Half a Cucumber

I didn’t realize I knew where I was going

Two months ago Jim and I were standing in early light at Port Allen on Kauai, waiting to board a catamaran. The itinerary was to snorkel while the waters were calm, then head up the Napali Coast and, if we were lucky, see some whales. I unlocked my phone and, as if I needed any justification for being there, checked the weather in Minnesota. Minus 20 that morning. The weather where I stood in shorts and sandals, 68.

I checked e-mail, quickly deleting a few. Then I noticed one from the Minnesota Women’s Press. A solicitation, I decided, wondering how I got on that distribution list. We still had 15 minutes before departure, so I opened the e-mail.

The editor was asking permission to publish an essay I had submitted. Essay? What was she talking about? I admit my brain wasn’t fully revved. I had avoided coffee that morning, concerned about how my stomach would handle the motion of the boat for six hours. But I wasn’t so dull that I was sure I hadn’t sent anything to the press. Ever. There must be a mistake.

The editor even attached the article I had submitted, perhaps by way of saying, “You probably thought we never received your submission since we didn’t acknowledge it or decided it wasn’t right for our needs at this time.”

Curious, I opened the document. My submission was dated October 2014, 16 months ago. Gradually, the haze lifted. I had picked up a copy of the magazine once, seen a column called “My Story,” and thought I could share mine. And so, apparently, I had.

I read words I’d written, then forgotten. Yet they were familiar. The essay, “Life after Death,” is a kind of overview of the memoir I’m working on. I was surprised, more than anything, to read that even a year and half ago I had a sense of what I was doing, where I was going. (Or, that I am just as confused today as I was back then.)

As I muddle my way toward a structure that will hold these events and reflections, I feel reassured that I have some clarity about what I’m doing. Which was just the assurance I needed yesterday when I opened the freezer to pull out the fruit to make a smoothie and found, under the bag of strawberries, half a cucumber.

You can read the essay from the April issue of The Minnesota Women’s Press here.

Work as Prayer

Finding the sacred in what we do

I am 62, an age when the word “retirement” comes up frequently in conversation.

“I can’t wait to retire in June,” Jim says, but will.

“I doubt I’ll ever retire,” a woman laments, having never quite recovered from accumulated debt.

“I can’t believe how busy I am since I retired,” another Jim says who has devoted much of his time to mastering the cello.

“I worry I will spend all of my time on Facebook,” a friend who will retire later this year confesses.

For me, the word “retirement” doesn’t quite fit. I’m no longer an employee or independent contractor. Yet, by my calculations, I spend more than 25 hours a week in my home office. “Working,” I tell myself and others, to give “writing” some heft and credibility. We writers are an insecure bunch at heart and will do what we need to to elevate our craft—which we labor over with few if any guarantees—to a legitimate pursuit.

Near the end of the Ash Wednesday service last week, my mental gears were already shifting. Which route should I take to get to St. Louis Park, where I planned to visit my mother-in-law and then spend the evening with the grandkids? Should I have picked up Valentine’s Day cards? Did I remember my slippers? If 2-year-old Charlie looks at my forehead funny because of the dark smudge, should I tell him Grandma forgot to wash her face?

The words from the final prayer of the service broke through my wanderings: “. . . work as prayer . . .” Huh. The confession, the psalm, the sermon had all held me briefly with their power, but “work as prayer” wouldn’t let me go.

During my drive across town I turned the phrase round and round in my mouth and in my head until “work as prayer” became its own petition. May my work be a sacred conversation. May my writing reflect the longings of the heart. May all that I do be a sign of thanksgiving, forgiveness, and love.

Some of us still work. Some of us are glad we don’t. Still others have found different pursuits to enrich our lives. Imagine that whatever we occupy our time with we call prayer. How would it change the nature of what we do? How would it change us?

Writer-friend Nancy J. Nordenson talks about work in her elegant book Finding Livelihood. “Like Studs Terkel’s workers,” she writes, “I am on a search for daily meaning as well as for daily bread . . . I want to cast my net on the side of astonishment . . . I want to find God at work in me and through me.” (p. 4)

Nordenson’s wisdom on the subject of livelihood has drawn me closer to understanding work as prayer. Work as provision and work for the sheer delight of it. Maybe “astonishment” is the word I seek. Maybe it’s the and that retirement allows.

I vote we lose the word “retirement” because it no longer applies. People of a certain age are doing anything and everything but our parents’ version of retiring. They are helping their children. They are reading more. They are sharing what they know with others. They are pursuing hobbies, seriously or not. They may be employed part-time in a no-stress job and loving it. Perhaps, after all these years, they are finding their heart’s passion. Or they’re enjoying the legacy they built during a long career and mentoring others to do the same. Each is a prayer of thanksgiving and gratitude. A prayer that whatever we do, whenever we do it, our “work” is done with a fullness we may never have believed possible.

The Narrow Eye of Dawn

I am in my office this sixth day of a new year, shades open, houses and trees visible outside my bank of windows. The clock reads “8:25.” This time of year I am used to starting my days in the dark walking Indie. I make little effort to see much, since there is little to see. I am also used to night fading to a dull neutral and calling it day.

Then, I look up and see a small fire through the bare branches. As if an artist dipped her brush in copper pigment and placed it on a blank canvas, letting the paint form a pool of color before moving the brush in a single broad stroke to the right. I keep watching. “And God separated the light from the darkness. God called the light Day, and the darkness he called Night.” The stroke of color intensifies. Now I see a brilliant band of light: the narrow eye of dawn.

Even a quiet dawn is a beginning. This is when it happens. This is when I think of a loved one. This is when I resolve to be a better person. This is when an insight comes to my dull brain, sparking new energy. Even as gray, dawn is noticeable. Even as a thin streak that is gone as quickly as it appeared, dawn brings more light.

Unravelling All Around

The terror, and necessity, of starting over

In the movie “Dances with Wolves” Kevin Costner plays Lt. Dunbar, sent to a remote fort in the midst of Indian country. On his way there, he and his driver Timmons come upon the skeletal remains of a settler killed by an arrow. Timmons, perpetually coarse, can’t help himself. “Someone back East is saying, ‘Why don’t he write?’ ”

I have asked myself that same question the last few months regarding my blog. Why don’t I write? What is stopping me? How do I explain the silence? I can’t point to an overly busy schedule, though I am spending more time with grandkids and loving it. I can’t blame it on the weather, even though I’ve lived in Minnesota more than 30 years and should be good at making that the excuse.

Sometimes we need silence. In the world, in our lives, in our hearts. A quiet place where the noises are muted and we can be still and listen.

Last night I was reading about murmurations, the phenomenon where massive numbers (think thousands) of birds in migration pattern the sky with unusual shape shiftings as they bend and turn in synchronicity toward their destination. Besides the roar they reportedly make, so many throated creatures clamoring together, they are continually changing while staying essentially the same. And who isn’t pondering the unravelling in Paris and Beirut, Mali and San Bernardino, events that make me wonder if the world itself isn’t coming undone.

I thought I was close to finishing a revision, even announcing as much to some and daring to think beyond. In a moment of quiet, brought on as much by a sudden lack of confidence as by the world’s horrors, I heard a voice, one that had been trying for some time to offer me a different structure, a better way in. Finally I listened. As if I needed fifty thousand winged creatures moving across the sky or bullets tearing flesh and air to get my attention. I finally listened to the persistent voice. “And what about you, Lenore? When are you going to step forward and speak?”

Maybe this is what unravelling yields. Out of the chaos we begin to assemble the pieces in their right order. We resolve that what we believe, who we love, the words we choose, are more important than ever. That is what we have to lean on.

It is a terrifying thing to start over. To take a manuscript I’ve labored on for two years and see it again as different colored threads, not a nearly finished garment. It has left me, temporarily, at a loss for words. Unravelling the strands of narrative, forcing open scenes, reimagining the chronology has forced me to ask, Is this who I am? Is this what I am trying to say? Is this what I believe?

If to any of these questions the answer is no, then we aren’t ready to dare something different.

The Adventist

It’s embarrassing, really, that she has posted nothing in almost two months. She sits at her desk in her office, inches from me, every day, and claims to be writing. You gotta wonder. It doesn’t much matter to me, as long as I get walked, fed, petted, and told I’m a good boy (which I totally deserve) at least three times a day. The space heater inches from my nose, a few treats are nice touches.

She came home from church talking about Advent, like I don’t know the waiting drill. Excuse me, but I recently “survived” Thanksgiving. Even though I was trembling outside while they bellied up to the table, plates heaping, then was physically blocked from getting anywhere near the kitchen—that mega mecca of mouth-watering morsels—then had a token piece of meat thrown out “to the dogs.” A phrase I like almost as much as “it’s a dog’s life.” You take what you get, I guess.

I’m the ace of waiting—patiently, expectantly, eyes fixed on the prize (or the hand that might deliver the prize), nose twitching, acting half-bored all casual like while my eyes are lasers. For me Advent is no four-week period. I wait in hope all year. Call me an Every Day Adventist, the high priest, the grand poo-bah of hope.

I smell meatballs. Gotta go.

Happy Endings

Life is a lemon; make lemonade

I had just left the Hopkins Center for the Arts, where the PenPals author lecture series kicked off its 19th season with Judy Blume. Blume was the first writer of teen novels to tackle racism, divorce, bullying, menstruation, and teen sex—topics that would likely not have been discussed in the 1970s between parents and their children.

While waiting at a stoplight, I glanced at the e-mails that had come in while I was at the event. At the top, the first to catch my eye, was a note from a woman I’ve worked with on and off over the years. In the subject line: “Big health news.” The first sentence slapped me with the news: her husband was just diagnosed with a brain tumor.

There it was again. That moment when the world tilts off its axis and life will never be the same. My first instinct was to put my hands up to stop this awful pain from seizing my heart. I didn’t want to go back to that terrifying place, where all the rules have suddenly changed and the future is unimaginable.

“I like to give my readers a happy ending,” Blume said. As I walked to my car, her words rocked through me. Yes, fiction addresses real issues, real situations. But nonfiction demands a deeper, direct truth-telling that yields a more modulated outcome.

A few e-mails down was one from CaringBride, indicating a new journal entry. A writer friend’s husband had a massive stroke in 2010. Their daughter posted this entry on osteoporosis, a disease that her father had inherited but that inactivity following his stroke had contributed more to through bone loss and abnormally low Vitamin D levels. A setback that sunlight, massive doses of vitamins, and an annual Reclast infusion would counter.

When I saw a third e-mail, also from CaringBridge, I almost deleted it. What now? I thought. Would I be able to concentrate on driving with all this “health news” breaking in? But once a story is underway, I need to know what happens. I opened it. Thankfully, it was a celebratory report from a friend who has lived with metastatic breast cancer for almost 7 years and just learned she is in complete remission.

All of this—brain tumor, bone disease on the heels of a stroke, a future once unimagined—in an eternal minute. My heart had just run a sprint, my mind, a marathon, as life and death and everything in between flashed before me.

Once I got onto the highway, I sped home. I wanted to leave the Hopkins of happy endings, hurry past Fairview Hospital-Southdale, shake off the prescient words a father offered the night before at a fundraiser for children’s cancer research and treatment. “Tomorrow, another family will sit across from an oncologist and learn that their child has cancer.” Where are the happy endings of Blume’s fiction? Where are the happy endings we write for our ourselves and those we love, regardless what lands in our inbox?

I wore a suit to the fundraiser that I salvaged from Chris’s step-grandmother’s closet after she died some years ago. I love the polish of its midnight blue silk, more that it was free. But my most beloved item from Big Al, as she was known because she was just shy of 5 feet, is a small, worn needlepoint pillow on which she stitched this proverb: “LIFE IS A LEMON. MAKE LEMONADE.” Words—simple as they are—that offer a more honest telling, a more bearable ending.

There Is Only One Story

I grew up in LaGrange, a near west suburb of Chicago. Until I left home for college, then returned for a year after graduate school before moving to the near north side, my bedroom was the same: a dormer the shape of a house a child might draw, with peaked ceiling and two small windows like eyes facing east. The 10- x 10-foot square offered two options for where a single bed would fit, headboard against the north wall, or headboard against the west.

As I settled my body from play or work, I was hypnotized by the headlights from Ogden Avenue that strobed the south wall. They were my lullaby, my bedtime story, my last memory before sleep. I wondered where these cars and trucks were going into the night. I counted the seconds between flashes, holding my breath in-between. I listened for the crescendo and fading of vehicles as they passed. I blinked against the staccato of light that interrupted my sleep, yet I’m not sure it wasn’t what finally helped me fall asleep.

The street sign on the corner by my house read “Ogden Ave.,” named after Chicago’s first mayor, William Butler Ogden. The 1909 plan for the city recommended a network of diagonal streets extending out like spokes, but only Ogden Avenue was completed, following the route of the Southwestern Plank Road. While it is known as Ogden Avenue locally, if you drive its steady line west from Berwyn to Aurora, the Mississippi River, and beyond, you see signs for US 34.

If you turn left from Malden and continue west, 1,122 miles later brings you to the Trail Ridge Road in Rocky Mountain National Park, elevation 12,183 feet, making it the highest paved through highway in the U.S. The west terminus for US 34 is in Granby, Colorado, at US 40. Its eastern origin, in Berwyn, Illinois, connects to historic US 66.

All those years in my small bedroom, feeling my own smallness, I lay along this vast connector and vital crossroad. The strobe of headlights on the wall played the single cinematic history of human experience again and again. Here was a region where people came, settled, and built; a city people passed through on their way to greater adventure and opportunity; a land where war gave way to prosperity, then depression, recovery, and waves of immigrants; where people in search of something else mostly found themselves; a place where every minute of every day someone turns onto US 34 or any highway or byway, not knowing when their journey will end.


The Angel in My House

I haven’t written in a while, I know, but I’ve been busy. Busy committing murder.

Before you call 911, let me explain. I have come to the last section of the memoir I’ve been working on. Each preceding section opens with a revisiting of Chris’s death. I had played this idea out five times and thought I had quite picked it clean. Would there be any meat left if I went back to the scene once more?

In a writing “moment” (i.e., a long stretch when little writing occurs and mostly I stare out the window and watch my neighbor mow), it came to me. Thank goodness for the serendipitous occurrence! Another death scene needed to be talked about, and this time it was a death I had to orchestrate.

I’m talking about silence. The silence that I grew up believing was a sign of obedience and respect. The silence I practiced when I became an editor of other people’s writing, not a writer myself. The silence I lived into in some of the roles I assumed as an adult. The silence I wore in relationships.

Flash back to 1931, when Virginia Woolf gave a speech on professions for women to the National Society for Women’s Service. In it she spoke of the “angel in the house” (a phrase borrowed from a poem that celebrates domestic bliss). This angel represented “the selfless, sacrificial woman in the 19th century.” Woolf described her angel:

“She was intensely sympathetic. She was immensely charming. She was utterly unselfish. She excelled in the difficult arts of family life. She sacrificed herself daily. If there was chicken, she took the leg; if there was a draught, she sat in it–in short she was so constituted that she never had a mind or a wish of her own, but preferred to sympathize always with the minds and wishes of others. Above all, she was pure.”

A Victorian sensibility? Perhaps, but one that persisted well into the 20th century, when Betty Friedan renamed it the feminine mystique. Woolf could have been describing my mother, or most women of her generation.

Fast forward to 2015. The angel in my house hovers over me as I write. My angel is exceedingly polite and soft-spoken, not wanting to interrupt the more important conversations around her. My angel gently whispers, “Are you sure you have anything worth saying?” Her seductive voice calls me to things large and small, none important, really, but there just the same. Any protests I might offer my angel flicks away like a mosquito.

The angel in my house is silence. I need to kill the silence that has convinced me that speaking doesn’t matter. It does. It matters immensely, not because I have insights any more profound than the rest of the world, but because if I speak, then I am. Killing the angel is about claiming my place in the world, whatever that looks like.