Conversation, Interrupted

Dear UD,

               Eight years ago on this day, we all gathered to celebrate your 61^st birthday. The next month, we lost you. I can’t believe it’s been eight years since we’ve talked. Eight years since I’ve heard your voice. Eight years since we played Bridge together, ate together, laughed together.

                Time is uncountable. There are so many things I want to tell you, so many changes in the world, in my life, so many times I want to brainstorm with you again.

 

Conversation, interrupted.

 

Even in this past year so much has happened that I wish you, and mom, and dad, were here to witness, to share. 

I’m starting my own business, a publishing company, and publishing some of my books, and your plays. So many days, I wish I could call you to talk about the company, the editing, the excitement, all those details that you nurtured, and I wish so much you were here to see Memorial Day Picnic published.

 

My grandson, DJ, David James, is a source of love and joy and happiness. He shares a name with you, and like you, he is the epitome of loving and creative and smart and sweet.

 

I met a brilliant, kind, amazing man, and I wish we could all sit around the table, play Scrabble or Spades, and talk and laugh and learn together.

 

One two three…those are only three but some of the top, best, most precious I want to tell you, mom, dad…

 

Conversation, interrupted.

 

It’s Spring again, UD, so time to celebrate and honor you and your influence on me, in this world, and in our family. Happy birthday, Uncle David. You are remembered, you are missed, you are loved.

 

Love, Rach

Pandemic

Dear UD,

The world is closed. Shut down. And all I want to do is talk to Mom about it. Talk to you.

Mom would scoff at the way everyone is panicking and at the mass hysteria of hording toilet paper for Coronavirus, a respiratory illness. Like others, she would decry the world-wide pandemic, saying, “It’s just a flu” and thinking that the world has gone mad. That, plus she would preach that it’s proof that Jesus is returning soon. Whether I agreed with her or not, I would give anything to hear her voice and her laugh right now, to be able to talk to my mom about this global epidemic, to share news articles and concerns, and at the end of the call, have her say, “Everything’s going to be okay. Love you, honey.” How I miss my mom and conversations with her. All day, every day. I miss her.

And you, Uncle David, you would sigh and point out connections between this scare and ones from the past. You’d retell the story about when you were kids and had to hide under your desks after the Second Red Scare to prepare for a possible nuclear attack during the Atomic Age. We’d have a discussion that touched on history, literature, theater, psychology, and current events. Whether we agreed or not, I would give anything to hear your voice and your laugh, to debate this important topic with you, and at the end of the call, have you say, “Everything’s going to be okay. Love you, Rach.” How I miss you and our conversations. All day, every day. I miss you.

No matter what side of the debate one is on (people are freaking out for no reason versus the pandemic is real and serious), the images seen around the world are surreal. From Chinese in full hazmat gear to empty Italian streets to local stores with empty shelves…the images are eerie and disturbing. I’ve been listening to information from primary sources from the beginning (Uncle Bob sharing stories of Tim and his family quarantined in China as well as the Italian student I’m hosting providing news from her family in Italy). So I started stocking up before everyone went crazy. Uncle David, you would stock up, just in case (and Uncle Bob even stocked up after telling me all about the timeline of the Spanish Flu), but Mom, she wouldn’t need to prepare, living on a farm with well water, freezers always stocked with fresh farm meat, chickens roosting in the chicken house providing eggs, a pantry full of canned goods from last year’s garden, and the spring asparagus that just came up. Knowing that always made me feel safe. The family farm was my backup plan, and now, like you and Mom, my backup plan is gone.

 

I am adrift on a sea of uncertainty, feeling unmoored, isolated, and alone. 

My school has moved online for the rest of the semester, which means working from home. The U. S. hasn’t quarantined the whole country like China, Italy, and now France and Spain have. Perhaps it won’t happen here, but there are rumors that it might. Either way, we’ve been cautioned to practice social distancing as much as possible.  

I’ve prepared for hurricanes here in Florida, but that usually only means a few days or a week at home. The last time I remember even just two weeks stuck at home was when I was living in the upstairs rooms in Mom’s house on the family farm in 2015 right after Dad died and right before we lost you. That winter there was an ice storm and then a snowstorm that kept us mostly indoors for two weeks, but it was okay because even with forced “social distancing,” we had plenty of family members to hang out with. We played Bridge, Spades, and Scrabble, watched movies like Cool Hand Luke, The Blues Brothers, and Moonstruck, ate huge homemade meals together, watched the Blue Jays, Cardinals, and chickadees at the birdfeeder, and hiked outside down the road and along the rivers to see the glorious ice-covered woods and structures. And the younger generation also went ice-skating on the frozen pond and sledding. I even remember Sonny and Ben attaching a gate to the

big red truck to take the kids sledding. Yes, we still got a bit stir-crazy, and there were fights and annoying moments; however, we were in it together, got through it together, and survived together. And now I have those memories that I cherish.

But staying home now, here in Florida, for weeks or months with only a few rooms and only one other person to share it with feels very different. I keep thinking of Anne Frank and her family. They were in hiding for years. How did they do it? How could they stand it? I know they didn’t have a choice, but it is still unimaginable.

It’s not that I haven’t gone without before. Mom and Dad scraped by, and sometimes we ate whatever Dad could hunt. Mom birthed ten babies and only ever used cloth diapers. I grew up sharing one bathroom with ten other people and grew up rarely eating out. But I’ve gotten used to my comforts, including being able to go out and about whenever I want and going to the store and buying what I need and want. But, now the stores are out of some necessities.

And now, no one wants to talk anymore. They don’t want deep conversations, or phone calls. Just text me, they say. Just message me. Send a video, a photo, an emoji. But no phone calls, that human connection when not in the same physical space, that voice of a loved one, the sharing of words, ideas, questions to one other person who is really listening, who cares, who is taking time to share space together.

I’ve had a rough week, and not just because this one week held a time change where we lost an hour, a full wolf moon, a Friday the thirteenth, and a national emergency, but also because of communication struggles with loved ones. One morning, I ended up in the bathroom at work, sobbing before my classes started. Sobbing because I desire that human connection of really talking to others, really sharing everything with them (both positive and negative), and because I wish so much that I could talk to you and Mom about it all. Sobbing because I want to be seen and accepted for all of who I am. That day, I wiped away my tears, freshened up my makeup, and then went to teach stories like Kurt Vonnegut’s “Harrison Bergeron,” and Ray Bradbury’s “The Pedestrian.” Stories that have predicted so many things in our current society, stories that are coming truer every day. Is the Coronavirus the ultimate pandemic or is it the polarizing discord on social media or even the loss of human connection as we give more and more of our lives over to media and machines?

Plus, it’s March, which means spring and your birthday. I remember six years ago when we were all gathered together at your place to celebrate your birthday with you. The night before, we stayed up with Sonny, Mom, and Uncle Bob, playing bridge until midnight to ring in your birthday. Just before midnight, you jumped the bid to three no-trump and made it! And when the clock struck midnight, we sang Happy Birthday to you before heading to bed. The next morning, you made customized omelets for everyone even though you were the birthday boy, and we spent the day together playing games, talking, laughing, eating delicious food that you prepared, and sharing your birthday cake. Obi, Harley, and Lucky galloped in the backyard while you walked us around your property to witness the signs of spring: crocuses and daffodils, asparagus shoots, buds on the trees, martins and swallows around the birdfeeder, a lone red-headed woodpecker continuously striking a tall evergreen, and the filled rain gauge from recent spring showers. You and Mom both loved spring, and I love spring, though now it is bittersweet. I, too, still search for signs of spring, but there’s an ache knowing that we’ll never witness it together again.

Happy 66^th birthday, Uncle David. I am blessed to have had you in my life, and I will pass along the many treasures and lessons from you. And those from Mom. You would both tell me to remember that God is with me through even this. While that offers comfort, I still wish…  

I wish we could rewind to back when you and Mom were still with us. I wish you had both had more time on this earth. I wish we were together again, celebrating your birthday or riding out the pandemic or even just talking on the phone.

Love, Rach

Cultivating Creativity

 Travel and tell no one,

live a true love story and tell no one,

live happily and tell no one,

people ruin beautiful things.

~Khalil Gibran

            The day I received my first cell phone in the mail it became indispensable. I remember that day more than what life was like before. Before cell phones, before social media, before smart phones and smart TVs. Yet I lived the first thirty some years of my life without a cell phone or smart device. How can a decade of post-modern living almost obliterate a way of life?

            It was late summer of 2006, and I lived in Kansas City, Missouri where I homeschooled my two daughters, Lexi and Laina, then ages eleven and eight. Excited for our first camping trip with our homeschool group, we packed and loaded the car. Our group planned to meet at a Hyvee parking lot to caravan to the campground 30 miles outside of St. Louis. Normally, I would have printed off directions to the state park; however, since we were following others, I thought there was no need. I didn’t even write down the name of the place. The day we were scheduled to leave, my Samsung flip phone arrived in the mail. While I decided it would be cool to have a phone and many of my friends had recently acquired one, it was more of an afterthought at that time. I went ahead and set it up so that I would have it if needed. Just in case of an emergency.

            Lexi, Laina, and I sang on the drive, following Jen the whole way until we reached the town just outside of the state park. While driving through the town, somehow, I started following the wrong car and missed the entrance to the park. There I was in a strange place with my two daughters and no one I knew in sight. Dusk approached, and as I pulled into a parking lot to call Jen with my brand-new cell phone, I wondered what I would have done without it? How did I survive thirty years without that convenience? Luckily, I had her phone number, and we were just a few minutes from the entrance of Dr. Edmund A. Babler Memorial State Park. Soon, we arrived at the campsite and began to set up our tent next to our homeschooling friends. From that day on, my cell phone has been in my pocket, purse, or hand. Almost always close by. Something that I can’t, now, imagine living without.

In my earlier twenties, I lived in Germany for a year. Before kids, before daily email, before cell phones, before GPS systems, I moved to a country whose language I did not know with only one person around that I did know. Yet somehow, I navigated the streets of Augsburg and  Berlin. I made friends, found a job, learned a new language, took photos, and traveled in Europe…all without a cell phone. I only called my family a few times that year, though did write and mail letters every week. A mere ten years later, I discovered life with a cell phone. Now, I cannot imagine sending my twenty-year-old daughter off to a college that's hours away let alone to Europe without a cell phone, without a way to contact me if needed. How did this change our lives so much in such a short time?!

            Lexi received her first cell phone for her thirteenth birthday as a fun gift, an electronic toy. However, we gave one to Laina when she was ten because she was going away for a week-long gymnastics camp and I wanted her to have a lifeline. I have only had a handful of Samsung phones, using them until forced to upgrade because something broke.

            Earlier last year, I needed to upgrade but wasn’t allowed to because of my plan, so I bought my first smart phone from Craigslist. Again, the instant I had it, I couldn’t imagine life without it.

After being a loyal T-Mobile customer for ten years despite their connection problems and lack of customer curtesy, I switched to Verizon last summer; T-Mobile screwed me over for the last time, and since the option was available, for the first time in my life, I have the newest smart phone. I bought the Samsung Edge 7 while Lexi and Laina received the new iPhone 7. I first got the Note 7 and had to return it because of the recall based on explosions! Then, the screen messed up on the first Edge 7 I had. I don’t like having the newest, most expensive phone because it’s too much pressure and stress. I’m holding $800 in my hand, and if it breaks or falls in water, I’m screwed. Plus, I’m finding that the newest phones have kinks that are still being ironed out, and the time and trouble it takes to call and return one phone for another is annoying. And, it seems like everything is made to break down these days. Six months in and Laina dropped her iPhone, and we had to pay close to $200 to fix it.

Recent surveys show that 70% of Americans own a cell phone, and within ten weeks of purchase, approximately 45% damage their new phones in some way. Most shockingly, over five billion dollars has been spent on fixing iPhones. It sounds like many Americans can relate to my frustrations.  

“It is through technology, not despite it, that LSD visions were realized. Leary called the personal computer “the LSD of the 1990s.” And in a 2006 report in Wired magazine, many early computer pioneers are said to have been users of LSD. Steve Jobs, Apple’s presiding genius, described his own LSD experience as “one of the two or three most important things” he has done in his life. So here it is — a world in which we all do more than just inhale. It is through the iPod that, in Leary’s once contentious words, we turn on, tune in and drop out.” ~Edward Rothstein in “A Mind-Altering Drug Altered a Culture as Well” published on May 5, 2008 in The New York Times

Now, it’s April of 2017, and I’m tired. Tired of the exposure it allows into my life, the responsibility it places on us, and the distractions that it holds. Tired is such an infinitesimal word to describe it, though. I’m exhausted, or in other words, over stimulated, over stressed, overwhelmed, lonely, and depressed. From what others have shared, I don’t think I’m alone in this. My smart phone provides 24-hour access to social media, news, emails, and games, and it took spring break for me to realize that I don’t take time to think anymore and can no longer be creative, sit in silence, simply be. These things take time, space, and cultivation. Otherwise, we lose them. I’m remembering that it takes practice and commitment, that creativity and thinking are habits of the mind that we must choose to foster.

How did I come to focus on this? First, I’ve been bored with Facebook for a while and considering taking a break from it. My girls will be thrilled, having encouraged me to do so many times in the recent past, but I admit that I’m addicted. For instance, endlessly, we are sharing a meal we made or a new restaurant we are trying or our thousandth photo of a pet or child or selfie. Or, the most recent headlines ding in with tragedy and horror. Or people are posting fights over politics or religion. No matter what, there is always another notification to check out. Every morning, I check social media first. Throughout the day, I check in, especially when a notification pops up, and let’s face it…when is there not a new notification. Every evening, the last thing I do, even after brushing my teeth, is check social media and/or play Candy Crush or Words with Friends. Through this smart phone, the constant TV shows, and relentless advertising and news media, I am never alone even when I’m alone. These days, my thoughts are rarely my own.

Continuously our minds receive images, words, ideas. Incessantly, we are bombarded by violence, threats, danger in our community/city/state/country/world, photoshopped images of what we should look like, ads of what we should buy or what we should eat, sex, alcohol, prescription drugs, major headlines, fake news, and the list goes on. My mind never gets a break from input unless I am sleeping. And all the while, I’m either checking in or thinking, What if I miss something? What if something important happens on social media? What will I DO if I’m not checking in off and on all day every day?

And even when with family or friends, too often everyone has their phone right at their fingertips. Even if we put them aside for a meal or game or conversation, we must check in, we’re worried that someone might need us, or we want to post our activity. And all the while, we’re either checking in or thinking, even if only subconsciously, What if something happens to my kids and they need me? What if I forget to post this? What would we DO without our smart phones in the palms of our hands?

Yes, we do have freewill and choice. Just because we’re connected to the “grid” doesn’t mean we must look. Or does it? How much of this is habit or even programming versus choice?
What happened to long afternoons of conversation and games? What happened to enjoying an activity without the need to broadcast it? Why do we feel such a need to over share the details and photos of our lives? What would life be like without social media and smart phones? Is it too late to return to that way of life?

I teach composition and critical thinking at a local college, so I know that writing and thinking take time. As writing instructors, we lament that our students won’t put down their cell phones, that they refuse to take the time to write and think; however, are we modeling those important habits? Lack of process, lack of critical thinking, lack of time for these things…Is this simply a symptom of post-modern day life in this new digital world or is it a choice, a habit. Or all of the above? Even if it is partly a choice, how are we to teach and live in this brave new world without embracing the new technological advancements? There are positives to consider. For instance, the opportunities for connection, knowledge, and convenience, as well as a platform for being heard and using our voices and creativity. How do we embrace electronic devices without losing what is important for process and thinking, for creativity and product, for self? How are we to balance both? Is it possible? What would a balanced life look like in this fast-paced, information-loaded society?

And what about the body? I started exercising again this spring—swimming, walking on the treadmill, lifting weights. I used to love doing these things partly because of the time it gave me to think and daydream, but now I only want to work out if there’s someone to talk to or something to watch during the process. Additionally, I used to drive in the car and listen to music which offered me time for thinking and daydreaming, but now I only want to talk to someone or check social media at stoplights. Am I losing my ability to be alone with my own thoughts, to sit in silence, to create, to dream?

Maybe it’s partly the rough political climate and probably partially the losses we’ve endured the past three years in my extended family. I still hadn’t written anything new, until now, since my uncle died two years ago this month (except for the letters that I wrote to him during the first year of grieving). 

When you let go, you create space

for better things to enter your life.

~quote from recent Facebook post

Now that I realize all of this, I choose to cultivate creativity, to make space for silence, to actively develop daydreaming. I choose to create habits in my life that will foster my creativity and critical thinking.

Step one: Take a break from social media.  For thirty days in June, I am going to take a break from my accounts and uninstall them from my cell phone. Even writing this right now seems scary. How will I get my fix? But who knows. I may like it. Maybe I will go longer or deactivate or delete them completely, but for now, I’m limiting my social media time to a short time in the afternoons or evenings. I’m putting a stop to allowing the ping of a notification to control me and attempting to find balance again, to provide time and space for creativity and thinking. How will I like it?! I won’t know until after the experience, but once I begin, if you need to reach me, you can call or text me. Also, I invite you to follow my blog as I may post there: http://aheartthatblesses.blogspot.com/.

Step two: Make a list of activities in the real world that make me happy and choose something from the list to do every week. Go on adventures that fuel my heart and soul. Like spend time in nature, read more books, snorkel a coral reef, swim in a waterfall, have deep conversations with friends, howl at the moon, glide on a sailboat, hike in a rainforest, or climb to the top of a lighthouse. Some of these I can experience here where I live while others are on my bucket list, something I hope to travel to and do someday.

Step three: Keep exercising. But put down the phone and stay in the moment.

Step four: Start each day by praying, reading a devotion, and writing morning pages.

Step five: End each day by writing in a gratitude journal to focus appreciation on the blessings in my life.

Step six: Spend time outside every day. Get fresh air and sunshine.

Step seven: Connect with people in my life away from the screen. 

Hope….that is the feeling fluttering inside, something that I haven’t experienced in a long time. Hope that I will find happiness again. Hope that my heart will blossom again. Hope that spring will come for me again. That I will enjoy something for its own sake rather than focus on posting it. That I can be excited about something again. 

How is your life different with a cell phone? With a smart phone? Are you addicted to social media? Are you worried about your children and teens and their use of smart phones?  Have you found a way to balance living with smart devices so that they don't overpower your life? I would love to hear your experience and tips. 

How Do I Miss Thee, Let Me Count the Ways

Dear UD,

This month, everything reminds me of you, and every day feels like a countdown to the day my foundation was shaken.

For instance, Facebook reminded me that one year ago, I tagged you in a photo of Mom’s flower garden, the one that you helped her create by buying her so many bulbs over the years. Yellow daffodils, pretty tulips, purple irises, and so many more.

One year ago today, you were on this earth, and I could tag you in a photo that you would see.

One year ago today, you were at home where I could call and talk to you almost any time of day.

Tonight, I’m drinking tea that I finally dug out of the cabinets, an herbal brand that I took from your home on the day of your funeral. You had so many boxes that you would never have a chance to use so I took one. I didn’t drink any tea for almost a year; opening the box was an acknowledgement that you were gone, but when I came down with a bad cold this spring, I remembered the box of tea, and now I sip the minty brew and think of you. When I drink tea, I will always think of you.

One year ago today, you were drinking iced tea, and I had the hope of another family meal at your place.

This month is a minefield and every day a reminder that the day the earthquake struck is approaching. I take a step to the right, and I remember an email conversation last April where you helped me revise a prompt for my Creative Writing class. I asked how you were, if you were writing, what you thought of the prompt, and if it made sense, and you replied:

               Hey, Rach,

               1)      Okay, not great. 

               2)      Not really. 

               3)      I think it is clear but a bit overwhelming. 

               4)      Yes, it makes sense.

          Grammar—parallel tense:  How did what you learn in Creative Writing . . .

          I would consider selecting 6 to 8 quotes for the assignment and then giving out the rest of them as an appendix for             further consideration.

          Love, UD

I love how you always, always started with a salutation and ended with love. What I would give for another email conversation with you.

A step to the left, and I think about how you coached and supported Lexi as she developed as a performer. Now, she has her first professional dance job, and I am so proud of her. We always thought you would be here to see her blossoming into an adult and professional dancer, and we want to call and tell you all about it. But we're grateful that Lexi had that chance to learn from you on her journey here.

A step to back, and I remember the day before, the day when I talked to you on the phone and wrote my last journal entry. I talked to you about wanting to visit in May, and I said that I loved you. I’m so grateful that I spoke to you that day, but I wish so much that I could talk to you again. That night, I wrote in my journal about my day, and then I ended it with a positive narrative about what my ideal life would be, something I’d wanted to do for years. The next day, I lost you, and I haven’t journaled since.

UD, a friend recently told me that I’d been searching for something outside myself. At one time, yes. Sometimes, yes. I am human, fallible, imperfect, yearning for love and belonging.

If I try to search for answers outside myself, that’s not good. If I’m looking for someone or something to make me okay or to fix or save me, that won’t work.

However, all humans need positive male role models in their lives.

Someone remarked that I am different, unique because of how deeply the loss of an uncle has impacted me, but it’s not just me who is feeling so unmoored in our extended family. Plus, you were one of those special people who impacted so many around you. Not to mention the fact that your loss was near the end of a long, hard set of traumas dealt all within a fairly short amount of time, and like a domino effect, one by one, they crashed down, leaving a scattered mess in my life.

And grief is the same yet different for everyone….it’s the same because, whether we’ve lost a beloved aunt/uncle, parent, grandparent, child, sibling, friend, there is now a hole in our heart, and our life will never be the same; we will never again be the same. Yet, it’s different because those relationships are different and because we are all different people with different personalities, needs, desires. Ultimately, loss is difficult, demanding, arduous, and the grief that follows is something that can take time because it shakes us up and spits us out alone and altered.  

And the thing is…you were one of the very few people on this earth with whom I felt completely safe. One of the few people who saw and accepted all of me. Nothing can replace that.

Safe….I realized recently, that there are only a handful of people I feel completely emotionally safe with and that I do not speak up as much as I need to around those I don’t feel emotionally safe with. It’s time to change that. Though difficult, it’s healthiest for me as well as those around me. I wish I could talk to you about this and process it, but I know you would be proud of me. I hold onto that as I attempt to navigate a new way of interacting and of being true to myself and others.

I feel like I am waking up from a long, hard nightmare…so much to handle in the past few years that I have been overwhelmed, numb, depressed, anxious. January 2013, the girls’ dad dropped a bomb in our lives that we are still processing. October 2013, Lexi moved to NYC for performing arts school, and, while natural and normal for her to go off to college, I grieved. May 2014, Grandpa Crawford died, and a few months later, Dad was diagnosed with cancer and put on hospice. December 2014, Laina and I sold what we could, packed what we could, gave away the rest, and moved back to the farm to be with my Dad and help the family. January 2015, he died. April 2015, you, Uncle David, died suddenly. May 2015, we moved back to Florida so Laina could go to high school with her friends. December 2015, we lost Charlie from Florida (my writing friend and the reason we moved to this area near the ocean), and I fell and broke my right wrist in three places. January 2016, I had surgery on my arm and was virtually helpless for a couple of months. Too much in too short of time, too difficult to process all of this, especially without you.

But this month, this month, every day, I remember you…

Love, Rach

Conversations with UD

Dear UD,

I don't know when spring will come again for me.

A year ago, February, we were planning your March birthday party, not knowing it would be the last one we would celebrate with you.

Today, I reached for the phone to call you after work, an automatic response, still, and a piercing jab to the heart reminded me that you're not here anymore, and my whole body aches that loss, mourns the knowledge of the world without you, grieves the ability to dial your number and hear your voice.

Today, the sun is shining and spring is in the air, but I can't seem to feel spring fever this year. Mom said a crocus came up in her yard on Saturday. She sent me a picture of the yellow beauty blooming in the midst of mud and brown. From a bud you gave her last year. She said it reminds her that you are still helping make her life better so we remember that you love us, but I want you here. This is so hard. Still.

Tears fall but the pain is still here. I don't know when spring will come again for me.

I want to look beyond this cold, dark winter and spy something better, but all I can see is a bleak, desolate landscape.         

Those who say time heals all wounds don't know a loss like I do. Just aching emptiness, a hole that will never be whole again.

I just want to be able to pick up the phone and then talk to you, my uncle. Conversations with you were precious. People say we don't know what we have until it's gone sometimes. That is so true.

I just want to have a conversation with you again. I miss that. I miss you.

I don't know when spring will come again for me. But I know, if you were here, you would be outside feeding the hummingbirds, walking the dogs, inspecting tree limbs for emergent buds, watching for robins, hunting for crocuses. Searching for signs of spring.

So I, too, will venture out in the fresh air, probing, hoping for a hint that spring will return again for me someday.   

Love, Rach