect it, a kind word, the light in the hallway, the sight of my husband, a million different instances that spread like the light of dawn in my heart.
Suddenly I felt tears prick at my eyes, and I looked at the bugs again but this time with gratitude. Thank you for bringing this bit of grace into my life.
Late Monday night, as I stepped out of the cab that brought us home from the airport, I was so very happy. Hello Portland, hello street, hello house!
I lugged my heavy suitcase (though not as heavy as Gregory’s :) ) up the front steps and openened the door to be greeted by little Paris peeking out of the shadows. Milo was meowing up a storm by the back door and was promptly let in. The house was stuffy, so I opened the windows to bring in the air that is home. It felt so good, for as much as I enjoy traveling, I enjoy coming home even more.
I love rummaging through the giant pile of mail left on the dining room table, wandering around admiring the rooms we’ve created together, sitting quietly on the sofa and listening to the house creak, and best of all, cuddling up with my sweet hubby in our bed, before drifting off to sleep.
Dorothy, there really is no place like home…
Where in your life can you invest in yourself and in your dreams? Another great question from Andrea at Superhero Journal.
I tried for a lot of years to find a job that made me happy – sales person, baker, home repair specialist, and finally teacher. By far, I invested the majority of my time and money into teaching. Getting certified in Colorado, re-certified in Oregon, countless job applications and rejections, many, many rinky-dink almost teaching jobs, and finally, a couple of honest-to-goodness, teaching jobs. Halleluia! I am a TEACHER. Then three things happened that convinced me otherwise.
One. I was at a bookstore with a friend, giving the low-down on some novels that I had read. She said, “You know, you’re so good at looking at the nitty-gritty in books. You should write one.” “What? What would I write about? I’m a teacher.” End of conversation, but only the beginning of me thinking about it.
Two. I met a writer at a party. I told him that I taught a writing class, and he asked me what I wrote. “Um, nothing. I’m a teacher.” “Well, I think you should write.” “But we’ve only just met.” “It doesn’t matter. I can tell.” Story ideas started to bubble to the surface at this point, and I cautiously wrote them down, wondering, “What am I doing?”
Three. While there were many aspects of teaching I liked, there were more that I didn’t. I didn’t enjoy feeling like I had to use a certain book or assignment to fit in with others. I didn’t like grading for hours on end. I didn’t like driving to school every day. And finally, I didn’t like that I would spend much time and effort workshopping with students on drafts to have nothing happen. So, after reading what what felt like the millionth final paper on which the student not only ignored all of my helpful advice on reorganization, but failed to even correct spelling errors, I broke down. I wondered how many more papers like this I could grade before I killed someone, or went crazy, or started to believe that it is proper to write anyways or there house is blue, or I ran threw the field.
So, I quit. Just when I was really building a student following at the college, was well liked by the staff and my colleagues, and actually making money. Because, dear readers, I have never made much money. Nope, not me. But I knew it was silly to value it over my happiness.
I am delighted to say that I invested in myself and my dreams and came out on top. I followed my gut instead of what my head was telling me I ought to do or think or believe and, drum roll, I have never been happier. Gregory will attest to that (he’s also the source of the gorgeous rose in the photo). I’m no longer sullen about my commute, or moaning about reading garbage, or the fact that I’ve got a jerk in my class. I enjoy my days, enjoy spending time in my head, and pecking away at the keyboard whenever the muse strikes. It is really quite wonderful.
Now, I have a novel and one rejection under my belt. I’ve started my second book, and have the ideas for two more brewing in my busy little brain. It doesn’t get much better.
p.s.
I do believe, however, that the money is on its way. I know in my heart that my book is good and special and worthy of publication. Why? Because I looked at the nitty-gritty of it the whole way through. I also loved it, coddled it, and even hollered at it when it wasn’t on track. As I’ve said before, we Sohns aren’t afraid to raise our voices.
