1-Ants who want to be my roommates: Look, you might as well know now ants, if you come inquiring about a lease, I WILL kill you. I have a thing about killing roommates who steal my food and crawl over my things. I couldn't kill difficult roommates up at Ricks because of the whole honor code, but it's the real world now ants and you are so dead. Oh, and the toddler who feeds you every meal? Well, she will still feed you because she can't seem to help dropping a truck load of crumbs under her chair, but she will probably kill you anyway too when she picks you up and loves you a little too hard. Either way, get your affairs in order at the anthill...NOW.
2-Weeds: Sure, the snow on the ground six months or more out of the year does get old, I admit it. But at least it provides a nice white, generally gray covering that hides the green disease the engulfs the yard. So bring me your tired...husband, your poor...man's weed killer, your huddled...kids blowing dandelion seeds faster than you can possibly remove them, and you've joined the yard maintenance game that the Benjamin bunch loses each and every year. Oh, we've won a few battles, but have yet to even show up to the war. And there's a little Benedict Arnold of the ground covering fight who thinks the morning glory in the lawn is pwetty. Crap, now it's only 3 to 17 billion and 1...traitorous toddler.
3-Snails: Ok, I admit here is a creature I feel sorry for. They are painfully slow, their shell provides an inadequate protection, and they are in need of some serious personal hygeine tips as they trail this embarrassing ooze wherever they go. But when I open the door and they are on my porch, the steps, the garage door, the kids' playthings, and are eating my garden, I have to think that they are getting the last laugh. And they multiply; the term breeding like rabbits seriously underestimated the power of two willing, albeit slow slime balls. Are they male? Are they female? Who cares. Where there were 2 yesterday, there are 73 today and I personally can't squish them, pour salt on them (barbaric I will never do this EVER), or drown them. Wait! My husband, giver that he is, has found the solution. He will drown them, but before you cry in outrage know this; they will go down happy.I have been away for a week at a writing conference. It will take me a while to fully process the experience. There are layers that I must peel away like an onion and that will make my eyes sting as I prepare to slice through them. The experience changed me, as I needed to be changed.
On Thursday I met with the most distinguished man of the literary world that I will ever meet. It was as if I knelt at his feet; my offering of twenty pages stained with innocent ink, and hope littered in its white spaces. The chair he offered me was broken; a single cheek hung precariously off the one safe edge, my dignity struggled on the other.
He gazed at me through midnight transition lenses. Were his eyes making the glass darker or were his glasses turning his almond orbs into tiny spotlights revealing my absolute ineptness? Inept: That was the word he used to describe my story; or was it my writing, perhaps it was the author of it. He spoke to me as if it pained him; like the tin man grinding his un-oiled jaw, he was able to squeak only, “Drivel, folksy, backwoods.”
I felt the tears as they crawled up my organs, gaining momentum from all the emotional exercise I give them. I set my own jaw, knowing in this one heart beat of my life that I would not let the king of self-importance see my spirit leaking. I asked him a couple of questions: What did he think of the brother’s voice? He paused and for a split second his jelly-donut face oozed a cream-filled doubt. I asked him about my main character’s age and muteness, and he himself suddenly could not speak. If I could have moved my wooden hand, I would have slapped my forehead: He had not read beyond the first page-and-a-half.
He admitted it and told me he thought there was no market for my story and that he wasn’t sure anyone would understand it anyway. To make up for this slight, he picked apart my lack of a comma and a poor word choice until I understood my proper place once more: I was nobody. I understood it very well and a drawer shut in my mind. My story was placed inside and covered with a linen cloth.
I stood up when I had had enough; oh, and when he told me that he would only answer any questions that were related to what he had just discussed with me. There were none…only the barbed ones slicing through the sinew of my soul. I offered him my hand and thanked him for his ten minutes of time; twenty minutes less than we had set aside.
I left him in his unbroken chair.
My feet carried me away in a strange town. The tears marched their armies down my face until my lack of tissue was a problem. The bathroom was beside where he still sat. I unabashedly used my arm; it was a very ‘backwoods’ thing for me to do, maybe even a little ‘folksy.’ I decided not to tread too far from the afternoon session of the conference. My two sweet friends were saving me a seat inside; a seat I wasn’t planning to fill.
I chose a rather secluded bench and sat down, resting my aching pride. An elderly couple approached me and asked if they could have the seat. I obliged and stood outside the building my friends were in, until a camera man who was filming the conference set up his tripod right where I was standing. I found an unassuming rock and I did the only thing I knew: I wrote furiously in my notebook. I looked up and the camera was facing me.
I flinched. “Oh, am I in your way, AGAIN?”
The camera guy smiled, “Oh no. I’ve actually been filming you, if that’s okay. You are the epitome of what this conference is about.”
What irony. The conference, which hires the man, who breaks my heart, which causes me to write my sorrow, which prompts a person to be inspired, and include my moment in said conference’s video.
I opened that drawer in my head and took the story back out again, and I placed his words inside that drawer instead. And now I keep going; grateful for the experience, hungry to prove myself. And in my liberal use of the movie Pretty Woman:
Big Shot Editor: Yes, can I help you mere peasant person?
Rachel: I was here a few years back, you wouldn't read my story.
Big Shot Editor: Well, I never...
Rachel: Your literary journal prides itself on finding the best stories?
Big Shot Editor: Of course.
Rachel: Big mistake. Big. Huge. I have to go write now.
A sad fact: Since I’ve stopped eating sugar, I’ve been less funny…Apparently, my humor had everything to do with high fructose corn syrup. The whole grain lifestyle has crimped my ability to come up with a good one liner. Oh, I still try, but my delivery falls flatter than a plain cardboard rice cake. I coped with my life through food…I then transferred over to the internet…things were getting crazy, I could zone out and let it all go in front of the little glowing box of other people’s wonderful lives. I could discuss reading books, without reading all that many. I could read about writing and write about writing and not really write. In fact, I could talk about living, without really living.
I realized today, that I didn’t have anything to say. I didn’t have anything to add to the conversation. Now I’m not depressed and the fact that I have been without a car for the last few weeks could be narrowing my perception of the world, but the truth is I need a change. My short story is finally finished. I am preparing to spend a week away with my fabulous writing buds to bask in the writers’ life. The hubby informed me when we were just throwing the idea of me getting away for awhile, that I HAD to take this opportunity. I know it won’t be easy for him, but he hasn’t blinked.
You see, his eyes have been wide open before. I watched our wedding video the other day with Ceci. I even wore my veil for her if you want to know the truth. She loved the whole thing (except for the part where it was time to feed each other cake and I didn’t even aim for his mouth…who knew that frosting affected contact lenses…seriously?) Well, the violence of it frightened her and then his rebuttal right into my eyes and the licking of the frosting off the faces (yes, an elderly woman left our reception in disgust.) And you know what??? We loved every minute of that moment, because that is so US.
If I could have glimpsed into the future and seen the nights spent in agony, the hospital visits, the surgeries, the deafening silence of fear, the job losses, the food appearing at our doorways, the collapsing upon the ground in seeming defeat, the miracles, the angels, the babies that we were overwhelmed to be the parents of, the glimpses of eternity in the mundane moments, the whisperings of so much more, the beauty that comes from suffering, the chipping away of that couple who had the world by the hands and was dancing with it and each other and who the world tries to crush, but we are still dancing…together.
Still not funny, I know…but it’s in there, even if the frosting has long left my tear ducts.
Cup cakes are in the oven and Conner and CC are playing. Conner took the blanket from his sister; my feisty, headstrong, fiery daughter is shouting, “I don’t want it! I don’t want it!” Oh CC, you will cry that all throughout your life. There is much we don’t want. Much that hurts, much that we wish could be gone, much that causes us to want to stop and weep and not take that step forward…that step into the dark…off the precipice…into the unknown.
I promise you my sweet son and daughter, that you will never be left comfortless, that you are never alone in this life. Your Savior, your Lord, your King will take you by the hand and guide you through every.single.day. You must ask, you must seek, you must be strong, for the winds will howl and pain and sorrow come to all. In this life however, you will also experience profound joy and there is only ONE source…only HE.
Friday was my baby's birthday. The girl with the flash and sparkle, the Himalayan personality. Who gets the joke, who will say "now that's funny!" after SHE says something. Who loves adventure, who sings herself to sleep and awake, and sings herself into the spotlight. Who has a lioness temper with a dollop of grizzly bear, and who will cry at the very sight of human suffering of any kind. Whose eyes illuminate the canvas of her soul...and she's a masterpiece.
