My World With Words

Hang in there. You lost your mom so fast, they told you she still had years to live and it turned out to be weeks. She was so young, no one knows that better than me. She was exactly three weeks older than me.

You told me tonight you’re depressed, and thank God, you’re reaching out for help. I’m proud of you for that, because when you’re depressed, it can be hard to move. You lose faith in the possibility of change, so you don’t bother to take any steps that might make things better.

But you’ve been down there before and I don’t think you want to be there again. Your life is looking good these days, or it was before this happened, and you don’t want to lose everything like you did the last time. I want to hug you for recognizing all of those things, and I want you to take action before you start to feel worse and lose track of their truth.

There are things in your life I hope you can change, people I hope you will tell to shove off and others I hope you will let in. You have us. It isn’t the same, I know, but we will never leave.

(I know you’ll never tell those people to shove off, and it wouldn’t really be right to do so anyway. But is it too much to ask that they learn some boundaries? It would be like a light in a dark room, a room that had gradually been getting dimmer, so you didn’t realize how little you could see until it was illuminated.)

Call us, we’ll come over and cook dinner. Bad idea. We’ll pick up a pizza. We’ll spend the night, stay up and talk or watch you sleep. Call us, even if you don’t know what you need. We’ll figure it out.

Okay, I can’t really send you this letter.  All I can do is back my words up with actions, so I’m going to go do a little of that right now.

We love you.

Image Credits: Puppy/Kitty © Claudia Nass–stock.adobe.com; Angel Statue © radekcho–stock.adobe.com

One lazy Fourth of July my roommate Wendy and I spent the evening at her friend Carole’s home, camped out on Carole’s deck where we had the perfect view of the city’s fireworks display. Carole’s husband graciously agreed to handle the food while we oohed and aahed.

It started out, like so many such presentations, to be not so much the fanfare promised but more of a sparkler-like fizzle.

“For this kind of excitement I could have gone out with Bill,” I grumbled, referring to a less-than-dynamic man Wendy and I knew from church. Bill, while nice, was notorious for his, shall we say, surprising ideas for dates. For example, he’d been invited to join us that night for a barbeque, but suggested instead that we go shopping.

No sooner had my mild complaining begun than the show picked up a little speed. Wendy, taking her cue from my comment, began comparing each burst of color with one of her past romances.

“That was Todd,” she said. “A never-ending explosion of excitement.”

Or, “Just like Jerry. Completely green with jealousy.”

Carole piped in when one firecracker, sounding like it would outdo all the previous, turned out to be a dud.

“My first marriage was like that,” she said, laughing. “A lot of promise, then…nothing.”

“That’s Danny!” I cried out, with the rocket that held a couple dozen small bursts of yellow and orange. “Lots of bright ideas, no follow through.”

I don’t remember if we ran out of men, quips or fireworks first, but we didn’t stop laughing for over an hour. Carole’s husband, who was graciously grilling and bearing with our comments about his gender, brought over our burgers.

“Aw, honey,” Carole said. “All the fireworks together aren’t as wonderful as you are.”

“You’re drunk,” he said wryly.

“On love!” Carole replied. In fact, we were only punch drunk; we hadn’t had a sip of alcohol.

When I was in my twenties, I mentioned to the psychologist I was seeing at the time how I loved cloudy days, thunderstorms and overcast skies. I’m sure my memory has exaggerated his response, but I seem to recall his face leapt out of a bored stupor into over-animated eagerness.

“Let’s look at that,” he said. “Why do you think you would like bad weather better?”

Bad weather? I just said this was my preference, that I loved it. I think it’s good weather.

“I like it because it feels cozy to me,” I said. “It reminds me of a pot of chili on the stove, a good book by your chair, and…” I hesitated.

He waited a moment. “And…?”

“I like long-sleeved clothing better.” For some reason, I was embarrassed to say that last sentence, perhaps because it clearly confused him.

“Do you feel safer in long sleeves?” I recall him asking.

“I look better in long sleeves,” I said. “It’s classier, more polished.” Never was I more aware of fashion than in my twenties.

He paused. “Will you consider this,” he said (didn’t ask), “you’re frightened of the world, and you prefer any excuse to be inside.”

I like cloudy days, and he was calling me anti-social. In all my insecurities, with all my questioning of myself and my value, I never doubted he was wrong about that correlation. I simply find clouds comforting.

Comforting, majestic, remarkable. So simple, yet few things in nature can be as beautiful or awe-inspiring. The way the light filters through them, their ethereal nature.

Throw in a tornado, and I’m terrified. I have my limits.

I have no idea why I prefer what is generally considered less desirable weather. It’s not that I don’t value a sunny, breezy spring day, in fact, bring it on, I’d love to get some fresh air flowing through my place. In practical terms, yes, I prefer “good weather” in many ways. Certainly a much better driving experience.

But don’t tell me I have issues because of it. I have my problems, sure, but I’m basically a social person. Are there days when I prefer the company of my cats? Yes, but they don’t string together.

Just sometimes nothing I want more than to sit on the sofa, wearing my turtleneck sweater, reading a good book and waiting for the chili to stew a little longer…until it’s just right.

And seeing the clouds pile up high.

---