Showing Up

Deb: Barbara and I spent the better part of a day with a darling friend who is in considerable pain right now. She is faced with her sister’s sudden and advanced cancer. The hope the doctors are offering is minimal at best. It seems to be untreatable and inoperable. Our friend is shocked and sad. Or, I should say, profoundly shocked and sad. She is feeling her sister being ripped from her, and her sister I think is feeling the same way towards her entire world. Yesterday we set out to have an oasis day. The three of us got together to do something delightful. And it was the best thing we could have done.

I worried that the day would be a mirage rather than an oasis. I worried that she would want to enjoy the day but would not be able to, as thoughts would creep in to invade this fertile place of friendship. I mainly worried because we are not old friends, we three. We do not know her sister, nor do we have the history of their family to call upon. We cannot console her with lively memories and great stories. We cannot speak to her sister’s courage or resolve because we simply do not know her. We can’t reassure her in any specific way at all because we don’t have the background of their family.

And yet, as we walked along, into this beautiful September day, we took solace in just being there. The three of us. We were there just to be with her and she was there just to be with us. There was no mandate. We talked about it, we didn’t talk about it. We were just there. It wasn’t even about conscious support. We were just letting the day unfold into the lovely day our friend needed and that we also needed in the face of her sadness.

And it made me think about pain and suffering and even death, and the handling of these things. Often I am asked when someone is going into a hospital room or a funeral parlour, “What do I say, what should I do?” My answer always, after too much experience in this area, is simply ... to go. Show up. Be there. Arrive and be counted. That is it. That is all someone needs. You showed up. The same applies to the person who is the eye of that storm, experiencing that saddest, most painful part of life. They give themselves a huge gift when they choose life in the midst of pain, or fear of death, or death. And it isn’t easy to pull those covers off of your head and get out in the world when you are in pain. I have said before on this blog that I tend to hide out when I am sad or depressed. But our friend chose life and forward movement in the middle of her tragedy. She chose to counter the stall that she and her family is up against and come out into the sun. When you are faced with little or no hope it takes huge strength and fortitude to enable you to march out to find some sun, somewhere.

The day with our new and already beloved friend was neither maudlin nor depressing. Conversely, the situation she is facing is both, in spades. But our time together was a great example of putting one foot in front of the other. It didn’t take away her pain. We certainly didn’t NOT think about it. But it was lovely nonetheless. It was a few hours in the bosom of new friendship and life affirming activity. As we walked in the park, our conversation leapt and hopped, her sister’s situation not far from our minds. But the thing is, it did not negate what we were doing at all. It was an example of living. Living no matter what. As we strolled along, we three were beginning something in the face of that which is ending. Although we are new friends, I feel we will become fast friends.

And come what may, we will never forget this day that we all just showed up.

Barbara: Well, I couldn’t have said it better myself. You know it’s funny—I find that the older I get (maybe because I am more experienced in these things, maybe because I have learned so much myself about “letting go”) the less I worry about the support I am offering a beloved in pain. What I mean by this is: I am not analyzing my own support as I try to give it, wondering if it is helping, if I’m saying the right thing. I’m no longer, in effect, making my needs paramount, as I often—unintentionally—did in the past without realizing it. I mean, what is a worry about how well you’re supporting someone if not a worry about your own needs??? Instead, I am now just being. Being there. Being in the moment. Allowing the flow of conversation and love and support to, well, flow as it does and as it will. I am moved beyond words to look back on this precious day and see that we all—somehow—did exactly that: we flowed. As you say, Deb, the miracle, the grace, is in the living.

Deb: In case our friend reads this post, please accept this bouquet from us, as an example of our friendship and the loveliest of life.

Five Crazy Things: Indelible Books

Barbara: In another lovely serendipitous twist, last week I appealed to a local college for admittance into a creative writing course that had been categorized as “closed”. On Monday afternoon, they let me know I could take it. On Monday night, I was sitting in my first college class since, well, college! It was so so so so wonderful. One of our assignments was to list the first ten novels we thought of when asked which ones have made an indelible impression on us (and they don’t need to be fancy-shmancy, super-impressive books).

Now I throw the question out to you! But, of course, we’re doing FIVE only. I know you will all have dozens of favourite books for a myriad of wonderful reasons, but the real curiosity is: which FIVE do you think of FIRST?

1. A Prayer for Owen Meany, by John Irving

2. The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, by Junot Diaz

3. Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, by Jonathan Safran Foer

4. 100 Years of Solitude, by Gabriel Garcia Marquez

5. A Handmaid’s Tale, by Margaret Atwood

All of these stopped my heart over and over: the language; the stories that pull you in, revealing the contortions and marvels of life, its ugly side, and its (yes, here’s that word again) serendipity; the unending spirit; the circular symmetry of life; and the fascinating enigma that is the human soul.

Deb:

1.  Father Joe

2.  The Lovely Bones

3.  Watership Down

4.  Rebecca

5.  The Chrysalids

True Grit

Barbara: In light of all our recent talk of back-to-school and parenting, I’ve been thinking a lot about an article I read in the Globe and Mail a few weeks back. The article was about a book that Canadian journalist, Paul Tough, had written called How Children Succeed: Grit, Curiosity and the Power of Character. Now I haven’t read the book—we’re not really doing book reviews here—but I still feel intrigued by the theory he puts forth (with which I familiarized myself through the article! … is that cheating?)

Anyway, looooooong story short, Tough (how’s that for a name for a guy destined to write about grit?) has determined that the single most important factor in success—more important than schooling, intelligence, income, genes—is GRIT. Now obviously, schooling, intelligence, income and genes will offer advantages and disadvantages, but the fascinating truth, the truth I think we all know in our hearts to be true but which we sometimes dismiss because we’re too depressed, angry, frustrated, and spent, is that every disadvantage we face (or feel we face) can have its ass KICKED in the face of determined, committed, persistent GRIT.

Tough’s book is geared to parents; I think to give them some ideas of shape and structure to then offer to their kids. And I think offering kids life lessons that embrace and celebrate perseverance is absolutely essential. But as I start this next kidless phase of my life, it has never seemed more important for me, grownup and supposedly all “done”, to remember.

It’s not just hollow condescension to tell yourself (or your beloved) to “never give up” (or to, as Nike owns, “Just do it”); it is, in fact, a measurable, firm and logical plan. It works. Because when all seems to be failing, when everything seems to have hit a wall, inevitably those of us who are open-minded and curious, will suddenly see that barely visible chink in the wall of “Not Possible” backlit by its seemingly otherworldly glow, and we will scratch at that hard place and we will chip at it (and, in the focus of our concerted effort, we will forget that we were just about to give up) until more and more of the glow pours out, until before we know it Not Possible is awash in so much light we no longer see it at all.

This has happened to me more times than I can count. The things I “have”, the accomplishments I most cherish and value, the calm, the peace, the happiness, the wisdom I’ve managed to hold close enough to examine, have all come after not minutes or days or weeks of effort, but after YEARS of it. Years and years and years. And, like I said above, the only time I notice the effort, the only time I resent it!, is when I stop and, well, notice it. If I’m in “the zone”, if I’m just “doing it”, if I’m not even dreaming of “giving up”, it is the most wonderful, exciting, transcendent feeling. But if I’m evaluating my effort, judging it, breathing down at its disinterested little face, it huuuuuuuuurts. Like muscles after a long workout. And this is the moment we all need to face at some points (at many, many points). This is when you need a little GRIT in your back pocket to pull out and rub all over your hands before you slap them together … and start again.

A University of Pennsylvania researcher developed a Grit Test to measure your grit (or GQ, maybe?). Click here if you want to try it. She says that most people are pretty honest when it comes to how they rate their own grit quotient. I scored high, but then I could’ve told you that without the test. It’s the one trait I can say absolutely has gotten me through every single challenge.

Many of you have shared stories here of your own grit over the years, or the grit of your children. I never get tired of them! How gritty are you?

Deb: This is fascinating and it was so interesting taking the test for me, and here is why. Some of my “focus” answers, when I answered them honestly, had nothing to do with grit and everything to do with, well ... focus. My focus is a one part grit and one part focus-impaired. The desire is there, but there are other obstacles that come into play. So, in conclusion, I would say that I have true grit in the face of some learning challenges! 

Drunk History

Deb: What can I say? Drunk history? Can I begin to top that?

Our School House

Deb: I think I have said before in the blog that New Year’s Eve never feels like a new year to me. The day after Labour Day is always my New Year’s Day. I think many of us feel this way. We have been conditioned through the years to retain those back to school butterflies that mean new opportunities, second, third, and forth chances to get it right, and adventure. I’ve long since stopped buying binders and three-hole paper, pencil crayons and protractors (yes I am THAT old), but the feeling of “new” never leaves me.

At this transitional time when the days remain warm and the nights cool down it takes me back to that time of learning. Would that I had craved learning when it was my brain sponge time, when every fact was soaked up and stored in my spongie brain locker! I wish I had yearned every day as I do now, to discover something new. I could insert “youth is wasted on the young” right now, but I won’t. I did of course have my passions—does Mad magazine count? But I wasn’t hungry for it like I am now.

So this year, as Labour Day (boy’s birthday) came and went and my butterflies returned, my mind was right in the pocket of the learning space. I was craving the classes, yearning for the learn. So although I did not go back to school per se, I did start to work on a children’s book, started ukulele classes, and am going to try to learn to ride a horse.

But more fulfilling than my individual pursuits is the fact that our house is the hall of learning right now. The whole house feels so creative and I am loving the forward vibes I am feeling every day. As you all know, the boy and his girl moved in with us and it is perfect and fun. She is in school, steeped in the world of academia that I always craved but never had. Watching her head out to the ivy-covered walls of U of T every day puts me in mind of Love Story and the ivy-covered walls of Harvard. The girl reminds me of Jenny Cavilleri in her cute little put-together outfits, her arms full of books. I sooooo wanted to be Jenny in that movie! More specifically, I wanted to be the beautiful student and musician Jenny, not the dying Jenny!

The boy, for his part, is working on resumés, while gathering his list of connections to reach out to, and formulating film ideas. They are at the beginning of their careers and it is so wonderful to see and be a part of it. My husband just finished his final edit of his book, his creative end to a year of work.

And not to be outdone, our dog, the Bairn, is in school too . We are training her and shaping her into the easy dog about town we want her to be and she is an excellent student. So I am teacher and student. In lieu of an apple she gives me a constantly wagging tail. School’s in session here in the Mochrie McGrath house.

And the miracle is, unlike high school, I don’t want to skip.

Barbara: It’s funny, even though I remember myself being pretty studious and into school, when I look back at that youthful time, I really feel like I wasted it, spending more time thinking about getting certain grades than actually listening to the lessons in the lessons. Since as an adult I’ve discovered the error of my ways, I love love LOVE to be in a classroom environment and to be learning. Another funny thing, without realizing you’ve been signing up for lessons here and there, Deb, I’m also looking into signing up for some. Not sure if I’m too late for this semester, but am crossing my fingers the little school house has room for one more open mind.

The Low Down, Low Grade Blues

Barbara: After a wonderful whirlwind long weekend in Montreal last week, after seeing my daughter and reveling in family and friends, I am now back at home and officially navigating my new path of quietude. Because back at home there are no dinner parties or kids (or noise), back at home life “goes on”. And, yes, as we’d all anticipated, this new life of quietude is not without its challenges: namely, it also comes—at the moment—with an undercurrent of wistful, delicate sa-tigue (see how I made that up? “Sad” and “fatigue” together … because it feels remarkably like fatigue).

I swear I wasn’t even going to write about this as I don’t want you to worry about me or get all schlumpy yourselves (ever notice how moods are infectious?), but then … well, when you gotta write, you gotta write what you know, right? And right now, this is what I know.

I am doing my thing, by the way, and getting LOTS done (which is very satisfying and wonderful), but this satigue just follows me everywhere. Kinda like a puppy who’s forced to be with you on a long road trip and does so only because he loves you and the alternative of being left behind is much much worse but who is in great emotional distress the whole time because he HATES the car but he’d prefer you didn’t know this as his favourite purpose in life is to follow you around happily and adore you and so he suffers the dreaded 6-hour car ride in whimpering “silence”. (… Yes, this would be Chaplin on last week’s road trip to and from Montreal. Make sure you listen for his low down, low-grade whine...)

And do you ever find when you’re nursing the low down, low-grade blues that you kinda want to be left alone with them? That you don’t really want to chat and visit and be cheered? I know, for me, it’s all about letting it run its gentle course. And, in my experience, it is a gentle course. This is not the same feeling as true depression, or frustration, or angst, or grief. It is something else entirely. It feels almost like that dull ache you get when you’re a young teen and your bones are growing you into your next shape and size. Everything kinda throbs and hurts and your longer arms and legs make you all clumsy and awkward. But. BUT. You have this niggling, insistent, committed certainty that this new size and shape is going to be just swell in time and that it will all be worth it in the end.

So the truth is out: definitely feeling the blues right now. But the hope is there: definitely convinced it won’t last that long or be for naught.

Deb: Oh Barb. I have no words of wisdom. I hope you take solace in the fact that you know I have been where you are. I hope you see that we made the best of it and that we were rewarded with the return of our boy plus a girl. I also hope you see how very very fast that time went. We are reversed, aren’t we? We are reversed. I am feeling your satigue and I am phoning you...right now. Sending love. xo