First One Awake

Hospitality is a simple and deeply guided art, an expression of a value that says “there is room for you here in our routines. Come eat with us. You need not ask before you open the fridge, or the cabinet above the stove for a mug for coffee. The towels you see hanging on the racks by the tub are yours to use. If you need something, don’t apologize when you ask. You are never bothering us. Not ever. We’re so glad you’re staying with us.” I’ve written about this before, and there’s still more to say.

Our friends Mac and Audrey practice this art. Indeed, they arrange their lives around it.

When we arrived at their home after dinner on Saturday, we were expected to walk right in, not timidly knock for permission to enter. We are family, they say, not guests. And it’s family in the best interpretation—an easy meshing of lives and habits and morning routines and who needs the shower next. For the five or so days we spend together, there is ample picking up where we left off, laughing, shaking our heads at the world’s sorrows, and eating whatever is here whenever the mood strikes you. The coffee pot is never empty.

We make this journey every June, to gather with family and dear friends and the most pleasant of acquaintances on the Cheyenne River reservation to pray for everything and everyone. It really isn’t more complicated than that, and if I waxed on in an attempt to paint you a more detailed picture, it would become more complicated than it needs to be, and more importantly, I’d be handing over stories that aren’t mine to tell. Let’s leave it here for now: we drive 1300 miles to pray our brains out, and leave after ten days, filled with lessons we can’t learn anywhere else on the planet.

Mac and Audrey teach us about authentic openheartedness; we pay close attention and bring it all back home to unpack over the next eleven months. I had no sooner put two of my duffel bags on her living room floor than she came toward me with a Wal-Mart freezer bag filled with items she’d collected at various rummage sales in the past year (she sure knows me, doesn’t she??). And I handed over a similar bag of carefully selected treasures from the Midwest (in a Granville, Ohio Ross Market IGA paper sack), which she immediately unloaded, smiling. I now have more fabric to use for the next quilt idea that hits me, and she has the beginnings of a great dinner—Carfagna’s classic pasta sauce and a pull-apart garlic-parmesan ring of bread that, as of yesterday morning, already had two pieces missing (when something smells that good, there’s no point waiting, and no harm done helping yourself). Sunday morning, we woke up to her signature breakfast—eggs Benedict, served on familiar Corelle plates with purple irises on them.

We spent most of the day sitting at the kitchen table or stretched out like royalty on the couch and recliner in the living room, Gilligan’s Island reruns on the TV. Patrick even nodded off here and there in the conversation, and we only noticed it in the kindest of ways. Let him be; Sundays back home rarely see such inertia. We’ll enjoy it while it’s available to us. Regular chores will overtake us again soon enough.

For now, I’m the first one awake, and moving about the kitchen with extreme slowness as I fill the hotpot with water for tea and oatmeal, trying to keep the fridge door openings and closings to a minimum. Audrey is asleep on the couch and there’s no wall between the kitchen and the living room to absorb the clanking of silverware (try scraping the last bits of oats and strawberries from the bowl in complete silence. I can show you how to do that now).

This soundless space of morning is the perfect time to reflect on what a privilege it is to know and love these two people, and share their way of life for a short five days each June. We’re surrounded by vast horizon-hugging cattle pastures and South Dakota prairies, and can see the weather change in the west while the clouds in the east move across their part of the sky unaware. The spindly-legged but stalwart Dupree water tower stands at the edge of town behind the elementary school’s parking lot, and I ask Audrey how it has managed to survive the brutal winds of winter. Everywhere we look is evidence of survival, of continuing on in a harsh and beautiful landscape. Mac and Audrey have made a good life together in this place, adding their own triumphs and heartaches with grace and generosity of spirit. If we talked less, or cut our stay short, we’d still have an avalanche of wisdom to pick through on our long ride home. It’s that fertile, that rich.

Audrey stirs on the couch, and the fridge hums to life for another cycle. I think it’s safe to move around less silently, to find my bag of sewing projects and heat up more water for tea.

I wonder what she’ll teach me today.

Passengering

The Corn Crib restaurant/gas station in Shelby, Iowa is in the rear view mirror and we’re facing north now, heading toward Eagle Butte, South Dakota. The new year is almost upon us (seasonally, that is), and we’ll soon trade flushing toilets for hand-dug latrines where I’ve been told the rattlesnakes curl up at night. The beam of a good flashlight is worth its weight in the D batteries that power it up.

From the tip of our front porch to the grassy patch on Sundance grounds where we park the truck that will be “home” to us for seven days, we travel 1300 miles and Patrick does most of the driving. I’m in the privileged shotgun seat with the following duties: looking about at the flat fields that become gradually more hilly and rolling as we enter Illinois, passing the driver a peeled banana and taking the lid off of his gas station coffee so it can cool off a bit, tossing out clever comments when I see any of those road trip oddities (heading for Corn Palace territory as we glide into Mitchell, SD), and reaching over uncountable times to rub his shoulders and scratch the part of his back I can reach without disturbing his steering control. The silence that passes easily between us is graced with many “I love you”s and warm hand squeezes. We’re quite the pair of compatible road trip buddies.

As a self-described fidgeter, I’m grateful for all the responsibilities that go with my passenger role. And it starts when we’re packing the night before. What supplies and provisions need to be within arm’s reach once we’ve hit 70mph? Do we have enough water and are we saving one cup holder for the inevitable latte purchase that makes the trip feel that much more special? Where did we put the __________? (it could be anything on this trip, truly, with latrines in our immediate future). I also swap our phones on the charger when one of us is low on juice. Being in the right front seat isn’t license to fall asleep, I can assure you. I welcome the chance to be useful, as I know the stress of driving well enough. That Patrick can so masterfully shoulder this task for us, and for the lion’s share of those 1300 miles is the most gracious of selfless acts. I’m happy to switch places with him for those 100+ miles that stretch out in front of us in rhythmic droning tire tones and shave off a couple three hours for him. But he’s the mostly captain of this four-wheeled ship, and when it looks like he’s getting bored, I remember where I put the bag of white cheddar popcorn.

We stopped last night to lay down our bones in Adair, Iowa, our best estimate at the halfway point in our journey. It didn’t matter that the water in our humble motel room came out slightly brownish at first, instead of clear. I let it run a bit longer, filled my cup, closed my eyes and swigged down my last pill of the day. I was too tired to imagine what the bacteria in my gut had to contend with from those couple of tablespoons of Adair’s finest. A delicious sleep awaited me, and the prospect of being gloriously horizontal and not moving filled each and every one of my senses. I would not leave those pillows waiting a moment longer—a good passenger is well-rested for the next day’s to-do-while-sitting list.

So this morning, full of the Crib’s “Wrangler” breakfast special (two eggs over easy, marble rye toast, hash browns, and three bacon strips) and a creamy cup of decaf, we’re each in our respective traveling seats, doing our jobs the best way we know how. We’ll land at our friend’s place in Dupree around 10:30 tonight. For the next nine hours, I know where the bananas are, how much cash we have, and where our next latte is coming from.

On The Edge

A loved one is missing.

Someone’s integrity is questioned in a soul-shaking way.

A news story triggers memories of abuse and assault.

Passing a beloved co-worker in the hall on our way to somewhere else, I catch her eyes, seeing only fatigued desperation. We both smile weakly and keep going.

These didn’t all happen to me this past week (some are mine, the rest belong to others), but they happened around me and in the vicinity of my love for the people they affected. I mentioned to a senior manager that there was a feeling in the office, a thick presence of the world being unsettled, but no singular incident or source to which we could assign cause or blame. What could we do? Impulsively, I wanted to gather us all in a room large enough to hold us and the dissonance that wrapped ‘round us, and perform some ritual that would give us—each and all—blessed release. It wasn’t to be, of course. We’re all so busy.

To balance on such a ledge emotionally takes its eventual toll. What was hard this past week was the collective impact of not just one or two, but several deeply carved dramas that knew no easy resolution, were all unleashed in the cramped confines of the workplace we shared, and touched the hearts that we regularly give over to someone else’s more urgent need. That’s fine and works well in the moments we do it, but our own untended and unfinished business still raps its ragged bloody knuckles on the door of our own routines, insistent that we pay some attention to the headache strapped around our temples, the grumble of hunger that will most certainly go unfed for yet another hour (that Hershey’s miniature we plucked out of the manager’s candy dish on our way out to the next meeting has no protein to help us think clearly), the bones and muscles that need to just be still for heaven’s sake: just give me five minutes. Ok, I’ll take three, but you’ve got to sit down.

The elusive and hyphenated edict of “self-care” conjures images of birdsong-infused hilltops where good people sit in a lotus position and exhale it all to the blue and cloudless skies above. In the traffic of my after-work commute, I’m content to press “play” on Sting’s “Ten Summoner’s Tales” and let that do the trick until I get home (see any of my previous posts for descriptions of the paradise that rescues me daily). I don’t know what varieties of hilltop paradise are available to the one whose integrity was questioned (I know and love her. It was a deep cut), or the friend whose loved one is still missing (I can’t begin to imagine how they are managing their lives around this unrelenting helplessness); I hope and pray, fiercely, that they have at minimum an entry-level understanding of deep breathing, and allow themselves the luxury of at least five deep inhales followed by five equally deep exhales. It won’t fix what’s wrong, but it may just settle the soul long enough to let in a few sane options for moving forward and past the struggle that holds them fast.

Any time I’ve been on the edge of anything—Niagra Falls, the south rim of the Grand Canyon, the steps on our front porch, a decision that would ripple out and impact several people—I've noticed that I’m more alert, more awake to the “what ifs” that make their home right on that precipice with me. The trick, and it is indeed a trick, is not letting their chorus become louder than my own good sense and intuition. I’ve failed spectacularly at this on more than one occasion, letting my darkest apprehensions take the lead (which I dumbly followed with spectacularly predictable outcomes) and distort my outlook for days or years. I’ve also shut down the “what if” chatter with a single well-executed blow of reason and confidence, and am still riding the wave of that glory, feeling both reckless and masterfully guided. I can live on the thin strand that connects “both” with “and”, and tread water when I need to.

But this past week, that strand was too stretched, the dramas too complex and close together, and I absorbed it all without any time to set each one down, look at it closely, and consider myriad options to give my help. The pain, the anxiety, the unsettled-ness just kept coming, a river of tears and fears into which I stepped and was carried away. There were still meetings to attend, drafts to review and revise, copies to be made, and phone calls to return. I did my best, and will repair whatever wasn’t done to standard. But…I wanted to help. And couldn’t.

It’s the end of a new week now, and there’s been some breathing room. Time for well-chosen words and simple loving gestures of presence. A loved one is still missing, someone was still assaulted and is now unpacking the next layer of that healing process. I’m alert, on the edge of things, as life moves forward.

Sometimes, that’s all I can do. I hope it is enough.

We're Not Building A Piano

You may have noticed I’ve not posted an update about the mudroom renovation, resplendent with discouraging “before” and radiant “after” photos even “This Old House” would envy. Were Scott Omelianuk and his team of handy DIYers looking through the single-pane windows trimmed enchantingly with uneven dried-out dirty tan blobs of Great Stuff spray foam insulation that pre-date the Regan administration, their expressions would reflect a masterful blend of pity and disbelief. I wish they were looking through the windows; I could offer them sandwiches in exchange for an hour or two of labor (hey, I make a mean tuna salad. Ask to see the before and after pictures of that, why don’t you?).

Back in March, our spirits and courage in high gear, Patrick and I knew we could bang out the demolition and drywall phases of this project, meet some friends for lunch an hour away by the end of the week, and return to our respective workplaces with accomplishment oozing from our pores. Let other fools hire out such a job; we’ve got sturdy work boots and hours of YouTube “Instructable” videos to coach us through to completion.

But something happened on the way to renovation paradise, and here we are, still limping along, one of us literally, and I just put on the first coat of drywall primer. It’s May 19th, by the way. We struck our first blow to the old drywall on March 23rd. I’ll wait while you do the math…

Demolition was easy, and rather fun, since we weren’t going to get into trouble for ripping off old brown paneling sections and punching holes in the textured drywall ceiling like spoiled rock stars in a cheap hotel room. We flung the ragged sections out the back door with gleeful abandon unbefitting two middle-aged lovebirds, and tamed the pile of debris into those tough contractor trash bags (we bought two 40-count boxes, and just opened the second one last week). When I found a perfectly mummified rat behind the old insulation above one of the windows, I knew it was break time. We stood back and surveyed the small area with satisfaction, and took ourselves out to dinner. Day one was in the books (you should know that we broke our record for the most trash bags piled up at the curb, and left three gift cards in a Zip-loc baggie dangling from the handle of our green trash bin for the patient garbage collector. He would earn his paycheck and more when he arrived the next day to do his job).

We hummed our way, more or less, through the fun of cutting large pink fluffy and itchy sections of batt insulation, gently pushing it into the uneven spaces between the wall studs, and hoisting it overhead into the gaps between ceiling beams, stapling the paper edges to the 100+ year-old wood. It was at this point that we felt the first twinges of unmet expectations nibbling at our project enthusiasm. But the weather was kind—sunny and warm enough to move the drywall cutting phase outside. And our marriage was still intact.

What tested our patience (with the project and each other, at times) was this drywall phase, with its finer work of measuring (twice) and cutting (once) the drywall sections, mudding and taping into the corners of a room that I don’t think was ever built square, and using what felt like a chef’s canvas-rolled collection of specialty knives to apply and “feather” the joint compound not just once, but four or six times (when we were buying the supplies we needed, I wondered why there were only two bucket sizes of compound available—the “quick patch” size, and the 50-gallon drum. Surely it was more than we’d ever use, but how would I sell what was left on Facebook?). I got stuck on the word “feather”, because it sounded so soft and pleasant and light. It’s none of that, and quite the trick, applying pressure on the knife blade at just the right angle to smooth the outer edges of the mud beyond the ever-so-slightly thicker seamlines where one piece of drywall met another (my favorite part remains the “letting it dry” part). With great humility, I state freely that I have still not mastered this. Thank God for the sanding step, which I have mastered.

Patrick has the mind of an engineer, and can logically work his way through learning any new skill. But he’s also cursed with the desire to do something new perfectly the first time, and his own worst and harshest critic when “perfect” is nowhere near the outcome staring back at him. With this renovation, I tended more toward the “good is good enough” vibe, and glazed over the rough edges of where we were clearly going to fall short. It was this contrast in opinions and approaches that shut us both down on getting the mudroom done sooner. Days became weeks, and we turned our attention to any other task but this one—cleaning out the fridge, cutting the grass, taking longer to sweep off the front porch than was necessary, binge-watching “Corner Gas” on Amazon Prime Video. Until one night, I just snapped. Most of what we stored in the old version of the mudroom was now packed and stacked in the once-clean and bright living room, waiting to be repatriated and organized. I couldn’t live in what felt like a storage unit with houseplants for the unforeseeable future anymore. We needed to push past this impasse in our perspectives and find a reasonable path forward.

I remembered two bits of wisdom that Patrick had often spoken aloud when bravely coaching himself through other project setbacks: “ ‘Perfection’ is the enemy of ‘good enough’ “, and “We aren’t building a piano”. It was a risk, tossing these back at him as a way to put an end to our inertia. Thankfully, our marriage has tolerated and survived much greater challenges, and he received his own wise counsel with patience and grace. We bought a can of drywall primer and a couple of wrong-sized paint pan liners. Some dear friends and fellow DIYers offered gentle advice about wiping the patches of joint compound with a damp cloth instead of dry sanding, and a door to project traction was kicked open.

Now, as I write this and the primer is drying, I can see in my mind’s eye the finished pale blue walls of what will be the new and improved mudroom, with rolling metal shelving and plastic totes with snap on lids keeping our craft supplies and sweat towels neatly stored and easy to find. If I don’t look too closely, I won’t see the places where the drywall seams didn’t butt together squarely, and the ceiling near the door to the crawlspace is off by a couple of inches. I’ll see only a better view through the single-paned windows where the sunlight can now pour through on the room that made us just a little smarter, and a lot more humble.

Scott Omelianuk, if you’re reading, you’re welcome to come take a look. After all, I do make a pretty mean tuna sandwich.