What I Don't Talk About

What I don't talk about is the tiny pinprick of fear I get when the phone rings and buzzes and pings to suggest clearly something is wrong. I don't talk about how relief sweeps through me when I realize those messages are not about my kid and yet my heart drops to the floor anyway because why? Why did there have to be some sweet girl so broken she saw no other way but through death? And I don't talk about how I've thought hard about how this could be my kid and how it will always be a fear that it could be my kid. The world I live in has taught me I must know it can always be me and mine and those I love dearly.

I don't talk about the deep sorrow, the one that seems to always be lurking and ready to pop up at any minute because it is November and the world has been dark and gray since last November. I don't talk about how the women are rising, hard and fast, though it doesn't feel fast enough. I am a woman and we are we are going to save this shit show. We are, but I don't talk about how long it's taking and how the world is losing so much at a rate that feels too impossible to count anymore and so I have stopped trying to keep track. I don't talk about how this feels today in this hour. In the next hour, I might be able to scavenge for a win somewhere. I don't talk about how I get through this hour to the next, casting about for hope like a wayward fisherman listing in the cold dense fog. A patient and bedrock knowing that something is there, and so he drops a line and waits. I have always been terrible at waiting, but I do have a bedrock faith. I don't talk about this because what is faith in a time like this?

I don't talk about how holding my cat on my lap is literally the only thing that provides warmth in these dark days. That and holding Big Man's hand. I don't talk about how hearing my friend's voice tremor in pain doesn't rock me the way it used to because the truth is, I am used to hearing people being rocked with pain. I don't talk about how pain is on every corner, on every street and inside every home. People carry pain of all kinds every day and still, I don't talk about it....not in a way that matters anyway. This is because, still today, there is a time and place for everything and there is no time and place for all this pain though I want to shout loudly and often, "Look! Here it is and there it is and what about this? Can't we all just agree to this suffering?"

I don't talk about the woman I know who unfailingly looks every single person she meets in the eye- head on. She stops whatever she is doing, gives the person in front of her the most solid five seconds and I am reminded that THIS is where it's at. This is the start of digging out of what I don't talk about. I look to see what is around me. The grey sky and the woman coaxing her toddler into her car seat and the guy pulling his neighbor's garbage can back to it's rightful spot simply because. I don't talk about how I know every kind gesture counts, but there are days that feel like they will never seem to add up to enough. I don't talk about it because who wants to live in a world without hope? Not me and so I don't talk about wanting to bat every positive chirpy platitude and suggestion of prayer and gratitude to the ground as if my life depends on it. The truth is sometimes I do not know what MY life depends on but I do know my life is linked to yours...and I don't talk about that.

I don't talk about how all of this sometimes makes me treat those I love most dearly most ungraciously. What is up with that? How can I be so dumb? There is probably some pop psychology there, and I don't want to talk about that either. Or maybe it's my hormones? I might like to talk about that, but you don't and so I don't talk about that either.

I don't want to talk about the bustling efficient people in the world who get things done.They are armed in clothes that match their winter wear, they have dinner organized, and their exercise is done by 7:00 am.They have had kale for breakfast and likely they have meditated, too. I don't talk about how I want to be those people, but I am not and maybe this is the real source of all I don't want to talk about. I don't want to talk about how I try and fail and keep trying again because in the end, there will be loss and maybe, just maybe, one tiny gain and that's it. I feel done with tiny gains, but if I am done with tiny gains then what? See? I don't want to talk about that.

I don't want to talk about how I want to love hard but when I do, it can hurt as much as it can heal and help and so I just don't talk about it.

I don't talk about the men in jail and how their stories are somehow tied to that girl who left us and she is tied to the friend in deep pain and this somehow relates to my losses and tiny gains. I don't talk about how my time is spent putting it all together like a puzzle with pieces that don't quite fit, but it doesn't stop me from trying anyway.








Join Me.





A week later, I still have the image of 11 women sitting in a room together writing and sharing their truth as they knew it to be at that particular moment in time.

I am thinking that I am a writer, yes, but also something else, something needed at this time.

I am a table. I am an invitation to pull up a share and I am a welcome and I am here's a warm cup and a blanket and I am open ears. I am not interested in right or wrong, but I am interested in here and now as it is for you and me.

I am drawn to all sorts of tables. I am a rare person who likes a meeting. I don't know why- perhaps it is the folder with my name neatly printed on it or the possibility that people will say what they really think, dream out loud, challenge, invoke, invite, and begin. Often meetings don't generate the excitement I often feel when I think of attending, but twenty years in, I still have the hope. And so I keep going to meetings thinking if nothing else, hope is what I can offer.

I like tables for meals, of course. I like the special meal with a birthday cake and all utensils represented-- knife, fork, AND spoon. It happens six times a year; for each birthday meal, Thanksgiving, and once over the Christmas holiday. I like looking at the faces I love so much. Despite the hours of work required for such festivities, it all feels worth it when the soft glow of candles lights up each of my hearts and I often think only one thing:  this.

But I also like the morning rush and the barely-meal, the on-the-fly feedings with books shoved aside to make room for the cereal bowls and jars of peanut butter and the cutting board and knives for apples. It means we have a place. The flotsam and jetsam of a life is visible and for someone whose works is hard to define, this feels important to me. To see that, in fact, I have done something, am doing something and will be doing more....the table doesn't clear itself.

I like tables in restaurants at brunch time with women who can go months without laying eyes on each other despite living in the same town. The proverbial stick is passed so that every woman gets a turn to update us on their life. But sometimes that stick lingers in one hand longer and someone else doesn't get a turn and it's all good because that person who needed the time gets it all and more and we pour as much love as we can into the weary and heartbroken stick holder.

I like tables laden with food at a potluck for strangers and friends. I like the hope represented in each dish. I like that the introvert came anyway, bearing a bag of chips and a jar of salsa because they decided showing up was better than not even if they choose to only linger on the edges. Let me just say this now--I saw you.

I like any table where my my husband sits. I sometimes have a hard time admitting how much I love him. We've been through it all together and we have taken turns lifting each other up. I like that in the morning he stops his work, his reading, or his game just to look at me. Sometimes I sit down to join him at the table. Most times I do not as I have my own morning goals. But there he is at our table and that is all I need.

I like the wonky round tables at the county jail. It's hard to make two round tables fit, but we do it anyway. Each man pulls up a plastic chair. There is no food so there is no "action". There is only silence and our voices and empty space as each of us thinks before we feel brave enough to speak. There is not much to look at in this cinder block room but for a few papers and each other. And that is actually why I like tables. Tables, I think, make people look at each other. It's awkward to be at any table without making some sort of eye contact. It's hard to be at a table in complete silence and so people try to put something, however small, forward. Sometime the offering is simply to show up.

I like putting that table out there for others.

I keep thinking about those women, brave and scared, who came to the farm, a six-acre table. They showed up to be seen, to write, and to be heard. All it took was the invitation. The men in jail show up too. They have other choices in programming, but they choose the Red Boot way programming because on some level, even if they can't articulate it yet, they want to be seen.

I am left wondering all the ways in which we can make this kind of space for people. I am not yet sure of my next move, but I do know it will include two things---an invitation and a table.




What is True?


Out of the blue, I received a phone call from someone in the midst of an anxiety attack. I wasn't prepared for this, but isn't this life? So much of it is full of things I am not prepared for, and I do them anyway. I asked my friend to take a deep breath (truthfully, I did the same because I had no idea what I was doing) and then I said, "Tell me... what's going on?" He talked for ten minutes, telling me a long and convoluted story, his voice rising to peaks and lowering to valleys that seemed to match the plot twists he was sharing. Some of it I could not follow. After he was done I said, "Ok. Now out of all of this, what is true?"

He paused. From all of his meanderings he could only identify two things he knew with certainty were true. The rest was a story he was telling himself. His breathing became normal and his sentences took on the sheen of someone more aware of the moment he was in and he was willing to hang up with a degree of certainty, that for the time being, he would be ok. The truth as he had determined was still hard but manageable.

This whole incident feels indicative of this new world we are living in. What is true? How do I find my way to the truth? I start with my breath. Then I move on to the warm cat in my arms and the sun filtering through the leaves casting a narrow shadow on my dog sleeping in her favorite spot on the couch. I see the remnants of breakfast in the sink, spy my coffee cup, mostly empty, and I think, "I am here."

"Here" means this point in history like none other. "Here" means I debate often with myself about when I will read the news. Morning, noon, or night? I have to decide how much time I will give to it. I choose a variety of sources and lately, they are all saying the same thing. What is true is I am watching an unhinged man "lead" our country. What is true is my seventh grader shows a much greater capacity for remorse and self-reflection than the adult male in the White House. What is also true is that the officials of the party he aligned with have remained silent, mostly, despite his unhinged behavior. This, at times, unnerves me. 

What is also true is people are starting to not talk about the president at all. Face to face, I see friends for walks and attend committee meetings and go about my business and rarely does anyone mention the news. This distresses me. It seems like we are accepting and normalizing a dangerous man. My family's not talking, my friends aren't talking, and really what it comes down to is, what is there to say? No one knows for sure, and isn't that the truth? 

Another true thing is I went to a meeting this morning for a group whose main purpose is to encourage engagement within our community about any number of things. This summer, we want to get our community talking to each other. There is no hidden agenda other than getting out of your house and getting to know those who live next to you. This is a concrete action I am taking in the place where I live. 

It's also true I drive to county jail and watch a friend lead some inmates through the steps that Molly Barker created in The Red Boot Coalition. Many of them sit there, free from alcohol and drugs for the first time, and ever-so-slowly start to put the pieces of their past, present, and future life together. I listen, mostly, and I am struck at how this is the real time version of what it means to be more alike than different. Anxiety and parenting and money and fear and an unwillingness to admit our faults and mistakes--every single person carries these things no matter how shiny their outsides look. As they make connections, I make connections I have never made before. I can't say what lasting impact this will have on them, but I feel changed. Once they leave the safety net of a jail, who really knows what will happen? But it is amazing! What is true is that good things can happen while the world appears to be falling apart.

Still, today, I am haunted by my own words. What is true? What is true is I have no idea of how to explain someone like Trump to my kids, but I can demonstrate kindness and healthy debate. I can feel fear in my heart with every headline I read and then replace that fear with one action that rises above every heartless and selfish act. I can keep writing and talking and using my own voice when it seems other people seem scared. I can keep reaching out to people until the truths I see and feel and create are larger and more powerful than the headlines. Perhaps I can change the headlines. It seems unlikely, but I can try. There seems to be no other choice for me...and that is the truth.