This Week’s Moment of Happiness Despite the News

And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news.

The switch into second semester brought a sigh with it in my house. We haven’t had much of second semester yet, because of a rash of snow days – four in the last two weeks – and that’s been okay. It gives us a chance to brace ourselves because we’re heading into the season of last-times.

This is Olivia’s last semester in high school. And this is my last semester of having a child in the Waukesha school system.

I graduated from Waukesha North High School in 1978. I was only in the school system for three semesters, moving here during the second semester of my junior year. But I consider Waukesha North my school home. My oldest boy, Christopher, entered kindergarten in 1989. And in June of 2019, my youngest child, Olivia, will graduate. While Olivia attended her freshman and sophomore years at Waukesha South, all four of my kids graduated or will graduate from North.

This is the season of the last time I will have to fill her school lunch account. Her last IEP. Her last orchestra concert at the high school level. The last time I have to sign class syllabi. The last, the last, the last.

It’s odd. It’s bittersweet. It’s exhilarating.

Olivia applied to four colleges and she was accepted at all of them. We haven’t announced which one she’s going to yet, because we’re still waiting for one more package. But we’ve received one really outstanding offer, and we think that’s where she will be going. I’ve spent a lot of time, picturing her walking on those school grounds, standing by the bell tower, passing historical buildings where so many young women have gone before her. Talking, listening, learning. Growing and becoming. And it makes me tear up every time.

When Olivia was born, my three older kids, Christopher, Andy and Katie, were 16, 14, and 13 years old, respectively. One of the benefits of having a child when I was forty years old, over a decade after my last child, is that as those older kids get older, I was able to turn to Olivia and say, “Well, I’m still the parent of a pre-schooler – a kindergartener – a sixth grader – a high school kid.” Now, when I turn, I look directly into her eyes.

It’s hard.

But…during these snow days, there was one morning where she got up well past noon. When she finally stumbled into the kitchen, she was wearing…one-piece furry hooded Eeyore pajamas. The slick, sophisticated young woman in black leggings, black army boots, and a black leather jacket wasn’t there. Instead, there was my toddler, and I could see her again, in her pink fuzzy footie one-piece pajamas, looking sleepily at me, rubbing one eye with her fist.

There she was. And I was so happy to see her.

I realized as I wrote this that I see glimpses of my little ones in all four of my kids. My oldest, Christopher, is thirty-five, married, and is the father of my six-year old grandbaby, Maya Mae. But whenever he sees me and it’s time for him to go, he says, “Bye, Mommy,” and gives me a hug and a kiss on my cheek. He even rests his head on top of mine, and for that moment, he’s the little boy who wrapped himself around me whenever I had to leave him. Andy, at almost 33, still finds the time once a week to come over before Olivia gets home from school to set up an entire dramatic scene with her stuffed animals, complete with dialogue written on torn-page speech bubbles from their mouths. I see Andy at 14, when I was alone with him in the car and I apologized that my situation was such that I couldn’t afford to take him and his siblings on vacations to Disneyworld, like his father could. “Mom,” he told me then. “You’ve already given me the best gift. We have Olivia.” And Katie, who will soon be 32, who today texted me from an airport and said, “There is a child next to me, not more than 4 years old, and his name is Virgil. Virgil. Thought of you.” Virgil is one of the main characters in my novel, In Grace’s Time. And Katie is the child whose every sentence, practically, started with “Mommy! Mommy!” And she once called me her best friend.

And now, Olivia. In fleece one-piece fuzzy Eeyore pajamas. Every morning, when she gets up and comes looking for me, she sings out, “Mama!”

I raised my kids to embrace the world. Instead of me.

But they find ways to do both.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.                               

Yesterday, my friend John died. I’ve known John for at least fifteen years. He was my hair guy, but he was also a great friend and in the tradition of barbers and hair stylists, he was someone with a wide-open heart, wide-open arms, and ears always ready to listen. John was featured in the 7/11/17 Today’s Moment Of Happiness Despite The News. You can see it in the book, but I am putting it back up here, in his honor and memory and with great love. I already miss you, John.

7/11/17

And so today’s moment of happiness despite the news.

I know that many people believe, thanks to Charles Schulz, that happiness is a warm puppy. I do love puppies. But happiness to me today, and pretty much any day, is a hot hairdryer.

I honestly don’t remember how old I was the first time I sat under a salon hairdryer. Comfortable chair. Big bucket over my head. Hot air blasting out of it onto my hair, down my neck, onto my shoulders. White noise that blocked out everything else in the room. I do know that I fell in love that day.

It probably helps to know that I was a child who sat on heat registers too, with my shirt belled over it, so that the heat surrounded me. I drive my convertible with the heated seats on. In my currently air-conditioned house, I use a space heater on my desk, and I often sit under a heated throw.

I kinda like heat.

Today, in the middle of all that’s been messy lately, I went for my standing hair appointment at Foxies Salon in Waukesha. I started going there when Olivia was in kindergarten – she’s going to be a junior in high school now. So it’s been a while. John, my hair guy, is the person responsible for the red spiky hair that I’m recognized for now. At first, when I had my hair cut short and kept it brown, he would spike it for fun before I left the salon. I’d smile, then go home and wash the gel out, and return me to my flat-haired, brown-haired existence.

But something happened when Olivia was five and I was forty-five. Not only did I let the spikes stay, but I told John to turn it red. And boy, did he.

Somehow, from that, I emerged.

And John, bless him, figured out very quickly that no matter what the weather, the season, the temperatures, or my current state of affairs, it was absolutely necessary to turn the dryer on high, lower it over my face, and leave me sitting there.

Today, he added further gentleness. I think, in his quiet way, he knew I needed it.

He turned the hairdryer on ahead of time. It was already hot when it reached my scalp. He turned the chair just so, so I could reach my iced latte, sitting on his covered sink. He handed me my book. And I’m pretty sure he cranked the timer to extra minutes.

For that little bit, I was in an inner sanctum. There was heat. There was coffee. There was a good book.

There wasn’t any cancer. There was just me.

I can’t explain why sitting under a hairdryer means so much. There’s just such comfort there. The noise that isn’t a noise blocking out the rest of the world. The heat. No one and no thing can reach me when I’m in there.

Though one thing did reach me. Kindness.

Thanks, John.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.      

 

And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news.

I’ve been finding myself craving silence lately. During the day, when Michael is at work and Olivia is at school, I’m working out of my office at home and I’ve been keeping the house in silence. No television, no music, nothing. I even mute my phone. In the car, I usually hit the music as soon as I start the engine and I sing along with whatever CD I’m obsessed with at the moment. But right now, the CD player is off. I drive in silence. When I’m done teaching a class and everyone has gone on home, I dim the classroom’s lights and take a little longer than normal to straighten everything up, just so I can stay in the quiet for just a bit longer. In the morning, when I wake up, I’m not getting out of bed very quickly. Instead, I lay there and look out the window and listen to nothing, except maybe a cat’s purr. Then I step into the chaos that is the world right now.

I’m avoiding busy places, like the mall. When we go out to eat, I choose a quiet restaurant and we go late. I haven’t been back to the church I visited on Christmas Eve, because of its loudness. And often, involuntarily, I realize I have my hands up over my ears.

Years ago, when I still watched horror movies (the last one I saw, which did me in, was An American Werewolf In London), I watched the screen with my hands over my eyes and my fingers slitted, just a bit. Now, I check the morning news headlines on the internet the same way. I want to know what’s going on, but I don’t want to let it in. There’s a part of me that wants to declare a personal boycott on the news, but then there’s an underlying thrum of fear that if I’m not aware, then I won’t be prepared…but for what? Armageddon? The end of the world as we know it? The Zombie Apocalypse?

So I keep watching, through slitted fingers. And now, craving silence. My hands over my ears.

Our dog Ursula is an anxious dog. She’s a rescue who we adopted last March. In that time, she’s improved greatly, but we’ve had to work through her fears of the television, the microwave, the icemaker on the fridge, slamming doors, loud voices, the sound of the busses going by, the piano, the toaster, the Christmas tree, my teapot…you get the picture. She’s afraid of everything. Lately, Ursula’s place of comfort has been my daughter Olivia’s bathroom. It’s the only room in the condo that doesn’t get any natural light. It’s painted a soothing, quiet blue. There is a soft powder blue bath rug on the floor. The bathroom is in the center of the house, so while her world reels around her, Ursula sits in the dark on the soft blue rug. It’s quiet.

Yesterday, I went looking for her and that’s where I found her. I decided to join her for just a bit. I lowered the lid on the toilet seat and sat down. Ursula shifted, wedged herself between my legs, and we were still.

It was silent.

It was dark.

It was warm.

And so we sat.

After about five minutes, Ursula rested her big concrete head on my knee and she heaved a sigh that expanded her ribs like an umbrella and then she deflated. I sighed with her. I felt us both relax.

I have no idea how long we stayed there. But I do know when we walked out, we were both the better for it. I think Ursula is on to something.

Apparently, happiness – and peace – can be found in a dark silent bathroom. With a dog.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.       

And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news.

I suppose it’s a natural thing to take stock at the start of a new year. We’re seventeen days in now, and I’ve been taking stock since New Year’s Eve. 2017 and 2018 were years that taught me that nothing is in my control, and in fact, I watched those two years unravel with events that were totally out of my control. I could only roll with them and wait to find my way back to the surface.

When I visited my medical oncologist in December and I told him that the cancer was actually harder to deal with after it was over, he said, “That makes sense. You’ve had two major events (the cancer, and then the infection) over a short period of time that could have killed you.” I said, “I don’t think of it that way.” When he asked me to explain, I said, “I’ve had two major events where I lived.”

But still, as 2019 came in, I found myself searching for something that I could do that would give me some sense of being in control again. And that’s why last Sunday night, at 11:00, I found myself in the AllWriters’ classroom, the lights on and blazing out onto the dark street.

One whole wall of the classroom contains tall bookshelves, and in front of the floor to ceiling windows, there are four more short shelves. The shelves are stuffed with books. There was an article released this week, and it’s echoing many others, saying that book sales are up and that the sale of physical books, not e–books, is thriving. You have only to look in my classroom to see the proof of that. Once or twice a year, I typically straighten the books, because as new titles are added, space grows slim, and so new books are stacked sideways on top of the others. I haven’t done the straightening for almost two years, because of the weakness in my right arm, one of the remaining insults of the breast cancer.

For the last several months, I have glared at my messy bookshelves every time I walked into my classroom. I was going to straighten them during my week off between Christmas and New Year’s, but things kept interrupting. Finally, I made a promise to myself that the books would be done last weekend. I had a class on Saturday until one, Michael had a client at two, and then I would rework the bookshelves.

Except, of course, life interrupts and I ended up chauffeuring family members around so they could get their own to-do lists done.

By Sunday night, I was rabid. So at 11:00, I went downstairs. It was late, I was tired, but I didn’t care. I was taking control of something, even if it was my own schedule and getting something done that needed to be done on MY list.

Until just after two in the morning, I sorted books, shifted books, placed them in piles and revered their memories. I dusted the shelves, front to back, left to right, and I dusted the books. Somewhere after one o’clock, I had to start doing things with mostly my left hand and arm – my right was rendered useless.

But when I stood back at 2:00 in the morning, the lights bright as classtime inside, all of my books were standing tall, their spines straight. They were in order, alphabetically. Outside, our Little Free Library was full once again, with books waiting to be opened by someone new, and there are more ready to go, tucked away in a cupboard for now. On the classroom table, there was a line of books about writing, which would be offered to students as they came in during the week.

As I stood there, my spine straightened too. Control. My classroom looked like my classroom again. And my love for words, for writing, for reading, for writers, was once again bright and ready for anyone and everyone to see. My life looked like my life again.

Sometimes, all it takes is row after row of books standing in order to snap an entire life back in place again.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.     

    

And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news.

This past Monday, I returned to the Cancer Center. For those keeping count, this makes 3 visits in as many months. There was the radiation oncologist in November (just a follow-up), the medication oncologist in December (just a follow-up) and this week, the surgeon (just a follow-up). This is after the scads of appointments in September and October when the spot where the tumor used to be suddenly became hyper-infected, nearly landing me in the ICU, and that came after a rash of appointments in August for a mammogram, the medical oncologist, and the surgeon (just a follow-up, follow-up, follow-up).

The thing that I’m discovering is that being cancer-free doesn’t mean a return to normal life. I am living a life of just-making-sure follow-ups. Which means it’s really hard to put all this behind me because it’s constantly in front of me, just-in-case.

But on the other hand, the really, really big hand, I’m alive.

It also helps that the Cancer Center goes out of its way to be comforting. Every waiting room has a large roaring fireplace, even in the summer, because cancer patients tend to be cold. The chairs are a soft leather, with wide seats and high backs. There is always coffee, and there’s hot water for tea or hot chocolate, and a basket of graham crackers for those who had blood drawn or for if we’re just hungry.

When I arrived, there was a prime chair waiting for me, right in front of the fireplace. I grabbed a cup of coffee and some graham crackers and hunkered down. I’d brought manuscripts with me, so I was soon reading and purple-penning away. But even as I hunkered, I worried. It was a two-whammy worry this time. The appointment was a follow-up on the cancer (is it back?) and a follow-up on the vile infection (is it back?). So as I sat and read and soaked in the lovely heat and free caffeine, the worry-hum sang in my head.

And then it was interrupted by a baby’s cry.

I looked over my shoulder and saw a young mother changing a baby, who was less than a year old. The cry wasn’t lusty. It was my first time seeing a baby at the Cancer Center. I wondered who the cancer patient was, the mom or the baby. So I studied her face.

The worry there? Mama-worry-for-baby face. Magnified.

I turned in my seat and stared straight ahead, no longer seeing my pages.

A baby. Cancer.

Oh, no.

The mom walked him around, offering a bottle. He’d take a few sucks, spit it out, cry a little, and then she’d try again. Eventually, she sat down in the chair next to me and sat him up in her lap. The baby and I looked at each other. “Hi, peekaboo,” I said, waving my fingers. “Hi, babybaby.”

And he smiled.

The mom said, “His bottle is cold. That’s why he won’t take it.” Her mouth turned down. “I wish I could warm it. He needs it warm.”

I didn’t ask why.

While there was coffee, hot chocolate, tea and graham crackers, there was no microwave. That’s when I remembered my own mom history. With three kids in their early and mid-thirties and one who is eighteen, I straddle technology. I know the convenience of the microwave. But I remember pre-microwave. And next to the coffeemaker, there was a faucet.

“Take the bottle,” I said, “go to the faucet and run the hot water. Tilt the bottle under it and shake it while the hot water runs over it. The formula will heat up really fast.”

She lit up. And then she looked at the baby.

“I can take him,” I said. “They haven’t called for me yet.”

And so for a few minutes, I had a fellow cancer patient on my lap. One that made soft noises and gave me soft smiles. For those few minutes, I threw every bit of energy or prayer or whatever you want to call it into Please let him be okay, please let him be okay, please let him be okay…

Then the mom came back and as soon as she had him settled in her arms again, he went after that warm bottle like there was no tomorrow.

Please let there be a tomorrow.

But I helped. At least for a few minutes, I helped and he smiled and so did she.

By the way, I came home with still no cancer. And no more vile infection. And no more follow-ups until April.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.             

And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news.

My daughter Olivia had to work on New Year’s Day. The night before, in the midst of New Year hoopla, we got hit with all sorts of weather – snow, ice, snow, rain, snow – and so I’d parked Hemi in the parking garage across the street. Livvy and I trudged through the slush and just before we reached the door to the bus depot/parking garage, Livvy cried, “There’s somebody laying against the door!”

There was. As I looked through the glass, I saw a young man, his head pressed firmly against the door, out cold. He was in a winter jacket and jeans, had a hat and gloves.

“He’s so young,” Olivia said.

He was.

I carefully opened the other door and as soon as I had it cracked, I could hear him snoring. As we stepped past him to the elevators, I swept him with my eyes, looking for steady respiration, nothing blocking his mouth, any signs of injury. He passed. He was simply sound asleep.

I had to get Olivia to work. But all the way, she talked about the young man, about if he was homeless, how could he be homeless so young, what could we do, what could she do. I dropped her off at the grocery store and then headed back. I decided to check on the young man in about an hour. And then at home, and at work, I promptly forgot.

Five hours later, I brought Olivia home. As we drove past the parking garage, I slowed the car and we both looked. We could see at least two people behind the glass doors, sitting on the floor. There were no buses on this holiday, so the warm lobby was closed. There was only this little glass enclosure that housed the elevators, so people could get to their cars up above.

Olivia looked at me, her mouth drawing down. I drove around the corner to home.

Inside, I told Michael about it. Olivia sat down to dinner, her face somber.

So…I pulled out a grocery bag and loaded it with some Lunchables, some apples, some tangerines, some bottles of water. And then Michael and I set out to the parking garage, leaving behind a brighter Olivia, eating her supper.

When we opened the glass doors, there were three people…and none of them were the young man. There were two men and a woman. They looked at us warily. “Hi,” I said. “Are you hungry?”

The sigh they released could have shook leaves from summer trees.

Each of them grabbed my hand and Michael’s as we handed out the food and water. Twice, the woman held on to me. “I’m Kelly,” she said. And then she told me her name a second time. It seemed so important to her to be called by name, to be someone, to be herself. “Hi, Kelly,” I said twice, and then a third time. “I’m Kathie.”

We reminded them of the location of the Salvation Army shelter, a short walk away, and the women’s shelters. When we returned to our home, I wished hard that I could do more.

So why is this a moment of happiness?

Because in the middle of a government brawl over putting up a ridiculous wall on our country’s southern border, despite the fact that the plaque next to the Statue of Liberty reads:

“Give me your tired, your poor,

Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,

The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.

Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me,

I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”

…despite the fact that we are keeping children, children, locked up in “camps” that make animal shelters look like the most luxurious hotel, despite the fact that some of these children have died, despite the fact that we live here and I am raising my child here…

My child still looked at a young man, sound asleep in the only warm place he could find, and she looked at him without judgement. She wanted to help.

She wanted to do what was right. I quickly forgot the young man for the better part of the afternoon. But Olivia didn’t forget and she reminded me of what is right and while I didn’t get to help the young man, I helped three others.    

And it’s my moment of happiness because besides bringing three people a meal, I was able to hold a scared woman’s hand and call her by name and give her, for just a moment, her personhood back.

This is the second time we’ve done this this winter. On our way back home, Michael quietly said, “I’ll start picking up a few more things when I do the grocery shopping.”

We’ll be doing it again. I’m happy to do it. I wish I didn’t have to.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.               

When I posted yesterday’s blog, I promised a bonus today – that I would post the short story mentioned in the blog. It’s called Shiny Wet, and it was written in 1997, just about 22 years ago! It was my first attempt at a second person (you-narrator) story and it was inspired by my experience of receiving colorful postcards in the mail, inviting me to attend a new church. When I began to submit the story, it was accepted almost immediately in a teeny newsletter-type magazine called Standard, which is no longer around. Then in 2006, it appeared again in a literary magazine called Bellowing Ark.

So here it is. By me, but at 22 years younger.

SHINY WET

A Short Story by

Kathie Giorgio

            You circled around it for a while.  The postcards started coming.  The first one showed up in your mailbox soon after the new year, and you were attracted by its soft green color, the color of spring.  It reminded you, in the middle of whitest winter, of grass and moss on the trees and the lake on overcast days.  You held the postcard, trembled in warmth, and then read the words Real Life scrolled across the front.  In a pale gray, a lacy gray, a soft doily of words.

            It was from a church.  A new church.

            And what, you thought, dropping the postcard on your counter, does church have to do with Real Life?

            It was cold and it was winter.  Snow and icicles.  The postcard ended up in your trash can and you forgot about it.

            Until the next week.  And another postcard.  Soft lavender this time, and as you held it, you thought of lilacs and daffodils, gladiolus and tulips.  You read the gray doily again.

            Real Life.

            In business print, but even there, the black was muted and the letters had no edges, the postcard told you about a church with Real People.  Facing Real Issues.  Real Problems.  The letters seemed to darken as they spelled out Divorce.  Bankruptcy.  Illness.  Depression.  And then they lightened, and you read Real Solutions.  Real Support.

            Huh, you thought.

            There was no church in your life.  No house of God, no retreat, no place you could call truly peaceful.  There was only your apartment and your office.  Not even your own office, really, but a big room shared with other workers, tapping on computers and half-smiling at you from time to time over their terminals.  And there were all the little stores and stops in between.  The grocery store.  The library, the laundromat.  And friends’ homes as well.

            You talked with Real People.  You smiled and nodded at them every day in the aisles of the grocery store, and over the churning of washing machines and dryers.  You talked with friends on the telephone, telling them about your day, your week, your weekend. Sometimes you joined them at the movies, and other times, you stayed at home and watched television.

            Your home was your sanctuary.  You could walk naked there.  There was only you and the television and the refrigerator and the coffeemaker.

            Setting down the postcard, you thought of a sanctuary with Real People.  The croon of conversation, the shared air breathed in and out in sighs and exclamations and laughs.  The easy churning of Real People’s brains as they stopped and thought, paused and spoke.

            You didn’t throw away that postcard.  You put it on your dresser.  And you noted the opening date.  The first Sunday in March.

            The postcards kept coming.  Scattered on your dresser, they threw sunshine and blue skies, bird calls and fresh rain.  You began to gather them in the morning before work, stack and shuffle them, and then spread them across the dresser again.  Different patterns of pastels each day, and each day, they reminded you of spring.  You looked out your window at the snow and ice and bare trees and you smiled.

            Driving by churches on your way to work, you slowed and looked at them.  Large buildings, concrete and brick, crosses slapped against the sides, or teetering on the roof like a stick figure about to jump.  The last church you attended was like these.  You remembered the giant crucifix, the figure of Christ, hanging ten times human size above the altar.  The dark beige of suffering, the half-closed eyes, lips turned down, hair straggling over shoulders.  The only color the red spots of blood on the palms, the crossed ankles.  Other statues stood by, eyes downcast, mouths pouting, hands outstretched.  The shadows of stained glass bled onto the floor, and you sat quietly in a pew between your mother and father.  The priest talked above you, and you could feel the words flying over your head, down the long aisle, and smacking up against the closed wooden doors.  If you slipped into a nap, lulled by the muted voices, your father would pinch your arm.  If you began playing with your fingers, or the hem of your skirt, or if you swung your heels, your mother would swat your knee with her missal.  You tried to join in with the words spoken by the congregation, but they slurred and muttered, and even when you read them in black and white, they blurred together until you didn’t know how to pronounce them.  You just opened your mouth and let the sounds come out, blending with other voices, muffled voices that rose in a cloud to the crucifix. 

            You left as soon as you could, and then only returned on weekend visits to your parents when they would press you again between them.  Your thighs would touch theirs and your heads would line up, and you would listen, trying to discern your voice from your parents’, your parents’ from anybody else’s.  Until you stopped going home on Sundays.

            On the first Sunday in March, you walked into the new church, carrying a pink postcard.  You were surprised at the number of people, the crowd as they walked slowly through the doors, looking around, talking softly.  The church was held in a high school, in an auditorium, and you smiled as you remembered chorus concerts on a stage, forgotten, then blurted lines during the freshman play.  There were doughnuts and coffee, and you smiled again, thinking how you always considered the consumption of sugar and caffeine a fun sin.  Choosing an aisle seat, you ate a chocolate doughnut and sipped hot coffee.

            When the music started, you stood with the others.  The music was light and upbeat, and you were startled when people joined in, apparently recognizing the melody.  The words were displayed on a large overhead screen, and you followed along, and suddenly found yourself singing as well.  You wondered where that came from, at how easily the words worked their way from your eyes into your throat, and back out again in a voice you hadn’t heard for a long time.

            And then you sat down, and the minister began to speak.  He was talking about unconditional love, and you half-listened, looking around at the other people, their faces upraised and rapt.

            Rapt, you thought.  This is what rapt means.

            And then the minister said that maybe your father hadn’t been the best.  Maybe your mother sometimes turned away.  And you sat straight up in your chair.

            You remembered words.  Endless sentences that began with You always or You never.  Questions about Why can’t you ever.  And Don’t you ever think.  Scowled words, harsh voices, lowered eyebrows.

            And you began to cry.  Quietly.  Tears sliding over the curves of your face to land with soft pats on your shirt.  Behind you, someone leaned forward and wrapped her arms around your shoulders.  You pressed back against her, and raised your face to the ceiling, letting the tears fall faster, feeling the arms of the stranger rock you, and hearing the minister speak and speak and speak.

            When you got home, you gathered all your postcards into a pile and held them to your chest.  Then you spread them throughout the apartment, lavender in your bathroom, green in the hallway, pink and yellow in the kitchen, a full bouquet in the living room.  Spring was everywhere, and everywhere you looked, you could see the warmth.  And you looked, that day and the next, and for many days after, at the spots of color and you were rapt.

            Real Life.

            The day of your baptism, you traveled to another church, a church established outside of a high school, with your minister.  Together, you stepped into a small pool of water.  It was cold and you shivered, but the minister steadied you with a warm hand on your shoulder.  You felt the water seeping into your clothes.

            The minister talked to you quietly, saying he appreciated the time you took to make your decision, and he rejoiced with you in that decision now.  He read some passages, and then asked you if you believed.  If you accepted.

            Yes, you said.

            Cupping your hands over your nose and mouth, the minister bent you backwards into the pool.  The water lapped by your eyes, and then you felt it close over your head.  Everything became a shimmering green and white and you held your breath and listened to the water rush by your ears, press against your body.  Noise was gone, everything was gone, there was only the green and white and the whisper of the water.  It lasted for long moments.  Then you felt the minister’s arm tense around you, and he drew you up, breaking through the water, and you gasped and brought warm air into your lungs.  And you felt the warmth spread, flow through your body like blood.

            You stood there, and you felt wet.  Streams rolled down your face, your shoulders, your chest, over your hips and down your legs into the pool.  You were shiny wet.  You were all new.  The minister applauded.

            Hugging yourself, you smiled.           

And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news.

Throughout my life, I can’t say that I’ve gotten along very well with churches. I don’t know that I can say that I’ve gotten along with God or with the Universe or with a Higher Power either, as I’ve never been quite sure who or what that is. Basically, I see myself as a seeker – someone who believes there’s something, but isn’t quite sure of who or what or what the purpose is.

I was raised Catholic. I refused to be confirmed. When I married for the first time, my husband was Catholic too, and he insisted we go to the same church as his parents, and then we had to show up for mass because his mother took attendance. After my kids’ First Communions, I flat-out quit. By then, I was working a job six days a week; Sunday was my day off. I was not going to wake up early. It wasn’t the only reason I walked away from the Catholic church. But it was one I could say out loud.

In 1997, postcards showed up in my mailbox, promoting a church that was starting up nearby, a church that claimed to deal with “real life”. At first, I threw the postcards away, but as they kept coming, I became intrigued. I went to the church’s opening…and then I attended for the next two years. The postcards and my experience caused me to write my short story, Shiny Wet, which appeared first in Standard, and then in Bellowing Ark. I stayed with the church through my separation and divorce. Michael began to attend with me. When we decided to get married, we asked the pastor to perform the ceremony. We were told no, because my reason for leaving my first husband wasn’t adultery. I walked out of church that day, stunned, and I never went back.

Then came another church where I thought we’d found a home. Until they wanted to move baby Olivia into the 1 – 3 year old room when she reached her first birthday. It was already clear that Olivia wasn’t following the usual path and I protested, saying she wasn’t ready, but they refused to see her – they only saw her age. Again, I walked out, and again, I never looked back.

Since then, no church. And of course, there’s been these last two years. My assault the day after the 2016 election. Olivia’s bullying. Michael’s job loss. And job loss. And job loss. And my breast cancer. Lots of anger. Lots of sadness.

And yet so much support and encouragement and community! As I fought with anger, I also grappled with faith. Not losing it – but finding it, much to my surprise. The assault led me to write Today’s Moment, which put a system in place that would ultimately help me through the worst two years of my life. Yes, I had breast cancer. But I also survived it. At least, so far.

As Christmas approached, I began feeling an odd pull. I hate Christmas. But I wanted to put up a tree and get out ornaments we hadn’t seen in years. So I did. While shopping for the tree, I was drawn to nativity sets. I went back later and bought a very simple one – just the holy family and a donkey. And then, in dreams, I saw a Christmas Eve church service.

The postcard church – the one who wouldn’t marry me and Michael – well, that same pastor reached out to me via Facebook when my breast cancer diagnosis came out. His wife, he said, dealt with breast cancer too. And he offered their support and encouragement. At the time, I acknowledged it, but refused. Remember, lots of anger. Lots of sadness.

But still, that odd pull.

In one of my classes a few weeks before Christmas, I talked about being rejected for the wedding ceremony, and how that same pastor reached out to me years later. One of my students said, “Even pastors make mistakes, Kathie. Maybe he knows it.”

I thought about that for a while. And then I reached out to him, asking when the church’s Christmas Eve service would be, and if he’d be the one officiating. On Christmas Eve, I entered a church for the first time in 16 years.

Why? That odd pull. I felt the need to say thank you. I wanted to push away the insurmountable anger over what happened to say thank you for what didn’t happen. Thank you for still being alive. Just like I felt the need to publicly write the Today’s Moments, I felt the need to formally say thank you. In a church.

Olivia came with me. When we sat down, there was a young boy to my left, sitting between me and his mother. From his behavior, it didn’t take me long to recognize the hallmarks of autism. Partway into the service, we were encouraged to look to the person we came with and wish them a Merry Christmas. I turned to Olivia, but then I felt a tug on my left sleeve. This young boy looked directly at me, right at me, level and straightforward, with the most glorious gray-green eyes. His mother was trying to get his attention, but he looked right at me and he said, “I’m happy you’re here.”

I held his gaze as steady as my teary eyes could and I said, “And I’m happy you’re here. Merry Christmas.”

Later, when we all lit candles to sing Silent Night, he insisted I light my candle from his. As I sang, I looked around the church at all the fiery flickering light. Then I looked at my own candle and I did what I came there to do.

I said thank you. In a church.

That little boy was happy I was there. And I was happy too.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.    

(By the way – tomorrow there will be a bonus Moment – I will post the short story, Shiny Wet, that I mentioned in this essay. Watch for it.)   

This is a post from last year, when I was still doing Today’s Moment of Happiness Despite The News. This is one of my favorites, from December 9, 2017. You can find this one in the book. 

Merry Christmas, everyone. 

12/9/17 And so today’s moment of happiness despite the news.

Christmas shopping today. Ugh. Christmas shopping does not help me to feel any better about Christmas, really. Maybe if I had the benefit of the mall all to myself, it would help. I don’t do well in crowds, especially noisy rowdy crowds. But I don’t like to do all my shopping online either. I like to support local businesses. So I braced myself, girded my loins, and went out.

It took me a half an hour to find a parking spot. A half an hour. That really didn’t start the afternoon well.

Much, much, much later, I stood in line at the Starbucks kiosk. I needed my grande cinnamon dolce latte, with only two pumps, and I needed it right that minute. There were already trips out to the car to drop things off. Things were scratched off on my lists. Michael and Olivia were off doing their own shopping. There was just a little more for me to do. I was tired. I was grumpy. My back hurt. And I was really, really, really sick of the Christmas music that was playing everywhere. If I heard “Rockin’ Around The Christmas Tree” one more time, I was going to have to throw a rock at a Christmas tree. And maybe Santa.

And then, in the slow line at Starbucks, I heard a little voice.

The song playing at the time was Band Aid 30’s “Do They Know It’s Christmas?” The little voice singing along was very young and I turned to trace it. Behind me, there was a little girl, about four years old, hanging on to her mother’s coat and swaying with the music. She wasn’t paying attention to anyone, she was just singing. She wasn’t singing to perform; she wasn’t aware of being watched or listened to. She just SANG. And she knew the words! I wondered at a little one who knew this song from 2014.

Santa was in his throne just across the aisle, but she wasn’t looking at Santa. She wasn’t looking at all the lights and decorations. She didn’t pay a bit of attention to the noise. It was just not there for her. She was blissed out on the music. It was a glorious bubble around her. She swayed and she sang.

So I joined her. Just as the song shifted into its lyric of Feed the world (let them know it’s Christmas time again), Heal the world (let them know it’s Christmas time again). She looked up at me and she beamed. She smiled like she sang. All heart.

So did I.

When we finished the song, she giggled and began to twirl. I nodded at her mother, who looked as tired as I felt before the song, and I said, “You have a beautiful daughter. Merry Christmas.”

Then I covered the tab for her latte and the little singer’s juice box.

Hope and joy can be found in the strangest places. In a Starbucks line, where an impossibly young little girl sings earnestly about feeding and healing the world.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.           

And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news.

You would think that I’ve been writng these things long enough now that having a shower curtain show up as a moment of happiness wouldn’t surprise me. But it does.

In this part of Wisconsin, we really didn’t have fall this year. We had summer, sort of, and then summer wobbled and the temperature dropped overnight and we had a windstorm that blew all the leaves off the trees and bam. We’re in winter. Not only are we in winter, but we’ve had next to no sun. It’s not terribly frigid, there haven’t been any windchill warnings yet, and there’s no snow right now, but it’s still cold and it’s damp. My dog shivers whenever we go out for her to, well, you know. I shiver right along with her.

And the gray. The gray is just impossible. I’m turning lights on during the day. It feels like February. But it’s December. Someone said to me yesterday, “You’re a writer…one of those blue-sky people.” I’m not quite sure what being a writer has to do with blue skies, but I am a blue skies and sunshine person. I drive a convertible for a reason. I don’t have curtains on my floor to ceiling windows for a reason. My car that isn’t a convertible has a sun roof for a reason.

But when it’s this gray…well, none of those things help. They’re just more ways of letting the gray in. Endless gray. Everywhere.

So our shower curtain was dying. Most of the pre-punched holes that hold the liner to the hooks were ripped. It was hard to open, it was hard to close, and it looked terrible. We need an extra long curtain, so our choices aren’t many. This awful gray makes me want to do nothing more than stay at home under a blanket (autumn red or deep, deep brown), so I poked around on the internet, looking at way too many shower curtains that cost way too much, were usually too short, and were incredibly ugly.

And then I saw one. It looked…kinda pretty. It looked kinda like…fall. And I blinked at the price. $16. Really? I read the description about twenty times, trying to find what was wrong with it. But nothing seemed wrong. So…I ordered it and some new hook-things too. What do you call those hooks that go over your shower curtain rod and hold your curtain up?

In the way of things today, it all showed up within 48 hours. I brought the package upstairs, climbed on my ever-present stepstool (life at five foot two is never easy) and hung it. Then I spread it out, climbed down, put the stepstool away, and then turned back.

And gasped. Fall, my missing season, was  in full throttle in my bathroom.

The shower curtain shows a forest in autumn. The leaves are that shade of maple orange that takes the breath away. The quiet of the forest is here too…I have only to shut the door. When I turn on the light, even on a gray day, I can see sunshine. If it’s just after a shower, the air is moist and warm.

“Ooooooooooooh…” I breathed.

I don’t know how many times that day, that first day with the shower curtain, I walked to the bathroom, even though I didn’t need to, well, you know, turned on the light and just gazed. We’ve had it several days now. Even Michael said, “Wow!” when he first saw it.

But the clincher was Olivia. She never uses this bathroom unless she wants a dip in the jetted tub. She came upstairs a few nights ago, a newly purchased fall-scented candle in her hands (Yes, fall. Apples. Cinnamon. Pumpkin. Mmmm.)  I was at my desk, of course, and my office is right next to the bathroom. I heard her when Olivia turned on the light.

“Ooooooooooooh…” she breathed.

Her bath took a little longer that night. She bathed in golden fall sunlight, orange leaves, the scent of apples, the sanctity and sacredness of a forest. When she came out, she was smiling.

I don’t know who made this shower curtain, who designed it, created it, produced it. But whoever it was, bless you. I am delighted to have fall just a few steps away, whether it’s spring, summer or winter outside. Fall, even in all this gray.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.