Still Standing

Welcome to the 200th issue of this publication which also happens to mark almost four years of writing it. When shit hit the fan in my life, I wanted to give it all up and crawl into a very deep hole. However, I knew that because what I was going through was tough, I had to write my way through it even if I didn’t write about it. I was ashamed that my marriage fell apart and I blamed myself a lot. I examined all the things that I had done wrong and there were many. “If I had just” or “I should have” were things I said and said often. When you’re raised Catholic, I think that sense of guilt can never be shaken no matter how hard you try. As bad as I felt for myself, I felt worse for the kids and knew that I could do nothing about the fact that their innocence was smashed by this turn of events and I blamed myself for that too.

As I felt worse and worse about what my family was going through, I gave up being beautiful and let my hair go grey. People told me that I was brave but it was actually the opposite; I was shrinking and no longer wanted to try to be anything I wasn’t. It wasn’t until I literally fell to my knees in the woods of northern Maine that I realized that hope was still alive and perhaps God exists in the trees I prayed to. Approximately one week later, I had my old job back, a new haircut, and life insurance. Just as things felt like they were getting on track, a spiky virus showed up and so.much.more shit hit the fan. Of all the things, I am most proud of what we have managed to forge through the absolute chaos of the past three years. We are so very far from perfect. That’s ok. Perfect is boring.

Here at the homestead we trudge on our well-worn path and try our best to be better than functional. Our friends and neighbors of over 50 years just stopped by to visit Mom and Dad. Mom had run into Jane at a wake this morning and she said that she and her husband Sonny would like to see Dad. “He might not remember who you are.” Mom said. “That’s alright!” Jane said, “Sonny just wants to see Don.” I sat in the other room and listened as Jane, Sonny, and Mom chatted while Dad laughed along. Hearing Sonny tell some of his stories brought me right back to my childhood, he hasn’t changed a bit. These two came every Christmas Eve when I was little and were at most neighborhood parties I remember. Their voices, alongside several others, filled our dining room well into many nights. It is the sound I remember most from when I was a kid paired with the delicate scent of cigarette smoke and cheese. “I says to her, this leaves you in yaw yard with yaw trash and we don’t talk to one anothah for anothah 25 years.” This is one of our favorite Sonny stories about the neighborhood loon who once tried to give him her trash to go to the dump. He didn’t tell that story today but it is the very best example of his epic tales. To hear all of this again was so very close to old times; I could almost feel the old blue shag carpet and see our grasscloth wallpaper. We need more of today in our lives, that much I know is true. Perhaps an “Old Times” get together for the crew is in order.

“This too shall pass ” Mom said a few years ago when everything went wrong. The words gave me comfort during difficult times and, eventually, the strength to push through. The truth is, however, that the toughest things in life don’t pass but twist, turn, worsen, improve, and worsen again. With perseverance and a little luck, the pieces of your life eventually evolve into something strange and new. Yesterday I listened to Thomas reminisce about having dinner with a friend’s waspy family in their St. John home while a couple of feral donkeys loudly fornicated just outside the dining room window. They all pretended not to hear what was happening and chatted politely about the kinds of things that waspy people talk about while dining in their island home. “EHHHH RRRRRR MERRRRRMMMMMM” Thomas mimicked exactly what he heard the donkeys doing well above the delicate tapping of silverware on plates; he has a way of telling stories and jokes in a way that draws you in and tickles you with the delivery. He made me cry laughing over this story and I now long to hear donkeys in the throes of procreation. I never imagined laughing like that a few years ago; a new chapter begins.

As I stared out the window on our drive home yesterday, lost in my head, Thomas reached for my hand and asked what I was thinking about. “Writing ”I told him as I felt my shoulders relax. He always knows when I’m starting to drift, his hand pulling me back to Earth. “I want to hear about the good, bad, and the ugly” he once told me when I apologized for sharing about a particularly shitty day. Of all the beautiful moments of 2022, that was my favorite. My hope for you in this new year is that the flames of whatever fresh hell you are in or encounter (and you will encounter fresh hell) turn into the embers you need to spark something new. And when that new thing ignites, I pray that it will warm you to your core even on your darkest days. In short, resolve to work at being happier and healthier for yourself and no one else. Though this, too, shall pass far slower than you ever expected, remember at every step of the way that you’re still standing, my dear, better than you ever did. And when you remember that, play this: