Tom & Lisa

For the latter half of my single-digit years, two goldfish held residence in my room. One boasted the name Lisa, while the other bared the name Tom. I greeted Tom and Lisa every day, offering them food and occasionally, a clean bowl. Over the years, Tom and Lisa heard countless stories as I wandered around my room, shaking my hands with reckless abandon each time I stumbled upon the appropriate words to bring my imaginative tales to life. And they listened, patiently, to my temper tantrums over botched French braiding efforts, as well as failed endeavors to “teach” my little brother every component of second grade, and my unsuccessful foray into personal training—a bleak attempt to torture Barbie with calisthenics so she could adequately compete with GI Joe.

I’m sure Tom and Lisa didn’t survive for five full years; however, when I think back to my childhood, I only recall two fish. As soon as one died, we replaced it with a new fish, and in an effort to preserve the order of things in my room, I promptly named that fish either Tom or Lisa. In my little mind, those two names were the most fitting names for orange-gilled creatures moving into my fish tank.

For that reason, death never seemed like a real thing to me. I knew it existed and I came to understand it a little more when I watched both of my grandfathers die, but even then, I didn’t fully understand the depth of their absence until several years later when I noticed how much I missed them, when I started to lose the image of their faces, when I began to accept the fact they would never materialize on the recliner, or around the dinner table ever again.

Since the passing of my grandfathers, I’ve experienced a slew of other deaths, but instead of growing callus to the departure of life, each time I lose someone, I find myself increasingly more saddened, and increasingly more appreciative of the people who are still with me.

This all struck me today when I found out that a friend of mine lost her father. A bowl of sorrow opened in my gut as I empathized with her plight. I cannot imagine how difficult it must have been to get that phone call; how do you respond to that type of news? What comes next, after you hang up? What happens in the silence that engulfs you?

As I thought about my friend, I wished so badly she could venture out and find another Tom or another Lisa to make her smile. I wished she could go to the store and pick out a shiny, new goldfish, one who could do everything the old fish could—that way, she could go home, plop him into the tank, pick up the pieces and go on. When it comes down to it, I wished so badly that she could slip into my seven year old life.

Sadly, I realize life doesn’t work as simply as it did when I was seven years old, but I do hope that the best part of that simplicity is still possible. I hope that even though we cannot replace those we lose, we can find joy again in our lives. And I hope—that despite the deepest dips of sadness—we can always find the strength to pry open the cracks in our hearts and let loveliness leak into the gaps.

Delightful Shivers

I shivered all day long and that's typically not a good thing. I relish warmth--warm feet, warm skin, warm blankets, warm coffee, and thick, warm, fuzzy socks. Today, though, I relished the chill, and I relished an entire day spent talking and writing at North Star Cafe.

At several points, the day boasted potential for disaster. I woke up with spasms in my neck and spent the first half hour in the shower, engaging in a masochistic version of yoga. Pulling my head and stretching my neck as hot water pelted against my skin, I pressed and twisted my thumb on the knots, as hard as I could, in an effort to release them. Once I got used to a certain threshold of pain, I did not stop, satisfied, like a normal person. Instead, I stepped it up a notch, pressing harder and turning more dramatically, hoping that in some strange way my caveman antics would produce 21st century results.

When the alien in my neck stopped twitching, I made my way to North Star, beginning my morning with Annie, sipping coffee and chatting about law school, teaching, the housing market and writing. Every new exchange inspiring me to remember why I need to invest more effort into seeing her more often.

Potential disaster number two ushered its way in mid-conversation. Sensing a stranger on the other side of the glass window, I turned to catch sight of a guy slumped over at the waist, clearly inebriated with some sort of mind altering chemical. I turned to catch him scowling at me through the glass, his eyes spinning in optical illusion circles.

Having done nothing to warrant this behavior, I released an uncomfortable laugh. Well aware that my response was inappropriate, I wished to retract it. Nevertheless, the nervous/awkward chuckle not only happened, but it incited him. Appalled, he battled his wobbly legs and bent down to the ground. I'm not sure how he maintained his balance; nevertheless, he swept his hands along a patch of loose gravel, collected a healthy handful of pebbles, and launched them directly into the glass, right in front of my face. Then he took off. Inching like an ape, knees slightly bent, feet turned outward, throwing pebbles as he went, eventually disappearing down High Street.

Shortly after the brief interruption, we resumed chatting and writing, wallowing in the blissfulness of our day off. Annie left for a meeting around 11:30, but I continued to punch out an idea trapped in the fibers of my imagination. Inspired by a short story competition, I wanted to finish a solid draft before the end of the day, and once I completed a draft, I spent the rest of my afternoon reading Writer's Digest, devouring articles about short story climaxes, the necessity of the denouement, and pressing on through criticism and rejection. When I finally picked up my belongings, six hours after I arrived, I felt an unwavering sense of gratitude for the day I was given.

Despite aliens attacking my neck, and stones being thrown into my face, my day was delicious, and that deliciousness had little to do with the organic grub I stuffed into my mouth, and everything to do with the delightful shivers that accompanied the freedom to be, and to think, and to express. I have piles of papers to grade the rest of the weekend, but thankfully, today was mine.

Weekends

I decided to take a break this weekend. I'm not self-absorbed enough to believe my break caused any sort of turmoil; nevertheless, the rule-follower in me felt an urging to explain.

I wrote for 34 days straight and it felt marvelous. Even in my mucus-ridden state, I enjoyed tantalizing walks through my thoughts, tapping away on keys, looking forward to whatever managed to materialize. Now that I'm on a roll, now that I know I can do it, I've decided to cut myself some slack--some weekend slack.

One of my best friends got engaged this weekend, and I wanted to drive up to Cleveland and celebrate with her. I wanted to hug her and laugh with her; I wanted to look at her pictures and watch stories tumble from her lips--I didn't want to relegate such a vital moment to computer slideshows and cell phone chitchat.

I stared at my computer before I left, knowing full well my day of errands led me right up to the final moment before I had to grab my purse and my keys and position myself behind the wheel of a car which would not return in time to pen an entry prior to midnight. When I crossed the threshold yesterday at 4:30 p.m., I knew I would miss day thirty-five, and by missing day thirty-five, my longest writing streak would come to an end. I paid my respects to the process, then I spun on my heels and headed straight out the door.

People are more important than patterns. As much as writing satisfies me--and as much as neglecting that writing hurts me--I don't need to do it every day for me to feel fulfilled. I knew I would return to the keyboard the following day. I knew there were many more posts left to write. I knew the people who enjoy reading my words would come back again once new words appeared, and I knew the ones who value the way I think will appreciate why I made the right decision.

And even if they don't, when I wrapped my arms around my friend, I was so glad I took the weekend off.