I’m guest-posting over at Story Sessions today! We’re sharing memories this month.
“Do it again, Ut-zanne! Do it again!” Julie giggled as she toddled her tiny body in front of me again. Her face was flushed. Her hairline glistened, and one ringlet stuck to her cheek while the others swarmed her head like bees around a busy hive. Her hands clapped around anything that could steady her and immediately released it, lest it keep her from getting to where she was going.
She was radiant and irresistible.
So I answered her outstretched arms by hugging her against my knees. She sat on my feet. She could not stop laughing, so we both just laughed for a minute. Once she was secure and comfortable, I rocked back and forth a couple of times. We had a song:
“Rocky the Rocking Horse
Was quite a remarkable force.
He’d run fast ahead…”
Then we rocked all the way back.
“…And roll back instead.”
I held her sides as I flipped her over and placed her feet on the ground by my head as we both squealed the last line –
“But did he have fun? Of course!”
Then she ran back around me as fast as her little legs could go.
“Do it again, Ut-zanne!”
And I would. This could go on for an hour. Whoever says that almost-two-year-olds don’t have long attention spans clearly has not been exposed to the wonders of Rocky the Rocking Horse.
Julie was usually the last one to leave the daycare where I worked when I was in college, so we often had long periods of one-on-one time. We played. We danced. We made up songs. On afternoons that had been particularly chaotic, we went on treasure hunts (i.e., “find the toy that’s out of place and put it where it belongs”). Her mom always had a story for me when she arrived about Julie singing our songs to her stuffed animals or telling her that something was “we-mock-a-buh.”
I love Julie. I love the freedom with which she danced. I love the utter abandon of her sweet voice belting out songs as loud as she could. I love that her favorite word as a toddler was “remarkable,” and that she could use it correctly in a sentence. I love that she listened and learned and voiced her opinions.
I love that she knew that she was a remarkable force.
This month might be slow (-er than usual) around here. I have a couple of places where I’m guest posting, and I will still do a couple of link-ups. Or I will procrastinate and end up writing here more often. Whatever happens, the reason is that I am participating in Camp NaNoWriMo. I have a goal of 75,000 words for the month on an old-but-new-again project called What Not to Say. It’s a commentary on the things that folks, trying to be helpful, say to single people that actually aren’t that helpful at all. It has its own blog space, because eventually I want it to become a community project, as my experience as a single person, vast and wondrous as it may be, is still just one person’s experience, and as self-important as I am, I don’t really know how to market what would essentially be a manual on how to get along with me.
So I’m spending a lot of time that I’m in front of a computer typing furiously toward 75,000 words, and I’m spending the time I’m not in front of a computer scribbling furiously in this lovely journal:
(My journal, my self)
I started this project years ago. I stopped because it made me angry. All. The. Time. I couldn’t let go of the anger that these memories were stirring up in me. And it’s good to vent – to get emotion out so that it doesn’t consume you. But when you vent (and vent…and vent…), and you are still angry, it’s not healthy.
So I stopped.
I was scared mid-February when I started getting the urge to pick it up again. I didn’t want to go back to that place. I especially didn’t want to go back to that place during the end of the school year, because that tends to be an annoying season to me anyway (see last post), and I didn’t want to fuel the fire.
Then it wouldn’t let me sleep. I would wake up with words, and I would not be able to fight them. At first, there were snippets that I could save as notes on my phone. Now, they’re whole chunks of text that would take forever to type out on Margaux’s touch screen, so I get up and type or scribble in the middle of the night. This project has become my life again.
But now it’s different. I’m different.
Jennifer Upton said, “You can’t see beauty if you’re bitter,” and it clicked. I was anxious about pursuing beauty this year, but it has prepared me for writing something that has been a source of hurt to me. It has prepared me to reframe my experiences – to say the true things while still acknowledging loving intent and leaving us a place to go from here.
So if you don’t see me a lot this month, that’s where I’ll be. Clicking.
Can I be awful for a minute? I mean, just tacky and graceless and snotty?
Good. Because I’m gonna.
I tell my students that, contrary to popular belief, there is such a thing as a stupid question. I then go on to explain that any question that someone has not only already answered but also answered in writing falls under this category.
Because don’t be lazy. Also, try to listen.
As the semester winds down, though, I want to add a couple of things to this category.
1. Any question to which you could easily find the answer yourself is a dumb question. Especially if you look at me, see that I’m busy doing something, and decide to interrupt and ask me anyway. For example, don’t ask me what time it is. That is my pet peeve question. I cannot think of a situation where I can be trusted to answer this question politely. You can look at your phone just as easily as I can. Also, there’s probably a clock on the wall. Just turn your head.
You will get a look from me. I’m not sure I can help it. It might be involuntary. It might look something like this:
(Actually, that’s more my “stop being funny – I’m trying to look angry here!” look)
It will be the look that says, “Look how accessible this information is to you without any assistance from me whatsoever. Don’t you feel foolish?” I will give you a look, then I will slowly and deliberately turn my head to look at the clock or to look at the phone IN YOUR HAND while I put down what I’m doing and pick up my own phone. Then I will sigh. Then, finally, I will answer. This process will take at least five times longer than it would have taken you to figure it out yourself.
Overreaction? Maybe. Tacky? Sure. But not nearly as much as what I’m thinking about you in my head.
Because don’t be lazy.
2. Any question that forces me into small talk.
This is something that not many people know about me. I like greeting people. I like making eye contact, saying, “hello,” and wishing them a good day as they go off to class. I like doing my part to help set the tone for a pleasant day. I also enjoy welcoming the residents home and asking how their day went. It’s pretty much my favorite part of my day job.
You know what’s not my favorite?
Small talk.
When I say, “Good morning,” I mean it. When I ask how someone’s day is, I really want to know. It’s fine if they only want to mutter “okay” as they shuffle past. That’s their prerogative. But if they want to have a real conversation, I’m for it.
What I am not for is answering mindless questions about what I think of the weather 4,000 times a day. If you ever encounter anyone behind a desk, do us all a favor. Don’t talk about the weather. Be the one fantastic person in our day who doesn’t make us have that terribly boring “conversation.”
I mean, I will answer it. It’s not your fault that everyone in the history of the building has asked the same question. I will be nice about it. Usually. Unless it’s hot. Then I have feelings, and you will get to hear them, because hey – you asked. But if your goal is to be nice, you’ve failed.
3. Any question that isn’t a real question but is designed to “teach” me something through manipulation and general asshattery (i.e., condescension disguised as pleasantry).
“How are you today?”
“I’m okay. How are you?”
“Just okay? Why not GREAT?!”
“Why don’t you smile more often?”
“Good morning!”
“How are you today?”
“I’m good.”
“Are you sure? You don’t look it.”
You clearly don’t know me very well, so let me explain some things.
1. I have an MA in Communication. I know how to communicate, and I do it just fine. I do not need you to teach me how to act, and it’s rude of you to try to do so.
2. I am 39 years old. If you have ever encountered a grown ass woman before, you should know how to interact with one (hint – the conversations above? Not the way to go.).
3. I’m particular. I have reasonable expectations, but it takes a lot to impress me. And to get the reaction you are wanting, you have to impress me, not just meet the general expectation.
4. I am analytical. I am precise and honest. If I’m not “great,” I don’t say that I am. And as I am at work and NOT on a beach sipping an umbrella drink handed to me by a delightful cabana boy (who can smile or not, just as long as he keeps the drinks coming), I’m probably not going to be “great” when you see me. I’m okay. I like my job reasonably well, I’m glad to have it, and I choose to be here. But it’s still a job, not happy fun time.
People have different personalities. We aren’t all Polyannas. And thank God for that. We wouldn’t be able to breathe from all the syrup flying through the air.
I smile, but it’s usually pretty subdued, particularly compared to the bubbly stereotype you seem to want me to be. And it’s going to stay subdued until I have something to get bubbly about.
Or unless my boss requires it, but I don’t see that happening.
But if you are a random person trying to tell me how to act at MY desk in MY building? That will bring out the anti-bubbly. That’s a good way to get me to go from “okay” to “pissed off” in no time.
March is my favorite month. October is a close second, but it cannot compare to March, because March is my birth month! The thing I was into the most was turning 39. I received both yoga pants and wine as gifts, and I appreciated them, so clearly I am right on schedule with fulfilling the stereotype.
Winter persisted into the first week of the month and royally screwed up my class schedule, but I can’t even be mad about it. It turned Spring Break into two weeks for me at the school where I teach, since I’m only there on Mondays.
Story Sessions had its first Story Feast (in-person meeting of local peeps), and ours was a small feast, but Marvia and I had fun hanging out at La Madeleine.
I got to spend a little time with Mom and Dad over break. Mom had her first cataract surgery, so I went along to keep Dad company while he waited.
I took care of my friends’ dogs while they were out of town for about half a week. While I was there, I had an uncomfortable realization. One of the dogs was dumb and needy but the sweetest dog in the world, and the other was smart and funny but also kind of an asshole. I was dog-sitting every guy I’ve ever dated or liked.
Oh, and I got an iPhone. This will be the first phone with a data plan I have had (I know, welcome to the 21st century, and I can stop churning my own butter now). I haven’t activated it yet, but I do have active plans to become addicted to Instagram.
Those are the highlights. Here’s what was playing in the background.
To write:
I have Fishbowl mapped out. I put the chapters in order. I know how it’s going to end, and I know how I’m going to get there. This is huge.
I have an idea that’s been brewing a while concerning the things people say to single people (and specifically, what I could stand for them NOT to say. . . just ever again). So April, I’m going to write it out. I’m going to bleed 2,500 words a day to see if I have enough words to start another project. This could easily become a community project in the future, but for now, I’m going to see what I have to say about it.
My two favorite posts I wrote this month:
– My link-up piece for The Girls We Once Were, called Renaissance Girl.
– Stephen King’s 11/22/63. Whose idea was it to have an 800+ page book for book club? Oh, right. Mine. Well, I share the blame. I guess we all chose it. It’s a quick read, though, for 800 pages. Because Stephen King.
Goodreads tells me that I am 11 books behind schedule on my reading challenge (100 books) for the year. I would exclaim, “800 pages!” but that first book I read this year was really just a transcript of a speech, so I’m going to call it even. I am trying to remember that I catch up in the summer and not let Goodreads psych me out. And maybe I could also remember that the world won’t end if I only read 90 books this year.
Some gorgeous things were written on the Internet this month. These are my favorites:
The Internet has also been a tough place to be this month. Lord, have mercy.
To watch:
Three words –
House.
Of.
Cards.
I watched both seasons in three days. I couldn’t look away.
I am avoiding Psych and Scandal spoilers. I’ll watch them after the semester’s over, when I can devote the appropriate measure of time to them. I think I’m actually going to start Psych over and watch from the first season. That will give this season time to come out on DVD so that I can have it for my very own. I love that show.
I finally saw Catching Fire. I liked it just as much as I liked the first one. As much as I like the story, I feel that I should have more to say about it, but no.
I had a nice time this weekend re-watching one of my favorite movies – Under the Tuscan Sun – and drinking wine and eating my weight in pasta.
But my favorite thing that I saw this month? Veronica Mars, of course. These were the highlights for me (and I don’t think any of them are spoilery):
– Veronica is back with the old school pop culture references – “You weren’t planning on carrying me through the airport, were you?”
– “You should only wear this.” Both times.
– Logan leaning against the car. Rewind and pause.
– Dax Shepard cameo, for the win.
– Mac’s hair. If I could pull off short hair at all, this is the haircut I would wear forever.
There were so many other things I loved about it, but any time you could spend reading about them would be better spent watching it.
To hear:
The Be Course has me dancing as a spiritual practice and also eating very fattening things so that my spiritual practice needs to take on some movement lest I gain 50 pounds during the class. So music has been mostly house and trip hop. My neighbors don’t even know what to do with me.
To eat:
I have had a lot of baked goods this month (observe the pear tart above). Brownies, cookies, cake. I am in a constant state of sugar high. This has to stop. Of course, it’s chocolate chip cookie week in our e-course, and I’m a very good student. . .
During the dog-sitting/House-of-Cards-watching days, I developed an unholy affinity for peanut butter puff cereal. I enjoy both the Mother’s and the EnviroKidz (yes, with a z) versions of this treat. As with all sugar-laced cereals, I try to mix it with plain Cheerios or plain puffed corn or wheat, but I have had at least one bowl a day for the last half of the month.
On Saturday, I took the marinara that was left over from supper club and mixed it with browned sausage. I shaved a liberal dose of Parmesan over the top and put it on pasta. So simple, yet so perfect when paired with birthday wine.
“I think it is safe to say that while the South is hardly Christ-centered, it is most certainly Christ-haunted.”
“People without hope not only don’t write novels, but what is more to the point, they don’t read them.”
“I don’t deserve any credit for turning the other cheek as my tongue is always in it.”
“Everywhere I go I’m asked if I think the university stifles writers. My opinion is that they don’t stifle enough of them. There’s many a best-seller that could have been prevented by a good teacher.”
“Fiction is about everything human and we are made out of dust, and if you scorn getting yourself dusty, then you shouldn’t try to write fiction. It’s not a grand enough job for you.”
“The novelist with Christian concerns will find in modern life distortions which are repugnant to him, and his problem will be to make these appear as distortions to an audience which is used to seeing them as natural; and he may well be forced to take ever more violent means to get his vision across to this hostile audience. When you can assume that your audience holds the same beliefs you do, you can relax a little and use more normal ways of talking to it; when you have to assume that it does not, then you have to make your vision apparent by shock — to the hard of hearing you shout, and for the almost blind you draw large and startling figures.”
So you know how I wanted to have a picture of myself every month? How that was a thing I said I’d do?
Well, I have zero pictures of me from this month. So instead, you get this picture of a brief moment in my bathroom.
I’m in the room, so it totally counts. I think you can see the shadow of my hand if you look closely enough.
Or, hey, speaking of my hands, which are probably my favorite part of my body (not as default – I have seriously cute hands and feet. But feet pictures are coming next month. Springtime feet.), here is my hand this morning as it clutches my coffee.
It’s a little scraggly, because I did dishes last night and didn’t moisturize properly. I always forget to do that – to take care of myself as well as taking care of everything else. I’m taking part in the reframing collective with Story Sessions and Brandy Walker’s Be course for Lent. Self-care goes right along with those. I’m learning; I’m just doing it slowly.
Here are a few images from our reframing – our finding the extraordinary in the everyday –
I love this little pot on my windowsill. It knows that spring is right outside the window. It is empty now, but soon, it will hold new life.
Chocolate batter for birthday brownies. I love this rich, deep color. And I wish you could smell it, because I totally added rum.
The fence around my apartment building has tree limbs breaking through. A lot of trees were cut down last year to make room for the new apartments next door. But these ones got to stay, and they’re claiming their place.
There will probably be more of this next month…
You know what? I’m going to stop talking about next month. I’m going to stop planning the way that beauty comes. It always changes and surprises me anyway. So I’m going to let it.
Yesterday, I turned 39. And like the good 39-year-old I am, I spent the entire day at home in yoga pants and drinking coffee and cocktails (only because I had no wine in the house to complete the stereotype). I also spent the entire day listening to this song, courtesy of a friend from high school (thanks, Carolyn!) who posted it on my Facebook page:
It was sweet of my first fandom to serenade me. Hello there, fellas. Happy birthday to me indeed.
When I sang it, though, it kept morphing into New Edition’s cover of Earth Angel.
Acceptable.
My Facebook flist is fantastic. I spent a lot of time basking in their overwhelming well-wishing. If you had told me twenty years ago that I would ever get this excited over something on a computer screen, I would not have believed you. It made my day.
Then I had to go buy a pear tart. HAD to.
The picture is fuzzy because my hand was shaking with excitement (or perhaps an even higher dose of caffeine than usual).
I did some editing. I edited a chapter of Fishbowl. Then I got stuck on a phrase and had to put it aside. This gave me time to map out my chapters in the order I want them to appear in the finished manuscript. So that’s what I did. One thing led to another.
AND NOW I HAVE THE WHOLE BOOK OUTLINED.
I know how it ends. And more importantly, I know how I’m getting there.
If you are not jumping up and down right now in celebration of me, you clearly didn’t read it right. Go back. Read it again. I’ll wait.
Do you feel it? Do you get my ecstasy?
(If you don’t, you should totally lie to me and just nod.)
Last night, I hung out at Tammy and Matt’s. We had pizza (goat cheese pesto pizza from TJ’s – FAVORITE) and soda and made super-rich brownies:
“We should add chocolate chips to it.”
“Okay!”
“And some rum.”
“Bring it.”
I like the way my sister thinks.
Then we watched Saving Mr. Banks. Such a good movie. See it if you haven’t. It’s already available on Amazon Prime.
This morning, I returned to work, and Jillian made this sign to prolong the merriment.
This week’s prompt for our writing community at Andilit is to write out ten pieces of advice that I would give myself as a writer.
I do love a good list. I’m writing this to me, but maybe you’ll see something that applies to you, too. Disclaimer: if you are looking for advice from a writer who has actually published something…then you should go read that (Anne Lamott’s Bird by Bird or Stephen King’s On Writing are my top recommendations), because brilliant as I may be, I’m not there yet.
1. Get it together!
My schedule is crazy, so if I don’t plan, it doesn’t matter how many story ideas or “I should write a blog post about that” I have. If I don’t plan, writing doesn’t happen. Schedule writing time, but don’t stop there. Schedule specific blog posts by topic and date. Write ahead so that when something comes up on that day, all that is left to do is copy, paste, and click publish. Organize writing time into specific sections for each WIP, self-editing, editing for friends, blogging, and poetry, or, because I know me, I know that I will spend the whole time writing ranty posts that, while fun, will not get that manuscript finished this year.
2. Have different editors for different days.
I need tough criticism. Most days, that’s the kind of critique I want. But some days, when Bob (Fishbowl’s main character) is feeling particularly fragile, I just want to protect and defend him, even when he says stupid things that directly contradict what he said two weeks/chapters ago. So on those days, I need to read feedback from people who love Bob almost as much as I do. There are all sorts of tips out there on the kind of critiques that will make your work better, but I don’t think there’s just one kind that helps. I teach public speaking, so I’ve had to give a lot of feedback, and I know that hard critique doesn’t mean it’s bad – it just means that it could be better. But I also have a mean inner critic and dark seasons, so sometimes I need the outside voices to tell me all the good things so I can remember that I’m not a total hack and that there’s no need to host a Fishbowl bonfire. And because I hope that my book will be read by lots of different people once it’s published, it just makes sense to get feedback from lots of different people before it’s published. I like to think of it as collecting preliminary ratings.
3. Learn the difference between distraction and inspiration.
When I take a writing class that is prompt-intensive with lots of deadlines and designed for people who need help getting started, I get distracted by the socializing and the prompts and my compulsive need to be the best student ever, and I don’t actually write anything toward the projects I already have started. When I participate in NaNoWriMo, I focus and write like the wind. When I watch Friends, I’m just vegging out. When I watch Firefly or Gilmore Girls, I end up pausing it so that I can rewrite some dialogue on a piece that hasn’t been working. I can’t tell anyone else what their distractions or inspirations are, and I imagine that they differ wildly from mine. But I know what distraction and inspiration look like. If it spurns you to create, it’s an inspiration. If it spurns you to nap, it’s a distraction. I’m not saying eliminate the distractions, because sleep (and by association, whatever gets you there) is important, but inspirations should outnumber them. And if any of them leave you no time to write, see #1.
4. Write every day. That means all the days. Is it a day? Then write at some point during it.
Failure to do this is how I end up at the end of the month with little more to show for it than I had at the beginning of the month. Having made the schedule (all things circle back to #1), stick to it. If I skip a day, that’s a day I get nothing done. Obviously. But it also makes it exponentially easier to skip the next day. And the next. And then it’s Friday night, and that’s one more week that I’ve delayed finishing all that I’ve started. That’s one more week that I’ll never get back.
5. Set goals, and tell someone about them.
Since I keep going back to #1, I’ll pause and let you know where the things on the schedule come from. I make goals. The most helpful thing to me about the community Andi facilitates is that every Monday, we set goals for the week. And every Friday, she checks in and asks how those goals are going. She doesn’t let us get away with just making plans. She comes back and says, “So…those things you meant to do. Did you do them?” Have someone who does that for you.
6. Every once in a while, let a polar bear walk through.
Confession: I didn’t watch Lost until it was finished and came out on DVD. I stand by my decision to do so, because it gave me angst, and I would not have survived the week-to-week (not to mention season-to-season) wait. Many things have stuck with me about the show, but this scene is one of my favorites:
I can see the writers sitting around, wondering where to go next with the crazy plot lines on this shows. I imagine that it’s 4:00 in the morning, and nothing new or fresh is coming to any of them. Then one of them says, “What if they were chased by a polar bear?” and because they’re filming in Hawaii, the rest of the writers look at this person like she or he has lost her or his mind. Then, because it is 4:00 in the morning, and losing one’s mind is the normal thing to do at that time, it starts to sound like a good idea. And that’s how polar bears wind up on Lost, sparking dialogue and becoming part of a memorable scene.
I don’t actually know if this episode was written by multiple people, or if so, where the sun was when they wrote it. I just know that sometimes, you have to throw a polar bear into the mix. I mean, it can be a penguin. Or a car crash. Or an unexpected visitor. But don’t be afraid to surprise everyone. Especially yourself.
7. Read all the things.
Read Elmore Leonard to learn how to write dialogue. Read Robert Jordan to learn foreshadowing (specifically, how to act like you’re dropping a plot point and then pick it up four hundred pages later). Read Twilight and Bridges of Madison County to remind yourself that even if you and all the Internet hate it, someone will like it enough to make a damn movie out of it. Read other people’s work, because that’s how you learn. Read other people’s work, because you want others to read your work. I don’t trust writers who don’t read.
8. Don’t be stingy.
If you want people to read and edit your work, return the favor or pay them to do it. It’s rude to ask people to work for free, and editing is W.O.R.K.
9. Speaking of people…have some.
I never stuck to a writing schedule before I joined my online writing communities via Andilit and Story Sessions. I didn’t start my manuscript until I admitted to friends that I wanted to be a writer, and they called me on it by saying, “So…what have you written?” I can make a goal and really mean it at the time, but I will let myself off the hook when something easier with more instant gratification comes up if I’m the only one who knows about it. Knowing that others will ask how it’s going is sometimes the only thing that keeps it going.
10. If you break every rule, don’t dwell. Move on.
I read lists like this, and I am tempted to say, “Oh, there’s all the things I’m doing wrong.” Then I focus on how wrong I’m doing things. I give it a good, long ponder.
All my other distractions put together don’t waste as much time and energy as this does.
Obsessing over doing it wrong is doing it wrong. It’s good to know what trips you up. It’s good to recognize distractions. But self-awareness is the means, not the end. Letting mistakes stop the process is like looking in a mirror, noticing you have jam on your face, and letting it stay there. Wipe it off, and then put the mirror down and go on with your day.
(There are many performances of this piece online. This one lights that third movement on fire, the way it was meant to be.)
“The girls we once were are coming back to us now.” – Brandy Walker
I was a Renaissance girl.
That girl did everything. Even when it was hard. Even when people tried to tell her that she couldn’t.
At holiday, the girl I once was shaped homemade candies and learned how to get them to turn out right. When she was shooed out of the kitchen because her help became a frustration, she went outside, formed a kitchen of her own, and made mud pies.
She learned cross stitch. She made intricate gifts and Christmas ornaments that are still cherished and hung on Mom’s tree every year.
The girl I once was shelled peas and was taught to make jam. She grew up understanding the connection of sustenance to the land She unraveled mysteries of the universe over the pings of Cream Crowder peas in a metal bowl.
She walked out of the backyard and sat down at the piano with bits of dried mud pie still under her fingernails. She heard the beauty of the trills and the thunder of the bass. She began formal training at the age of eight, and she practiced an hour a day, even when she didn’t want to. In early junior high, when she played a simplified snippet of Liszt’s Second Hungarian Rhapsody at recital, the winner of the top performer award told their teacher, “She should have won this.” The comment was reward enough.
The girl I once was worked hard at gymnastics, and although no one who knows me now will believe it, the balance beam was her best event. She took ballet, tap, and jazz dance lessons. For the first time in her life, she had to work twice as hard as everyone else just to be average. She loved it.
She was heavily involved in her church. Every time the door was open, she was there. Everything she could do – youth group, choir, VBS teacher, children’s music camp assistant, handbell choir, sorting clothes and food for the mission – she did. Her yes was always yes, and her no was rare.
In high school, the girl I once was was told that she couldn’t do everything – that she had to eliminate some things. So she did. She crossed off athletics and Future Farmers of America. Everything else – she did, and she did it well. National Honors Society, the speech and drama team, Texas Association of Future Educators, marching band, flag corp, jazz pianist for stage band, concert band, Future Homemakers of America, UIL, the gifted and talented program, and probably a few others that I have forgotten. And she graduated second in her class. Because she could.
Her senior year, she played Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata – the whole thing. She played it so often that she memorized it. She played it so often that even now, twenty years later, my fingers still move whenever I hear it. At her senior recital, she won that top performer award. She also won the award of awed silence between the final note and the first applause.
One day, the girl I once was forgot what she could do. Someone else told her that she had to choose, and this time, she believed it. She believed the lie that she couldn’t do all the things that she’d always done, and because she couldn’t possibly choose, she stopped doing it all. She grew up and became good at waiting. She grew up and became good at watching the whole world go on without her. She grew up and learned the lie that things just don’t work out for her and that expecting them to do so would only make her a fool.
But this girl? She’s not done growing. She has learned to set healthy boundaries and has embraced the luxurious freedom of no.
And that girl I once was? She is coming back.
In every verse I read in shaky voice, she is coming back.
In every meal I make and share with others, she is coming back.
In every coconut nougat dipped in chocolate that I taught myself to temper, she is coming back.
In every pie I bake in this kitchen of my own, she is coming back.
In every blanket I knit, she is coming back.
In every story I write, she is coming back.
In every song I sing and every move I dance, she is coming back.
In every “Our Father,” and “Lord, in Your mercy,” I pray, she is coming back.
And if I have to eat Ramen noodles for six months and sell everything but my books, I will get a good keyboard this year, because she is coming back, and she’s going to need one.
“That day I consciously picked up his Renaissance attitude to life and decided that if I couldn’t decide between theology and art and music, then perhaps I would just do them all.” Maggi Dawn in Giving It Up
M. Suzanne Terry 