“Like wildflowers, you must allow yourself to grow in all the places people thought you never would.”~E.V. Thompson
“Hello there, my truest friend,”Sylvia says as she looks at herself in the bathroom mirror. She walks away and then turns around quickly to catch another peek. Not satisfied with a quick glimpse, she leans in over the bathroom sink and takes a closer look. “Yep, it’s me, not still me or the same me,” she assures herself, breathing a sigh of relief. She exhales forcefully directly on the mirror, and as it fogs, she embraces the prospect of not knowing who she is becoming and points to her reflection, “Let’s just keep you and everyone else guessing. After all, who doesn’t love a good surprise?!”
“You are going nowhere fast, Sylvia. That may sound harsh, but it’s the truth,” Erma cautions her best friend.
Sylvia could feel those words going into her core like a knife. No anesthesia. No sugar-coating. Erma, never one to mince words with Sylvia –the woman to whom she vowed brutal honesty and unwavering support –was certainly living up to her end of that deal. With a tone of equal parts disappointment (in herself and Erma) and reluctant acceptance, Sylvia replies, “Ouch. That really smarts!”
Smarts. It is a curious expression, don’t you agree? Smart is generally associated with intelligence and sharpness – both in appearance and intellect. “He’s such a smart dresser.” “She has such a wry sense of humor and can be a real smart aleck!” The verb though is a whole different ball of wax. “That smarts.” That hurts. It stings. When something smarts, well, it is the result of a painful remark or misstep. In this case, Sylvia feels wounded, almost bitten. She knows that Erma’s comment is meant to be constructive in some way; but at that moment, Sylvia cannot figure out her friend’s intention. The truth hurts; of that, she is abundantly aware.
“Erma, what do you mean? Why would you say that? After all, I’ve been on-the-go since the beginning of the year pretty much,” Sylvia questions. “I’m going somewhere. “
Recognizing the hurt and defensiveness in her friend’s tone, Erma realizes her statement demands clarification. “Nowhere. I didn’t mean that the way it came out. What I should have said is that you always amaze me. No plan. No painstakingly contrived itinerary. You’ll go anywhere! Anywhere is nowhere without a name, a ticket, or a place to call your own.”
That smarts. Sylvia decides to pull out the knife, dress the wound, and begin again in this moment.
“There would have been more I love yous … more I’m sorrys … more I’m listenings … but mostly, given another shot at life, I would seize every minute of it … look at it and really see it … try it on … live it … exhaust it … and never give that minute back until there was nothing left of it.” ~Erma Bombeck
Once she realized that she had the monster within her, the monster she had allowed to decimate her self-esteem and destroy her self-worth, she began to rise. There were so many times when the monster would return – plague her with doubt, pummel her emotionally and spiritually to the point of exhaustion, nearly convince her that the only way forward was to succumb to its power and settle for joylessness – she knew she wanted more and she knew she was more. How though? How would she rise from the ashes?
She would set herself free with her words. It didn’t matter if no one else would read them or understand them. The mere act of putting pen to paper, recognizing that she was the one who muddied the waters and sullied her own spirit by allowing others’ judgments and opinions to define her, her pen became her sword. She began to slay the monster.
Wednesday Wisdom: Face your demons. Decide to beat the shit out of them. And if you need help, ask. There is a tribe out there that has your back! You are something!! YOU ARE. ******************************** I have this demon who wants me to run away screaming if I am going to be flawed, fallible. It wants me to think I’m so good I must be perfect. Or nothing. I am, on the contrary, something: a being who gets tired, has shyness to fight, has more trouble than most facing people easily. If I get through this year, kicking my demon down when it comes up, I’ll be able, piece by piece, to face the field of life, instead of running from it the minute it hurts. ~Sylvia Plath
I don’t believe in heaven. Not as a destination anyway. Well, let me further amend that to say that I don’t believe that “good” people -those who lived life both honestly and vulnerably, with purpose and love in their hearts for themselves and the world around them, those who atoned for their “sins” (you know, […]
“Sylvia, that is a Wednesday whine not Wednesday wisdom.”
“Here’s the thing though, Erma. I don’t care.”
“Sylvia, that is a lie. Couldn’t be further from the truth.”
“Erma, well it could but okay. Here’s the thing. Really, this is the thing…”
“Sylvia, before you go on, let’s just say that there is no one thing. Not a single, damn thing…ever.”
“Erma, there it is. That is exactly the thing.”
************************************
Here’s the thing about people with good hearts:
They give you excuses when you don’t explain yourself. They accept the apologies you don’t give. They see the best in you. They always lift you up, even if that means putting their own priorities aside. They will never be too “busy” for you. They make time, even when you don’t. And you wonder why they’re the most sensitive people, the most caring people, why they are willing to give so much of themselves with no expectation in return. You wonder why their existence is not so essential to your well-being. It’s because they don’t make you work hard for the attention they give you. They accept the love they think they deserve- and you accepted the love you think you’re entitled to. Don’t take them for granted. Fear the day when a good heart gives up on you. Our skies don’t become grey out of nowhere, our sunshine does not allow the darkness to take over for no reason. A heart does not turn cold unless it’s been treated with coldness for a while.~Najwa Zebian
Erma: Live a little life today, Syl. Remember yesterday- all of the yesterdays- but learn from them, muster strength from them, glean hope from them, and corral courage and confidence from them. I learned this from a very wise woman- my mother- in her final stages of life.
Sylvia: Well, right now you caught me. I’m sitting here for a moment making my mental list of things to do today, and at the very top (after “have two strong cups of coffee and a daydream” perhaps) is move– move forward with a bit of abandon; move forward with intent and purpose; and move forward knowing that those you love know you love them. Yep, Erma, I’ll live a little life today– or maybe quite a lot.
******************* Now, go ahead and make your move.
Remember: The queen is the most powerful piece in the game. She’s got moves.
It has been a day. A day of cleansing. A day of purging. Of reminiscing. Of beginning again. And although so much more can be accomplished when she has Erma’s help, Sylvia appreciates working by herself today. In her solitude, she takes her time and allows herself to bloom in her own way and in her own time. She just might be enough today– for herself anyway.
Just because no one sees you standing on your own and basking in your own glory doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. You know, and that’s what matters.
Erma: It’s been a decade, right? Since your mom passed?
Sylvia:Yes, ten years in the blink of an eye. She must have been counting the days.
Erma: Yes, she undoubtedly wanted him home with her. They had been apart for too long. They were ready to be reunited and to live the eternity they had promised each other.
Sylvia: I wasn’t ready though. I’m still not. I don’t know how to navigate the rest of the journey. I’ve gone from devastated to lost.
Erma: Time. The only answer. It won’t heal but it will carry you. It will give you the life jacket you need from time to time to endure the waves that will pummel you at the most inconvenient and unexpected moments.
Sylvia: I don’t need a life jacket. I’m not drowning. I told you I feel lost. I’m numb, shivering, in a blinding snowstorm, and I have no idea of what is ahead.
Erma: None of us knows, Syl. That’s where the notion of faith enters. And you are so far from lost– lost suggests that there is something to be found.There is nothing to be found and everything to be felt.
Sylvia: Oh, okay, then I’m right on track.
It’s been a month of Sundays since he passed, figuratively of course. Much longer in reality, and certainly it feels even more like an eternity. I’m not paralyzed or empty or broken. I’m numb.
Every morning I awake hoping that I’ll complete the journey- the journey for which none of us is ever fully prepared- the journey off and away from the path of grief and sadness. Most people describe grief and its effect as wave-like; it ebbs and flows. It washes over you. It brings you under and makes it hard to catch your breath; and as soon as you stand and catch your breath, another wave knocks you down. It’s not a wave, not a ripple or a tsunami. It is more like the breathlessness you experience on a sub-zero day in the middle of January up north. This grief, this numbness, is totally different than any other I’ve ever felt. I can’t fully compare it to anything, not yet, because I know I haven’t lived through it completely. I doubt I ever will. Although if I had to liken this trek and its encumbrances to a relatable situation, I would imagine how one feels at a “Lost & Found” bin or depot. Hopeful yet aware of impending disappointment. Each morning I wake up headed to the lost and found.
The phone rang last night. A message was left. “Your belongings have turned up. We are holding them for you at the ‘Lost & Found‘ window. Come at your earliest convenience.”
So, I awake with a controlled eagerness to pick up what has been left. After all, it is mine. It has been left for me to retrieve. I shower, get dressed, and off I go. On my way to the “Lost & Found” today. Every day for a month of Sundays.
The journey has not taken me away or off the path. I have yet to retrieve what I believed belonged to me. I have yet to find wholeness. Perhaps I never will. Perhaps it is never to be found. But for now, I’ll keep listening to the message each night on the machine. I will keep getting up to see if the depot actually has what belongs to me. What needs to be reclaimed. I will live with the numbness- not in wave-like motion but in a traipse, much like the plodding of wearing full winter armor in heavy, wet snow on a frigid winter’s day. And eventually – I hope anyway- faith will melt the snow away from the path.
I hope I will recognize what it is I lost. If not, I hope I find the strength to delete the message and move forward.
"ARE YOU THERE, ERMA? IT'S ME, SYLVIA." 