Cut, cut, cut...

April 30, 2015

I am spending the day hacking away at stem and sticker in the landscaping equivalent of a forest behind my house.  Our backyard is the gift that keeps on giving, but I grow more fond of it with every moment of toil I invest.  I note progress and I smell lilacs blooming and I see more beauty than monstrosity.  As my sanctuary is the sun, my pew is the green or dirt or weed or flower lending itself to my worship.  Today I labor under a cloudless sky surrounding me with that infinite blue.  It’s the color of my heaven’s sky…if I get to pick.  The warmth I crave is here, too, accompanied by a little Missouri spring breeze reminding me that tomorrow it could be 40 degrees if it wants to be.  Big tease.  

As I hack away at the fussy shrubs in my path, I have classical music floating through the air.  It’s almost nauseating, isn’t it, this little Ozarkian scene plucked straight from the pages of an E.M. Forster novel?  But I’m home alone and I’m the only one around here willing to tolerate my strings and piano nuggets that secretly comprise much of the soundtrack of my life.  As a zealous student I studied for hours with voiceless songs in my ears, protecting the concentration I so craved.  I walked down the aisle to Elgar’s Enigma Variations IX not because it sounded at all matrimonial, but because it just got to me.  It may have sounded more like a funeral dirge, but there is a surge just toward the end that stirs up hope. As I listen to it now, I cling to that swell of the strings.  I clung then, too.   You never know, of course, when melodies may take a turn.  That is life with hope in the notes.

So I clip away surrounded by (some may say) pretentious tunes beneath and in God’s creation which lacks all pretense.  When I work with my hands or what manual strength I have, my head is usually spinning.  Memories or worries or daydreams all amp up as I work.  Among these things, today I’m reminded how I alternated between liking and resenting such work as a child.  My brother and I were schooled in the art of yard work.  No shrub was safe on my father’s radar, and we were the minions aiding in their destruction.  I liked the work…I’ve always liked work.  I liked being together, doing the work. I liked proving that I wasn’t too young, too small, too afraid, or too female to mow the steepest hill or wield the sharpest clipper. But I hated that I had no choice.  When and where we worked lacked warning:  when it was time to go, go.  And don’t complain.  And be happy about it.  That’s fine to a point.  But when it’s not fine, it’s really not.

Choice, my therapist would say, means a great deal to me.  We tend to value that which is rare. Whacking the hell out of these limbs today is a choice.  So is the music.  And stopping to write this.  What a difference choice makes.  

A uniquely strong friend of mine told me once that it felt as if his life was not his own.  Too much was decided for him by those he loved, by duty, by the past.  As a child, I promised myself I would always get to decide things when I grew up.  It is largely a broken promise to that hopeful little girl.  How much of life should be our own?  How much should we give away?  How much is the happiness of others our responsibility, especially when the currency exchanged is our own happiness?  I don’t know.  If I did know, I think I might have one of the keys to the proverbial kingdom.  Even the Bible doesn’t give us a clear blueprint for the choices we have and the choices we forfeit.  

All this from a heap of cut limbs and more waiting to be sacrificed.  They have no choice and I doubt they are stewing about it.  Lucky them…?

It is, indeed

"It's tiresome, constantly swinging a sledgehammer at the facade, just to get a glimpse through the cracks."

--House of Cards

Isn't it, though?

TMI

April 24, 2015

So. This happened.

As Truvy told Clairee in Steel Magnolias, "I'd rather walk on my lips than criticize," but sweet Jesus...I draw the line at a grown man who rolls out to his child's volleyball tournament with a shirt declaring that all systems are go.

If There is a Body to Bury...

April 23, 2015

“If it starts to rain, we’ll be the first to know.”

We were climbing to the heights of the Kauffman Center for the Performing Arts in downtown Kansas City last night when Chad made that observation.  Seated in the tippy top balcony, we were there to see humorist and author David Sedaris. Mr. Sedaris is a hero of mine:  he sees the world in all its minutiae and contradiction and splays it out with a dry wit that is right up my alley.  So it was with great anticipation that I trekked to Kansas City to see and hear him.  Of course, he delivered. I must admit, it restores my faith in humanity just a little when hundreds of adults can pack into a theatre and sit with bated breath while an author reads for nearly two hours.  Reads.  He may have just been a speck on the stage from our birds-eye view, but it mattered not. 

Sedaris was reason enough to drive north for a few hours, but truth-be-told, I will find any excuse to go see my buddy Chad.  One of the funniest people alive, Chad is a high school principal now; but our friendship formed when he was the debate coach at another high school in town.  We would travel together with our squads to tournaments during his short time as my colleague.  Another weekend, another bus.  As we would embark on each journey, my surly friend would rise before our charges and implore them to “sit it and shut it.”  Had he been any other kind of fellow, that might have seemed harsh.  It was just Chad.  Another favorite of mine was his reminder when we would arrive at our destination:  “Be careful with the stuff overhead, kids,” he would caution, “when in transit, shift happens.” 

During that time, the debate coaches in our district had to go to the mat for equal funding.  Money was always a struggle (to get it, to raise it, to spend it with the help of bureaucracy that could quickly steal my resolve to live). This particular year one particular bureaucrat decided she would redistribute our budgets as she saw fit.  The result was very unfair and left the squads for which Chad and I were responsible woefully underfunded.  One afternoon all five debate coaches and their corresponding principals met with said bureaucrat and her supervisor.  Good lord, tumbleweeds might as well have drifted along main street with each of us in position, as far as I was concerned.  Chad and I had inherited posts held previously by ass-kicking legends in the profession (Chad’s predecessor was Deana and mine was Brett).  As we took our places around the very adult conference table in this very adult situation, my twenty-something friend and my twenty-something self looked at each other with resolve accompanied by terror.  “I wish Brett was here,” I confessed.  “I miss Deana,” he agreed.  But there we were:  two greenies ready to face down “the man.”  Lucky for us, our two principals were two of the toughest broads around and were also best friends.  I was bolstered by their presence and by my pal as we headed into this battle that (for this public school debate coach who gave more than two shits about equality before the budgetary process) was huge.

So we met.  And Ms. Bureaucrat explained that she made changes as she saw fit, based on enrollment in each program.  Little did she know (detached from living breathing organisms/desk-dweller she was) that enrollment was not indicative of the number of students competing, blah blah blah.  Bottom line, it was grossly unfair.  After enough of the diplomatic talk, I had had it.  I have always had a problem with a short fuse and a big mouth.  I looked across the big kid table at this bureaucratic caricature of an actual person and issued this statement:  “I’m sorry, ma’am, I don’t know you from Adam’s housecat.  All I know is that you got out your red pen and I got screwed.” A hush fell.

As we left that day, Chad and I followed our principals across the parking lot.  “Way to go, Wedgeworth,” my boss declared, “we’ll never see another dime.”

Alas, equitable funding was restored.  I don’t attribute my outburst to the recovery of funds, but it is one of Chad’s favorite impersonations of me…heavy on the “MA’AM!”

Chad moved away years ago and coached briefly in Kansas City before moving into administration and getting his doctorate.  Regardless of his upwardly-mobile station in life, his friendship has remained a constant in mine.  He is the friend I would call if I needed to bury a body.  He would ask no questions but where and when…and he would bring his own shovel. 

A few years after he moved away, Chad’s mother died after a lengthy battle with cancer.  It was the most fragile I had ever seen him, but even then he was strong.  This past year, he lost his dad.  When he approached the podium at the funeral, I held my breath. It is one thing to grieve. It is another to articulate that grief with class. I know what this genius of a pal of mine can do, but loss is often a game-changer. Chad stood before us in honor of the only father he has ever really known. This father didn't make him, but he raised him. In his tearful, poised and moving tribute, he said, "it takes a special man to raise someone else's child as their own."I  didn't know the father he lost, but as he spoke and I saw his pain and his resilience, my tears sprang up. Next to me sat a beloved fellow debate coach who is tough as nails. I saw a crack in her armor, too. It is very simple: when you love someone, their hurts are yours. 

Of course, true to form, that was the end of the serious and sentimental on that day.  After the bulk of mourners had departed and those of us in his closer circle lingered, Chad stood at the door and handed out days-of-the-week pill dispensers and fans emblazoned with the name of the funeral home.  Party favors, he assured us.

There is no shortage of anecdotal evidence that Chad is the friend to have.  As I sat next to him last night and we laughed at the same moments and as he once again hosted my visit to KC, these nuggets sprang to mind.  I am grateful.  I am also mindful that not everyone has a Chad.  What a horrible thought.  What in the hell do you do without a Chad?