This Week’s Moment of Happiness Despite the News

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

I really had to work hard to come up with a moment this week. It’s been on the gloomy side here, not helped at all by the first major snowfall arriving on Halloween. I feel like I haven’t had a chance to catch my breath between summer and winter because there wasn’t a fall. Honestly, I had the a/c on a couple weeks ago, then a few days later, had my windows open, and a few days after that, slammed those windows shut and put on the furnace. And then the snow fell. The weathermen announced it was coming, but who believes weathermen when they’re screeching warnings about the first of something in a season? They’re always premature. But that night of the predicted six inches (or early morning, depending on your perspective), I was heading toward bed at two in the morning, glanced out my bedroom window, and saw the snow falling in the glow of the streetlights. Some people might be struck dumb by the beauty, by the serenity, by the lacy loveliness falling like stars from the night sky.

Not me. I skidded to a stop on my beeline to bed and shouted, “Oh, hell, no!”

Since that first snow, we’ve had more snow, and I have been putting up a resistant front. Semi, my convertible, is in the garage with the top still down, waiting for one last ride of the season. At Starbucks, I’m still ordering my drink iced, not extra hot. One of the baristas even called through the speaker, “It’s cold now, Kathie! Why aren’t you doing extra hot?” “I refuse!” I called back. “Summer is NOT over.”

Well, outside it is, I guess. But the heat of summer burns eternal in me. I was born in St. Louis, but by the time I was 6 years old, I was living in the tippy top of northern Minnesota. From there, I dropped down to Wisconsin. You would think the cold would just be a natural part of me by now.

No. There is a small space heater sitting on my desk all year. It runs even when the a/c is on. I have an electric throw that I curl under and fight the cat for. There are three blankets on my bed. My cars have heated seats, and often, even in the convertible, they are turned to high. I swear my next car will have a heated steering wheel as well. I wear a lot of sweaters.

I despise the cold.

Why don’t I move? I wonder that too. But my business is here. And my youngest just started college here. Until she graduates, I won’t venture very far away. So instead, I’ll stare out the window and shout, “Oh, hell, no!”

But there was a Moment.

I had insomnia one night, something I’m hit with a few nights every week. It was another reason toward this week’s gloom. Lately, when it hits, it stays, and I can’t fall asleep until an hour or so away from when I need to be up. I used to fight it, staying in bed, snarling, saying, “Sleep, dammit!” But more recently, I just give in and get up. Usually, I work. But on this night, I wandered downstairs, my heated throw in hand. I turned on my fireplace (gotta love gas fireplaces), plugged in my throw, curled into my recliner, and put my feet up. I turned on only the light by my side – the rest of the house was in darkness, and I had the flickering firelight and the steady lamp-glow beside me. I had a good book. Soon, I had a small gray cat purring on my lap. The dog came downstairs and settled in the seat beside me. Around me, the house was sleeping, Michael upstairs, Patrick down the hall, and I knew that in various spots in Waukesha, in Wauwatosa, in Louisiana, my kids and granddaughter were sleeping.

I live right in the city, but at that hour, it was so quiet, I might as well have been in the countryside. I was warm. And no one was asking me to do anything.

There are floor to ceiling windows in our living room and I could see very clearly that it was snowing again. But for that moment, with all pressure off, I could see its prettiness. It really was lacy. It really was like stars falling from the night sky. I didn’t yell, “Oh, hell, no!” I just burrowed into the blanket further, turned my eyes from the falling stars to the flickering flames, then burrowed further into my book.

A student this week started his pages with a quote by Ranulph Fiennes: “There is no such thing as bad weather, only inappropriate clothing.”

Heated throw. Fireplace ablaze. Purring cat, snoring dog. Sleeping family. Good book. I was dressed appropriately.

(Did I snarl at the snow the next morning, as I went out on two hours of sleep? Of course. But you know – this is a Moment, not a Constant.)

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

Ever since June 20^th, 2017, it seems like my world has become framed with visits to the Cancer Center. At first, the visits were frequent, even daily, there for a while. Now, the visits are stretched out, to every six months. But because I still see both the medication oncologist and the surgeon (the surgeon because of the issues I had with an abscess developing a year after surgery), and their appointments are staggered, it feels more frequent. I saw the oncologist in April, the surgeon in July, and had my mammogram in July too. I saw the oncologist this past Tuesday, in October. Now I will have an MRI done in January (approximately six months after the mammogram), and then see the oncologist in April and the surgeon in July. It’s maddening. I thought the surgeon would have dropped off my radar by now, but no, thanks to the abscess. I thought I’d only be going to the Cancer Center once a year, to see the oncologist and have a mammogram. But…no. Not quite.

Originally, I hated going to the Cancer Center. I would have to lean against my car and take several deep breaths before going in, because I couldn’t believe I belonged there. During radiation, I cried every day. It’s not that the people weren’t nice – I really believe that they only hire folks that can put compassionate and understanding on their resume. I was always surrounded by the best.

But going in through those doors always meant one thing: I was sick.

So on Tuesday, the oncologist and bloodwork. It was a gray day. But as I drove into the clinic and made that special right turn into the special parking lot, I actually found myself breathing a sigh of relief. The Medical Center side of this clinic is very cold and sterile. They meant for it to look modern, I think, but the effect is just…Brrrrrrr. The Cancer Center side is lovely. Lots of windows. Bright walls. Greenery. Smiles. And fireplaces in every waiting room, that burn even in summertime. Comfortable leather furniture. I brought a book with me for the hour-long wait between the blood-letting and my visit with the oncologist.

From the moment I stepped in, I was greeted by name. I didn’t have to give it. I don’t know how they do that. I understood it when I was there every day, but even now, over a year later, I hear, “Hi, Kathie!” as the sliding door closes behind me.

Upstairs, my blood was taken and then I broke my fast at the café, with a warm meal that was delivered with a smile and a discussion of the book I’m reading (Where’d You Go, Bernadette? by Maria Semple) and a comparison to the movie. When I wandered back to the waiting room, I found a chair right next to the fireplace. I pulled it a little bit closer still, curled into the warmth, and read in the quiet provided by low conversations around me. I was warm. I was reading a good book. If I looked up, I saw smiles. Even among the patients.

And you know. I was alive.

I realized, as I set my book aside and just sat back and basked in the heat and the wide windows and good company that would talk to me if I wanted, and leave me alone if I wanted, that I was no longer there because I was sick. I was there because I was well, surrounded by the people who made me well, and who have every intention of keeping me this way.

That particular waiting room was filled with stopping places on my journey. Those chairs in the corner were where I sat with my husband, the day I came in for my grueling four-hour appointment to meet my medical team – the surgeon, radiation oncologist, and medical oncologist. I was recognized by a volunteer, who used to work with me on the book festival committee. He said, “I really never wanted to see you here,” and I wept into his shoulder.

Over there, in the opening to the hallway, was where a woman, with a port in her neck and carrying a basket, stood and announced to the room, “I’m terminal! And I have some angels I’d like to give you.” She went around and handed us each a hand-made angel, made out of netting, and with a bible verse glued to the back. That’s the chair I sat in, took an angel because I’m polite, and wanted to swat the cheerful cancer-filled woman and her basket out of the room. Weeks later, I shredded that angel and sent her on a piecemeal flight off my third floor deck.

Just down that hall was where I was held by two radiation techs as I cried on my third day of treatment because I realized I forgot my daughter, forgot that I had to pick her up at school, when I made the appointments for the impossible 20 days straight of radiation.

And there was where they told me I’d be okay. Over there was where they said I’d be fine. And there was where so many different people held me and said it was okay to be scared, okay to be sad, okay to be angry, and just flat-out okay.

And I am.

I realized as I sat there on Tuesday that now, I felt safe. Cared for. Protected.

Okay.

Across the room, away from the fire, a woman sat huddled in her chair. She seemed to be on her own. Unobtrusively, she was crying. The chair next to me, by the fire, was empty.

I walked to her and patted her shoulder. “Hi,” I said. “Come sit with me by the fire. We’ll wait together.” I took her hand. She kept it after we sat down.

We talked.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

When I wrote and posted last week’s Moment on the woman who killed herself on the train tracks in Waukesha, I expected it to be controversial. Actually, I braced myself to be slammed. I was sure there would be the usual derisive and angry retorts that anyone who killed themselves was selfish, self-centered, thoughtless, didn’t care about others, and so forth. What I wanted to do, and say, was that I honored this woman for the years she lived, and I didn’t want to focus on her choice of death. Her suicide did not define who she was.

Instead, I was really startled when I received an outpouring of gratitude and support. I think the fact that the human race still continues to surprise me – in a good way – at my age is a good sign. I’m not as jaded and skeptical as I thought. Turns out there is a continuous stream of hope that runs through me.

How about that? I surprise myself too, even though I’ve been in this skin for 59 years.

But here’s the really special thing. Here’s the Moment for this week.

I received a private message. I don’t know the person. I don’t know how she came to read the Moment, if she’s a regular reader or if someone sent it on to her. But she said:

“I saw your This Week’s Moment Of Happiness Despite The News.

I was planning to kill myself that night.

I’d told myself that even my wanting to do that showed how completely worthless I was.

You showed me I still had worth, even if I’d gotten to a point where I wanted to destroy myself.

I had worth. And I had to save that.

I didn’t do it. I am getting help.

Thank you. I honor you.”

Sometimes, my Moments of Happiness come from the words of others. Somehow, everything came together that week to cause me to write that Moment, and a life was saved.

Which means that the anonymous woman on the train tracks saved a life, even as she lost her own.

Amazing. I hope she knows.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

 

 

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

This will be an odd one. And it’s actually more a moment of peace, not happiness.

On October 6, the city of Waukesha was shocked when a woman stepped onto one of our railroad crossings, curled down in a fetal position between the rails, and allowed an oncoming train to take away her life. News sources told us that she was 60 years old, and that her identity wouldn’t be released until her family was notified.

Five days later, they said again that her identity would be released when her family was notified.

And then everything went silent.

I found myself pulled into this story. This woman was a year older than I am. She chose an incredibly fail-proof and instant way to die. I felt for her. I felt for the train conductor. I felt for her family, wherever they were. I felt for all of us, aghast at the story.

A week after this woman, another woman died in Kenosha on train tracks. That story has also gone silent – she was identified, but nothing was said as to what happened. Last February, a 47-year old man made the same decision on a different set of tracks in Waukesha.

A few months ago, a friend’s niece killed herself, and the family wrote the most incredibly beautiful obituary of acceptance and love I ever read.

A couple days ago, my daughter Olivia, turned 19 just today, asked me why a 60-year old would have anything to kill herself over. She said, “I just wonder what an older person could be going through that pushes them to their breaking point.” I felt my heart twist. I wanted to say, “Oh, honey, there’s so much,” but who wants to say that to their starry-eyed, compassionate daughter?

Every time I’ve driven over those railroad tracks since October 6, and I drive over them often, I look at where it happened and I just ache. It bothered me so that she didn’t seem to be known, and that no one seemed to be stepping forward. Why was she alone?

Last night, I contacted a resource and that resource contacted the police department, that said that the family had been found, but they didn’t want the name released. The woman, they said, had a mental illness and the death was a suicide, which, of course, we knew already.

I respect the family’s privacy. But oh, man. I so want them to step forward. To remember her. To honor her. And to celebrate the fact that she made it for 60 years. She fought through whatever challenges she had for 60 years.

60 years is a long time. She did it.

I’ve dealt with chronic depression for my whole life – I’m 59. It didn’t get called that until partway into my 20s, but it was there. My parents, not knowing, not understanding, made me feel ashamed. I was told I should be happy because I had a roof over my head, I had a small tv in my room, my own stereo. I should have been happy, but I wasn’t, and therefore it was because I was selfish and ungrateful. My high school saw red flags and stepped in and got me help, despite the fact that my parents refused to give permission. I consider this an action that saved my life. It led me onto the path that got me to further help when I was in college, away from home, and able to see doctors and therapists without my parents’ knowledge. My parents believed that all emotional help was “psychological mumbo-jumbo” and a way of “taking money from hard-working people.” So I made sure that my psychological mumbo-jumbo never cost them a dime. And it was priceless.

But it is always, always a challenge. There are days I don’t want to get out of bed, but I get up. There are days I don’t want to talk to anyone, but I talk. I remember what I’ve learned, and I do it. And I feel better for it.

My parents said I was ungrateful for what I had. Where am I grateful? That I didn’t end up on the train tracks. I am profoundly grateful for the help I’ve had.

And now there’s this woman. I wonder if she had anyone step out for her, the way I did.

So I will.

I want to honor her for what she lived through, whatever it was. I want to honor her for having the strength to get through 60 years, even if her strength failed her in the end. She’s caused, I’m sure, a tremendous amount of pain, of anguish. But I’m also sure she dealt with a tremendous amount of pain and anguish.

Knowing that she did have family, that someone has recognized her life and her loss, gives me some peace. But here, acknowledging that she lived, that she survived, rather than focusing on her death, gives me even more peace.

I wish I’d known her. Maybe I did. I wish I knew.

But I send prayers. I send understanding. I send love.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

Hello, everyone!

There won’t be a This Week’s Moment Of Happiness Despite The News this week because…I’m currently living it! The launch of my 10th book, If You Tame Me, starts in just an hour at Books & Company bookstore in Oconomowoc, Wisconsin. Yesterday was Michael’s and my 20th wedding anniversary.

One of the things the Moments has taught me is when a Moment happens, you have to immerse yourself and savor. So I am savoring up to my neck.

This Week’s Moment Of Happiness Despite The News will return next week!

 

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

Late last week, when it was still summer (in true Wisconsin fashion, we’ve gone from 85 one day to 53 the next), I was driving home in the convertible. Top down, Starbucks by my side, one of my favorite singalong songs next in line on my CD. Linkin Park’s Roads Untraveled. I forgot I didn’t have the safety of car walls and a roof around me and I sang along with gusto in the welcome warmth of a September afternoon, with fall’s crisp colors all around me, but summer still in the air.

I’ve always loved to sing. But it wasn’t until freshman chorus that I realized I was terrified to sing solo in front of an audience. My chorus teacher asked me to go out for a solo in the annual solo/ensemble contest. I thought sure, why not. I picked out a song, I no longer remember what it was, and then went into the chorus room during lunch to practice with my teacher’s piano accompaniment. There were a few students in the room, hanging out, having lunch, and waiting for their own turn at practice. I stood by the piano, followed the score as my teacher played the introduction, and then opened my mouth to sing.

And nothing came out.

I was frozen. In my mind, the faces of the kids in front of me became millions, all laughing. I couldn’t inhale, I couldn’t breathe at all. My teacher stopped and asked me if I was all right. I managed to unstick my head enough to shake it and then I ran from the room.

Needless to say, I did not perform at the solo/ensemble contest. My teacher was so angry with me. I finished the school year, but then quit chorus and never joined again. I sang in the privacy of my bedroom, and then the privacy of my own house, and now, mostly in the privacy of my cars.

On this day, as I wailed happily along with Linkin Park, “Whoa, ohoh whoa, oh whoa!”, I was stopped at several traffic lights on the way home. I didn’t care – I wanted to get to the end of the song. At a stoplight, the final notes trailed off. And the man in the car next to me leaned out his window.

“I’ve been following you,” he said, and instantly looked guilty. “I wanted to hear you finish the song. You have a lovely voice.”

The convertible. Top down, no windows. I wanted to slide down to the brake and gas pedals. “Thank you,” I said.

“Really,” he said. “You’ve just made my day. What’s the name of the song?”

I told him the name and who did it. Then he turned right and I turned left. By the time I got home, I was beaming. In the safety of my garage, door closed, but my car’s top still down, I hit replay and sang all over again (don’t worry – I turned the engine off). At the top of my lungs. In my mind’s eye, in front of a crowd that wasn’t laughing at all.

Then, a few days later, a replay of sorts. The same CD was in the car, it was still warm, the top was down, Starbucks in the cupholder, the song was on, and I was singing. As I did, I glanced in my rearview mirror. Right behind me was a martian-green Kia Soul. Behind the wheel sat my oldest son, who waved at me.

Christopher is 35 now. Of my four kids, he is the first, and the only one who I had solo time with. We had 26 months together, before his first sibling, my son Andy, arrived. It was a lovely time.

When Christopher was five years old, he and I were going somewhere…I don’t remember where. By then, my son Andy was three and my daughter Katie was two, so it was rare I had just one child with me. But there was Christopher, in the back seat, and he was newly enthralled by music. This was 1989, but he was already showing a love and respect for older songs. His favorite was Red, Red Wine by UB40, to my mother’s horror. I had the radio on – no car with a CD player or even a tape player yet – and on came Phil Collin’s Another Day In Paradise. It was almost Thanksgiving, and Milwaukee local DJs Bob Reitman and Gene Mueller (94-WKTI!), put together a version with a voice-over by a woman from a local food pantry. It was so well done and so stirring, and without thinking, I began to sing along with it. When it was over, my son spoke up from the back seat.

“Mommy,” he said, “you sing really really good!”

I had that same sink-in-my-seat feeling then that I had with this man in the car who followed me through stoplights. But then the beaming came. And from that point on, I sang in the car, even with my kids in seatbelts beside me. They became my audience that didn’t laugh. Olivia and I now share a lot of the same taste in music, and we sing together.

But that day, that five-year old boy. The reverence and surprise in his voice. And now, there he was again, behind his own wheel, waving at me from his car, while I sang in mine.

I thanked the man at the stoplights all over again. For complimenting me on that day, and for bringing back that memory.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

(If you want to hear the song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wCnKl5VQ10s)

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

Olivia’s been out of the house and at college now for about a month. Some folks have been asking how I’m dealing with that. My answer really depends, not only on the day, but on the minute. If I’ve just walked past her bedroom and glanced in to see the empty spaces where things used to be, gaps on the walls, her violin, guitar and ukulele no longer leaning against the wall, and Olivia herself no longer reclined on her bed, headphones in, feet pumping with the beat of the music only she can hear, her hands fluttering like birdwings, well, then I’d say I’m not doing so well. But, if it’s 3:05 and I’m still seated comfortably at my desk, writing, not having to interrupt the flow to drive through let’s-get-out-of-here-fast parent traffic and dodging new-kid-driver amateur mistakes, then I’d probably cheer. And then there are the moments where cheers and tears are only seconds apart. Because while her room is empty (tears), it’s cleaner than it’s been in years (cheers), and while I don’t have the jaw-clenching terror of picking her up at school (cheers), I no longer have the drone from the passenger seat of “Nothing happened today,” followed by the endless speed-speak chatter of everything that did happen (tears).  I was usually exhausted by the time we pulled into the garage from listening to everything that was nothing.

So it’s been a mix. Yes, I miss her.

Last week, Olivia came home for a violin lesson. She thought she knew the way well enough that she no longer needed the GPS. Which is why, at 8:30 p.m., I received a wailing phone call. “I’m lost, Mama! I don’t know where I am! I’m in the parking lot of that Applebees we always go to! I think I was headed toward Madison!”

So for those of you that don’t live here – Mount Mary University is 15.7 miles away. The route takes Olivia from the parking lot, through a couple turns, then turn left on a well-marked major road, follow for a couple miles, turn right on a well-marked major road and follow it home. For Olivia to end up at one of our usual Applebee’s, she’d either be in Delafield, which would overshoot Waukesha, or in Pewaukee, which would put her on a road she’d have to take a whole other route to. It didn’t make any sense.

“Put your GPS on,” I said. “It will tell you where you are.” And tell me too, I thought.

So she did. She was in West Allis. She never turned right on that second major road and just kept going. In general, she was heading more toward Chicago, not Madison. We’ve never been to the West Allis Applebee’s.

Even though her GPS was now on, I got in my car, found her, and she followed me home. It made us both feel better.

But I did my share of swearing on the way out there. No tears, no cheers. Lots of muttered curses and head-shaking. But you know. I got my girl. And I made sure she was safe.

So today, she’s coming home again. She works this weekend. Earlier today, while I was talking to her on Facebook Messenger, I verified she was indeed coming home tonight and not tomorrow, and said, “No getting lost!”

She answered, “I swear I won’t accidentally end up in West Allis.”

The words I typed in return were simply, “Just end up home.”

If I’d said them out loud, I would have emphasized the word, “Home.”  “Just end up HOME.”

And if Olivia had been in the room with me, she would have heard me add the words:

Because this house just isn’t the same without you.

Because I need to hear your voice.

Because I need to feel you wrap your arms around my neck, press your lips to my cheek and say, “Goodnight, Mama,” as you have almost every night for almost 19 years.

Because I miss you so.

She typed back to me, “I will, Mom.” And then told me she needed more quarters for her laundry.

Now, today is the release of my tenth book (fifth novel), If You Tame Me. The book has received some wildly wonderful reviews. I am more than excited about it. Ten books feels like…like something I can’t put a word to. Accomplished? Validated? Like I’m real? None of those will do. But it feels like SOMETHING. You would think the release would be my moment of happiness.

No. It’s those words.

“I will, Mom.” (cheers)

The use of the word Mom instead of Mama…(tears).

But she’ll be HOME.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

 

 

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

On Monday, back home after a lovely two-week retreat, I was trudging through my usual catch-up errand-running. As I was leaving the bank, I stopped in the little sally port between the outer and inner doors. A woman and her daughter were coming inside from the gray and drizzly parking lot. The daughter, a little Goldilocks who couldn’t have been more than three, got to the door first and struggled with opening it.

“I get it!” she said. “I get it for you, Mama!”

Mama sighed. “Let me get it,” she said. “We don’t have much time. We’re getting wet.” She opened the door the rest of the way.

Undeterred, Goldilocks ran to the next door. “I can do it!” she insisted. “I get the door for you, Mama!”

And the struggle began again. I saw Mama glance at her watch.

Before Mama could reach for this second door, I stepped backwards so I was near where the girl was hanging on the handle and pulling, her feet backing up inch by inch. Her face was lifted toward the ceiling, her eyes squeezed shut, and her pink tongue poked out of the corner of her mouth. She was so mighty. Her cheeks were growing red with her effort.

The door pulled open, but just barely. Not enough to let a person through. Especially a tired Mama.

Because Goldilocks’ eyes were closed, I held my hand up to Mama and smiled. Then carefully, I reached above Goldilocks’ head, caught the door’s edge, and slowly, slowly pulled it back. The little girl hauled on that doorknob the whole way.

“I did it!” she shrieked as I stepped quickly out of the way. “I did it! Go, Mama!”

Mama gave me a weary smile as she walked through. But it was a smile. She patted Goldilocks’ tumbling curls, sparkling with raindrops, as she passed by.

Then Goldilocks turned to me. “I got the door!” she said.

“You sure did!” I said. “And wow, you did a great job!” And I applauded.

That little one burst into a smile so big, the whole little sally port brightened into noon on a sunny summer day. Zap! She was just electric! As she let go of the door and ran in before it closed on her, I heard her announce to the whole room, “I opened the door! I did it! I did a great job!”

I grinned all the way to my car, warmed by Goldilocks’ sunny accomplishment in the middle of this rain-drippy Monday.

On Wednesday, I teach the AllWriters’ Wednesday Afternoon Women Writers’ Workshop. A student emailed me beforehand, reporting a problem with her printer and asking if I could print her pages for her. I did, and when I walked into the room, I set them at her place at the table.

“Thank you,” she said. “You’re the best!”

Like the little Goldilocks cheering, “I did it! I did a great job!”, I answered my student, “Yes, I am!”

And I’m pretty sure my smile was electric too and summer suddenly brightened the AllWriters’ classroom.

Because sometimes, that’s all it takes.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

The Moments are fairly easy to write when they’re tangible – something my daughter did, or I did, or someone did. I’m more aware of them than I used to be, largely because of this blog. Last week, soon after I posted the Moment, another moment happened on the road to a coffee shop in Wonewoc. I made it just a regular Facebook status. That night, when I went to bed, I was thinking about it and smiling and then thought, Damn! Why didn’t I save it for next week’s Moment?

Because sometimes Moments happen that aren’t tangible. They’re just in-depth feelings. That’s what this week’s Moment is about, and when I sat down to write it, I thought again, Damn! Why didn’t I save that moment with the Amish woman for this? It’s hard to get across how special a quiet Moment can be.

But here goes.

I’m at that part of my retreat where things begin to switch from peaceful to panic. This is Thursday, and I go home on Saturday. By Monday, my schedule is back in full swing. My thoughts have gone from “I have all day, all week, all two weeks, to write and sleep and read and enjoy!” to “Ohmygod, I only have three days, two days, one day!” I begin to hurry my relaxation. Quick! Quick! Get that story written! Get that book read! Sleep! Don’t get up now, by next week, you won’t be able to sleep this late! Pack it in! Pack it in!

Which sort of defeats the purpose, donchaknow.

Yesterday, I planned to take a break and drive to one of my favorite spots in La Crosse, Granddad’s Bluff. It’s a beautiful drive up the bluff (especially when you’re in a convertible) and the view of three states and all the rivers is breathtaking. There is also a lovely little outbuilding there, with fireplaces on either end, and every time I go up, I stand in it and imagine giving a reading there. I will, someday.

Normally, when I’m in this area, I stay in La Crosse. But this time, I’m in a lakefront cottage on Lake Onalaska. When I put Granddad’s Bluff on my GPS, I was disheartened to find it was a half-hour away. Which meant my break would end up including an hour of driving, plus the time up there to really make it worthwhile, and I wanted to stop at Starbucks too, and I needed to pick up a few things at Walgreens. And I really, really, really wanted to get to the end of a first draft of this new story/chapter so I could figure out what it was supposed to be about. So in my new hurry up and relax and get things done mode, I nixed the trip to Granddad’s Bluff. But the day before, I saw an overlook that was close by. I decided to stop there.

I’m so glad I did.

Sunny the Sunfish’s overlook, besides having a huge statue of Sunny the Sunfish, has a gorgeous view of three different bodies of water. The Mississippi River, the Black River, and Lake Onalaska are all there, side by side and blended and just stunning. I got out of my car, sat down on a bright purple bench donated in someone’s memory, and just looked. I can’t say it was quiet; the overlook is right next to a busy highway and cars and trucks were zipping by. But a quiet descended upon me anyway. I just looked and admired. I remembered how, years ago, I had a wonderful client who lived on the gulf side of Florida. When I asked how you could possibly tell when the gulf became an ocean, she sent me a photograph of the two bodies of water, side by side. The colors were different. The ripples were different. But they sat peacefully together. I was amazed. Just as I was amazed at the three bodies of water in front of me now.

Obvious metaphor, right? Three bodies of water, each with their own agenda, going about their businesses, but working together too.

While I sat there, two other cars pulled up at the overlook. The drivers didn’t get out. They just sat in their front seats and looked.

What smart people. They took the time. So did I.

Just like the bodies of water, the three of us sat there. Two in their cars, me on the bench. The noise behind us. The quiet upon us. We each had our own agenda. But we shared this space.

Can I just say it was a sacred moment without trying to describe the life out of it? Because it was. Shared with two people who were strangers, remained strangers, and who I’ll likely never see again. And shared with the quiet strength of three bodies of water.

I was the first to leave. The other two cars were beyond mine, and when I walked to Semi, I smiled at the drivers. They lifted their hands to me, then returned to looking at the water.

That’s it. That’s all there was.

But it was glorious.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

(Be home soon.)

Hello, everyone,

This isn’t a Moment, but I’m asking for one. For the last several months, we’ve had a very special young man living with us. I’ve started a GoFundMe for him, to help him out of his situation. I would really appreciate it if you’d go to GoFundMe, read his story, and donate if you can.

You can see the GoFundMe at

https://www.gofundme.com/f/a-little-help-for-patrick

And yes, everything helps. Despite. Anyway.