Singing in the Storm

"Writing and reading decrease our sense of isolation. They deepen and widen and expand our sense of life: they feed the soul. When writers make us shake our heads with the exactness of their prose and their truths, and even make us laugh about ourselves or life, our buoyancy is restored. We are given a shot at dancing with, or at least clapping along with, the absurdity of life, instead of being squashed by it over and over again. It's like singing on a boat during a terrible storm at sea. You can't stop the raging storm, but singing can change the hearts and spirits of the people who are together on that ship."
— Anne Lamott

I wanted to say thanks to all those who have said to me that they understand what I meant in that last post. There have been several of you, and your willingness to sing in that boat with me has meant much.

One of Us In a Boat

So my blog is now seven years old. I've said a lot of things over and over during those seven years. And yes, very often my blog does act like a second grader.
One of the hard parts of blogging right now is that much of what I want to write I don’t even say aloud. I do a lot of twittering (shameless plug: www.twitter.com/ssspoonah) because it is easy to keep it light, keep it funny, keep the dog and pony show going, keep the bowling pins in the air.

In reality, it’s been a lonely year. I haven’t been alone, I’ve been lonely. I’m far from alone: I’ve had more visitors than I’ve ever hosted, attended dinners and parties weekly, had wine nights and mimosa mornings, camping trips, hikes, paddling adventures; I’ve met dozens of new friends and spent more time laughing than crying.

For the most part, my life is full. I have a great job. I have a good community. I have friends all over the country that love and support me. In this way, I am blessed.

But I am also very lonely. It’s hit me more this year than in years past. When I attend events, it is as a solo entity; I am not part of some dynamic duo. I am single. It has become more obvious to me as less and less of my peers are in the same boat. I am among the waning few that show up alone.

I have to be honest: it hurts.

I’ve been friends with several girls (and I use that term intentionally) who seemed resolute in the belief that their life couldn’t really “start” until they were paired up. They couldn’t make decisions about what to do or where to go until the marriage license was signed. It was as if the whole of their lives was actually the one dimension of matrimony.

I am not waiting for my life to start; I’m living my life. I’m just growing tired of doing it without company, of having a fabulous night, then driving home and sleeping alone. I am finally ready to admit that.

Natalie’s illness has only exacerbated this. I haven’t heard her voice or seen her beautiful face in almost six months and it kills the core of me. It is a physical ache. Erin used the best metaphor and I’ll plagiarize it: my heart is a compass and Natalie is my magnetic north. She steadfastly points in the right direction; she gives bearing when the sky is too dark to see stars. Without her, I feel unmoored; adrift, heartbroken and alone.

2009 has been a good year; a great year in some respects. But to my heart it has been most cruel.

Like a Miracle

A miracle:
“an effect or extraordinary event in the physical world that surpasses all known human or natural powers and is ascribed to a supernatural cause.”

There is much that looks impossible. Whether those impossibilities are longstanding or recent, they contain the stuff of futility. I look at them and I know I am powerless. And so I do the only thing I can do: I pray. Prayer, to whoever it is, is hope projected.

I pray for miracles and when I do, part of me expects a big event, my very own parting of the sea. I expect noise and action, an epiphany or a grand gesture, a watershed moment where nothing before looks like what is after.
I’m beginning to learn that miracles are miraculous not because of their size but because of their specificity. They aren’t these big events; they are, like my understanding of who God is, quiet. Miracles, when they do come, are more of a breath than a shout.

That isn’t to say they aren’t life-altering, merely that they are only recognizable to those who were looking for them. In that way, they are much like love.

Burn With the Fire of Ten Million Stars

The 'major motion picture event' known as “Fame” came out the year before I was born. I don't remember a time when I didn't know this, didn't know that Irene Cara played CoCo in “Fame”, I didn't know all the words to “I Sing the Body Electric”. I thought everybody did. It was the sort of knowledge that comes from the deep place of knowing something before you have the conscious to realize you didn't at one time know it. Like peanut butter, or Mr. Rodgers.
I know all this because I have an older sister.

My oldest sister is 9 years my senior, so even she was too young to be obsessed with the “Fame” LP like she was when I was a toddler but that didn't stop it from being played ad nauseum. My other sister and I kept up the tradition long after the eldest had tired of it. Bubby and I would pull out that big black and red disc jacket, knowing of the movie only what we could glean from the photos inside the cover and the words of the songs. In fact, it's all we knew of New York City. Those photos are still so vivid to me, our eyes pouring over every detail.

Here is what our skills of observation were able to collect:

1. We knew it was gritty; there was a photo of kids dancing on cars. IN THE STREET. Gritty.

2. We knew it contained dancing. In like outfits and stuff.

3. And there was a guy with big red hair. Who may or may not have a crush on the girl who is sitting in the snow next to him in that one photo.

4. It may contain dogs. There was a song about dogs in the yard, but we weren't sure where dogs fit in with the dancing storyline. Could be a dead end.

5. We weren't sure what “The Body Electric” was, except an exercise show on PBS but that didn't seem right.

6. There was a character named Leroy, as evidenced by the photo of him in a cut-off sweatshirt with said name ironed across the front.

7. It contained New York City, Boys AND girls, which means one thing: kissing.

And even as I have gotten older these are still the basic facts about “Fame” that I've kept. The first song I learned on guitar I got from that familiar “Fame” soundtrack. This is what I knew of “Fame”, what was safe about it, and that is what I loved. It wasn't until this year that I got around to watching all of “Fame” and let me tell you, NOT a kids movie. Strong references to drug use, pornography, abortion, junkies, homophobia and, most shocking of all, Freddie Prinze SENIOR. I didn't even know there was a Senior. I just knew about the one in “She's All That.” To top it all off that red haired guy in the movie would lose his hair and in twenty years end up as Dr. Romano on ER and there lose his arm (and later his life) to a freakin' helicopter. In some ways it is like a childhood safe space has been shaken up; concussed into a present mindset. Yet in other ways, it's hilarious. Watching the movie I found myself saying, “Oh! That's that one photo!” as if the movie supplemented the soundtrack and not vice versa.

I heard they've released a new version of FAME. I probably won't see it. I don't have the same connection to it as I do the original one. And to be honest, the story in my head will always be better than the one that played out on the screen.

A Place On Earth

In my AP English class we had a project where we had to make a representation of either heaven or hell and present it in front of the class. I chose to do hell, because I could understand that. I can comprehend the idea of hell. I can fathom loneliness, chronic uncomfortably; I imagine hell to be a place that isn’t fire and brimstone but oppressive silence, an uncomfortable chill and very damp. In my mind, it is a slow ceaseless sort of torture.
It’s heaven I don’t get.
When I think of heaven, my mental picture is wooden picnic tables on clouds. It’s rather boring. But if I replace the word heaven with the word paradise, I have a completely different reaction. I can imagine a paradise. I think.
Several years ago I wrote a short story about people talking about their ideas of heaven. I think I did this because I don’t know my own. As I was writing the story, I found it fascinating that each character’s version of heaven was totally different than the others; that what is heaven to one person might be closer to purgatory to another.
I guess what gets me about heaven: to be what it is supposed to be, it must be all things to all people. I can’t wrap my head around that.
To be honest, I don’t know if I believe in heaven. I don’t live with some confidant expectation that I’ll end up there; that the people I love will be there too. Don’t get me wrong; I want it to exist but I wouldn’t be in the least bit surprised if this life is it and strangely that notion doesn’t do much to change my faith. But at this moment, I have to believe in heaven. There seems too much to a soul to simply disappear.