Beginning, Again

I’ve wanted to be a writer since I was a kid. Back then there were effusive journals and terrible poems and other miscellaneous surges of inspiration. And now in my 40’s I still want to be a writer when I grow up. 

In the past few days, I’ve written two blogs and started a few others. I’m getting more comfortable with this “Shitty First Draft” idea (if you aren’t familiar, it’s Anne Lamott’s acknowledgment of that messy version everyone must suffer through en route to a good piece of writing. Also, please please please read her book Bird by Bird. It’s on my Top Three Books Of All Times list and truly is not just an instructional for writing but for life).

I’m also just now starting to write for me- no one else. Though lets be clear, I’m quite thrilled you’re reading this, and I’m also nervous you won’t like it. But I’m more pleased with myself for taking a step towards my goals than I am anxious about your reaction. Yay, personal growth! One point for me.

It’s funny how— for years— I’ve had two hours each week set aside for writing. I’ve pictured sitting at a cute coffee shop (I can hear my husband now— “well, as long as it’s cute!”) with a nice almond milk latte, warm and comfortable clothes, my laptop, and the inspiration of community around me. Or in my living room; fireplace warm, a candle lit, glass of wine in hand, solitude.

In reality: I’ve used this designated “writing time” twice. In 2.5 years. Just to be clear that’s 2 out of approximately 130 Sundays. That’s right, I’m an overachiever.

Turns out not much was right about that mental picture of my writing space. What I really needed was a sterile hospital waiting room with terrible Wi-Fi and stiff blankets and mediocre coffee. And perhaps my sisters or family near me, reading— or perhaps no one around at all.

My personal learnings from this week are not complicated but they feel profound:

1. Stop overthinking it. Just write. For yourself. Tell your story. From where you are now.
2. Remove all comforts; it’s the discomfort that helps. Remove all preconceptions; it’s the conception that helps.

And so i’m beginning. Again.

Togetherness: In the Waiting Room

Coffee cups, glasses cases. Crumpled napkins and half-drunk water bottles. Comfy socks and books and... us. Here, together.

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I was just in Buffalo last week. Here to be with mom and dad and for the kids to get special time with them. When we landed home in SF, Oliver bawled. He loves his grandparents so fiercely. He loves them with the force of a million loves. He loves them so much that he secretly wrote this note the next morning en route to school:

“Grandma and Grandpa, I really miss playing all those games with you, and the nerf, and the cheese, and the movies, and the gym, and Sear, and Niagara On The Lake, and the brownies, and the snow, the banana bread, and going to buy stuff, and the snoball fight, and the thing for the sled, but most of all I miss...”

“... YOU. I love you GUYS A LOT! I love you, love Oli [sad face]” 

When we landed in SF I got the text from mom, “please call me when you can.” And I knew; the MRI results were bad. Dad had been more confused, losing words and conversation threads. They found another tumor and significant brain swelling. Surgery would be scheduled asap.

And so I’m back. Buffalo didn’t get any warmer in the last 5 days. But it’s warm here, in this space, with these people. My people. My brother in law said it well- my family knows how to rally. I couldn’t imagine it any other way; there’s no world in which I’m not here. So we’re here in togetherness, waiting.

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Watching her face is hard.  She nods, expression intent, neutral. We hang on every word, every mouth or eye movement, for a clue. “Ok,” she nods, “thank you.” She hangs up; all is well and they are nearing the end of his surgery. Mom is strong and fragile at the same time.

Meanwhile the emails keep coming in. Prayers and thoughts. Offers of support. The kindness of friends and family is overwhelming in the best way. 

And so we wait. In the Waiting Room. We drink our coffee, we remove our glasses to wipe a tear. We eat and share silly cat videos. We discuss topics like fear and belief. And we read; solitude in togetherness.

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Update: Dad’s surgery went well. He’s in recovery for the next few days. More waiting, but it’s grateful waiting.