In heaven
I will wear Jimmy Choo
and the wings of Victoria Secret.
Words that cement me to this era, this moment.
But someday.
Someday
history's concrete will be jack-hammered away
and the earth beneath it
revealed,
redeemed
and restored to the garden it first was.
It will be there I will rest,
when my wings tire of soaring,
admiring my shoes.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Thursday, May 06, 2010
My Own Private Wilson
I originally started this blog post about a year and a half ago. It's about time to finish it, don't ya think?
In early November 2008, I went to one of my favorite stores in my city. It's a party supply store that has the feel of an old-fashioned general store. Many items are stocked in big bins and sold in bulk. They have a large room entirely devoted to balloons that's like the United Nations of Balloons, all shapes and colors displayed together in utopian harmony. Even though it was a week past Halloween, still floating about the store were a few helium-filled mylar balloons with spooky themes. As I paid for my purchases, the store clerk gestured toward a round mylar balloon that was almost the size of one of my car's tires and featured the face of a smiling jack o'lantern. He asked if I would like to have it--for free. I hesitated for a moment, then shrugged and said, "Sure. I'll find some kid who'd like it."
It turned out I was the kid who liked the balloon. I remember watching it in the review mirror as I drove away from the store. It bobbed and weaved in the backseat, where I had finally been able to get it to "sit, stay." At stop lights, I had to turn around, grab the ribbon, and pull the balloon down behind the front seats so I could see out the rear window.
Despite the challenges of traveling with a large helium-filled balloon in the backseat, I soon found I enjoyed its company. It was something I could talk to--it had a face after all--something I could bounce my ideas off of--and the balloon thought all my ideas were great ones. That November was a lonely one. The Kid was in his senior year of college and living on campus. The Old Man was busy with a Christmas play and away from home most evenings. So I decided to make the balloon my companion for a season.
After a week of traveling together, I decided the balloon needed a name. As we drove here and there through the city, I thought of how isolated the balloon and I seemed to be, the car an island, the balloon and I castaways.... Castaway with Tom Hanks ... a volleyball named Wilson ... So, that's how we rolled: me and Wilson, Wilson and me, until ...
About three weeks into my relationship with Wilson, the Old Man borrowed my car and I woke to find Wilson had left the car island and was now bobbing and weaving in the living room. Wilson spent the remainder of his days there. I was still alone, still a castaway, but I was comforted to know that whenever I passed through the living room, Wilson would be there. "Hi, Wilson," I'd say as I walked past him to the kitchen. "See you when I get back from work," I'd say in passing him to go to my office. Some days, I would sit with Wilson in companionable silence as I read. Sometimes I read aloud to him so that we would have the comfort of an audible voice. There was at least one time, possibly more, that I remember sitting and having a good cry with Wilson as my only comfort.
Wilson died of natural causes. December 2008 brought snow of a depth that our city seldom sees. As the days grew colder and the snow fell, Wilson's energy sagged and his helium lost its lift. Every day he drooped a little more, his ribbon had a little more slack, and gravity pulled on him relentlessly. Then came the day that Wilson touched the floor and laid there. My grinning, gap-toothed friend was breathing his last.
I took Wilson and held him, looked at him for a long time, and then untied his ribbon, loosened his knot, and squeezed him gently to expel the remaining helium. With a quiet whoosh, Wilson breathed his last. I sat with him for a few minutes more, running my hands over his mylar that was already beginning to crinkle, trying to smooth it out. I considered taking him back to the party store and asking the sales clerk to revive him with another shot of helium. Maybe I should have. Instead, I gave his mylar body a final stroke, folded him neatly, and laid him in the trash.
I haven't forgotten Wilson, and people who knew him sometimes say, "Remember your balloon friend? What was his name? Oh, yeah, Wilson." This last November, with The Kid busy with his post-college life and The Old Man busy with another Christmas play, I again was the castaway but without my Wilson.
In early November 2008, I went to one of my favorite stores in my city. It's a party supply store that has the feel of an old-fashioned general store. Many items are stocked in big bins and sold in bulk. They have a large room entirely devoted to balloons that's like the United Nations of Balloons, all shapes and colors displayed together in utopian harmony. Even though it was a week past Halloween, still floating about the store were a few helium-filled mylar balloons with spooky themes. As I paid for my purchases, the store clerk gestured toward a round mylar balloon that was almost the size of one of my car's tires and featured the face of a smiling jack o'lantern. He asked if I would like to have it--for free. I hesitated for a moment, then shrugged and said, "Sure. I'll find some kid who'd like it."
It turned out I was the kid who liked the balloon. I remember watching it in the review mirror as I drove away from the store. It bobbed and weaved in the backseat, where I had finally been able to get it to "sit, stay." At stop lights, I had to turn around, grab the ribbon, and pull the balloon down behind the front seats so I could see out the rear window.
Despite the challenges of traveling with a large helium-filled balloon in the backseat, I soon found I enjoyed its company. It was something I could talk to--it had a face after all--something I could bounce my ideas off of--and the balloon thought all my ideas were great ones. That November was a lonely one. The Kid was in his senior year of college and living on campus. The Old Man was busy with a Christmas play and away from home most evenings. So I decided to make the balloon my companion for a season.
After a week of traveling together, I decided the balloon needed a name. As we drove here and there through the city, I thought of how isolated the balloon and I seemed to be, the car an island, the balloon and I castaways.... Castaway with Tom Hanks ... a volleyball named Wilson ... So, that's how we rolled: me and Wilson, Wilson and me, until ...
About three weeks into my relationship with Wilson, the Old Man borrowed my car and I woke to find Wilson had left the car island and was now bobbing and weaving in the living room. Wilson spent the remainder of his days there. I was still alone, still a castaway, but I was comforted to know that whenever I passed through the living room, Wilson would be there. "Hi, Wilson," I'd say as I walked past him to the kitchen. "See you when I get back from work," I'd say in passing him to go to my office. Some days, I would sit with Wilson in companionable silence as I read. Sometimes I read aloud to him so that we would have the comfort of an audible voice. There was at least one time, possibly more, that I remember sitting and having a good cry with Wilson as my only comfort.
Wilson died of natural causes. December 2008 brought snow of a depth that our city seldom sees. As the days grew colder and the snow fell, Wilson's energy sagged and his helium lost its lift. Every day he drooped a little more, his ribbon had a little more slack, and gravity pulled on him relentlessly. Then came the day that Wilson touched the floor and laid there. My grinning, gap-toothed friend was breathing his last.
I took Wilson and held him, looked at him for a long time, and then untied his ribbon, loosened his knot, and squeezed him gently to expel the remaining helium. With a quiet whoosh, Wilson breathed his last. I sat with him for a few minutes more, running my hands over his mylar that was already beginning to crinkle, trying to smooth it out. I considered taking him back to the party store and asking the sales clerk to revive him with another shot of helium. Maybe I should have. Instead, I gave his mylar body a final stroke, folded him neatly, and laid him in the trash.
I haven't forgotten Wilson, and people who knew him sometimes say, "Remember your balloon friend? What was his name? Oh, yeah, Wilson." This last November, with The Kid busy with his post-college life and The Old Man busy with another Christmas play, I again was the castaway but without my Wilson.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Howdy Neighbor!
Long time, no blog. I know you're all asking, "Why now?"
I've been meeting with someone (we'll call her "H") every few weeks for support as I try to become a healthier person. I would say we have a helper-helpee relationship. One specific way H supports me is by helping me formulate goals. One of the goals I set today was to write for at least 10 minutes a week. After I left the appointment, I considered how I could work writing into back into my life and decided it was time to revive the blog, because I did (and do) love my blog. So my first post back will be in honor of H.
I first met H when she was trying to help The Kid become a healthier person. I immediately liked her. Great eyes, cool glasses, funky clothes, and a laugh I loved; bright, articulate, interesting, compassionate, the very definition of supportive. And she liked The Kid!
Because H is a professional person, there are boundaries, which are good and necessary in these kinds of helper-helpee relationships, but I still wish we could be friends. Really, I feel like we are in this gray area where H is more than just a professional helper person to me yet could not appropriately be defined as a friend.
This is what I think: H is my neighbor.
And this is why I think that: When Jesus was challenged with the question "Who is my neighbor?" he responded with the parable of the Good Samaritan and then turned the initial challenge on its head by asking "Who in the story behaved as a neighbor should?"
H behaves in response to me the way a neighbor should. And, like Jesus, H turns things upside down for me so that my world can be right-side up.
So, if I greet you with a "Howdy Neighbor!" I'm not going all cowgirl on you. I'm letting you know what you are to me.
I've been meeting with someone (we'll call her "H") every few weeks for support as I try to become a healthier person. I would say we have a helper-helpee relationship. One specific way H supports me is by helping me formulate goals. One of the goals I set today was to write for at least 10 minutes a week. After I left the appointment, I considered how I could work writing into back into my life and decided it was time to revive the blog, because I did (and do) love my blog. So my first post back will be in honor of H.
I first met H when she was trying to help The Kid become a healthier person. I immediately liked her. Great eyes, cool glasses, funky clothes, and a laugh I loved; bright, articulate, interesting, compassionate, the very definition of supportive. And she liked The Kid!
Because H is a professional person, there are boundaries, which are good and necessary in these kinds of helper-helpee relationships, but I still wish we could be friends. Really, I feel like we are in this gray area where H is more than just a professional helper person to me yet could not appropriately be defined as a friend.
This is what I think: H is my neighbor.
And this is why I think that: When Jesus was challenged with the question "Who is my neighbor?" he responded with the parable of the Good Samaritan and then turned the initial challenge on its head by asking "Who in the story behaved as a neighbor should?"
H behaves in response to me the way a neighbor should. And, like Jesus, H turns things upside down for me so that my world can be right-side up.
So, if I greet you with a "Howdy Neighbor!" I'm not going all cowgirl on you. I'm letting you know what you are to me.
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