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The Wreck

Before I start this story, let me stress: I’m ok. The other folks in the story are ok. Everyone is ok.

A few weeks ago I was involved in a car accident.

How it Happened

I was stopped at a green light behind a truck as we waited for an emergency vehicle to clear the intersection. People were stopped in the lanes to my right and left, and I remember watching as the fire engine (one of those smaller trucks) cautiously pulled through the intersection – lights and sirens going – and mid my “wow, they really have to be so careful even with all these stopped cars” thought, WHAM. My neck snapped forward, my glasses flew into the dashboard, I hit the truck in front of me, and my head snapped back. The truck behind hadn’t noticed the sirens, the lights, or the cars (ME) were all stopped.

I sat for a long moment stunned. My bell was rung.

Thankfully, I was far enough back that I didn’t damage the car in front of me; however, the truck that hit me had to be towed from the scene.

Adrenaline hit, and I found myself in the nearby gas station ugly crying. I ugly cried at the firefighters, at the sheriff, my supervisor, and finally I was able to get it down to snot-filled whimpering while the guy who hit me shook my hand and offered his apologies. Then, I did my own apology tour. I apologized for crying to the firefighters, the sheriff, my supervisor, and the gentleman whose truck I hit because I was clearly breaking some kind of self-imposed crash etiquette and embarrassing myself. Oddly, they were less concerned with all of the excessive face leakage, which was completely undignified and totally mortifying, and more concerned about determining if I was actually ok. Ok? Are you kidding me? No. I was crying in public. We do not cry in public.

If you know me well, it takes a lot to get me to cry; it’s not my go-to reaction. I was taught by my Mom that we don’t show tears. If you need to cry, you cry in private. So, if I’m crying in public, something really went south. (Quick question: Why is south the “wrong” way? I have some questions now that I’ve typed that sentence.)

I eventually limped the car home, and I melted down – worse than when I was at the scene of the accident. You see, the gentleman who hit me asked about my husband. (He quickly felt really terrible for asking as I’m a share-er). His question toppled a domino that caused an emotional cascade ending in me wailing loudly for Jay to come back home “now”. I added, “please”. I wasn’t rude about it, but the universe remained deaf and indifferent to my pleas.

Nothing quite emphasizes that you walk your path alone than a somewhat traumatic event. You stand there in its wake, realizing there’s only you. Don’t tell me I’m not alone. (For the record, these thoughts are already on my counselor’s radar.) And that’s not to say people didn’t say nice things. “Glad you’re ok.” “Let me know if you need anything.”

I needed a hug. I needed someone to tell me I was ok. I needed Jay.

That said, my brother-in-law dropped everything to check on me and get me to my doctor’s office. Diagnosis: sore, but ok. He was my hero.

The car was eventually totaled, and I had to buy a new car. Yay – dealing with car dealership people. Yay – playing fun haggling games I don’t want to play. Yay – a car payment.

Christmas in March

I don’t have a neat bow to plant on this story, so you get random thoughts.

At work, I’m reminded that there hasn’t been a day since November 7, 2020, that a driver hasn’t died on a Texas roadway. That’s a minimum of 1,241 deaths as of today. Whatever you have to do to be more present in your vehicle, do it. Obey traffic laws. Remove distractions. Be aware of your surroundings. There’s no place more important for you to get than home.

Have you ever looked at your GPS and seen that a couple of minutes have been added to your arrival time? Have you ever tried to make up that time? And then you notice how hard you have to push to get that minute back – to get two. Honestly, what’s two minutes? Why put yourself at risk?

And that’s not to say I’m a perfect driver. I’m not. You’re not. But let’s try to be better.

My accident was minor and we all walked away. We were lucky.

Let’s not rely on luck.

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Writing

Huzzah! Another post about “writing”! Ok, ok, ok, I know, I get it, but hear me out… yes, it’s about writing again, but, but, but, but… this time it’s a different angle. Huh?? Yeah! That’s right! Do I have your attention now? No? Still feeling like clicking on something else? Hmph. I gave my best. Ok, fine, I gave like 5% of my “best” and we can agree that’s really a “best” in air quotes (or, actual quote quotes, but honestly at this point I’ve lost so many readers, the three of you shouldn’t mind. Look, I’m not in sales for a reason.

I mean, if it helps at all, I wrote this post several different ways and this is the one that stuck. So, you can imagine how bad it could have been before we arrived here.

You’re welcome?

Maybe “Writing” isn’t the best title, because really this is more about “ranting” or maybe “pontificating” or some other -ing verb that’s more appropriate, but my brain can’t currently access the right -ing for this scenario.

So, let’s just get to it.

There’s a saying: “There are no bad questions.” I beg to differ, but in looking to see who I could pin the blame on for this lovely bit of delightfully encouraging idiocy, I found one I genuinely like better by Carl Sagan (…maybe, but it was probably Lincoln, Twain, Einstein, or Pooh, because “You can’t trust the internet” – Lord Byron) Anyway, Sagan said, “There are naïve questions, tedious questions, ill-phrased questions, questions put after inadequate self-criticism. But every question is a cry to understand the world. There is no such thing as a dumb question.”

Fair enough. That said, I do have a least favorite question (which falls under “tedious”).

“What are your hobbies?”

Sure, I understand they’re just trying to get to know me – to find some commonalities – but every time I respond “writing” I feel a bit judged. (I’m sensitive, and possibly a wee defensive, but only a “wee” which is arguably smaller than a “bit” if I’m the one arguing.) And it’s not that writing is a bad hobby; it’s a great hobby. If we could just leave it there, and acknowledge it with a slight head bob that says, “I know you made words, and I understand those words” that’d be fantastic. However, it’s never just left there. “A writer!” Which is always followed with enthusiastic questions. “Are you a novelist? reporter? Are you published? Where would I have seen your work?” Then I witness their hopeful supportive little faces fall when I respond, “I have a blog.” Every time. *womp*womp*. Like I made an oopsie in the writing pool. It’s the same reaction I’d expect to receive if I’d responded, “Oh, I’m glad you asked. I’m an avid Mad Libber!! The words I choose – HILARIOUS! Some people will tell you it’s about the topic, but they’re wrong, it’s all in the word choices I make and truthfully or as Hamlet once said, ‘I have the best words'” or “Well Susan, I’m actually a bathroom-stall poet. You might know me from the Women’s Stall #3 at the Hard Rock Cafe New Orleans! Some of my best work is there. Beans beans the magical fruit… This guy over here knows it. Hey guy, yeah that was me! I also did a series of those little hearts with ‘B+LS 4EVER!’ the ‘LS’ is obviously for Luke Skywalker. I mean, he used to bull’s-eye womp rats in his T-16 back home *SWOON* I still love that hero! Keeping the galaxy safe from womp rats. Fun fact – it’s actually why their population hasn’t exploded here. I love non-fiction, don’t you?”

That’s one typical reaction I’ve received.

Another – I once joined a writing group where everyone was working hard to be published, and we’d sit around and read our latest pieces. The second or third time I read one of my stories, another writer looked over and said quite flatly, “oh, another personal anecdote.”

I quit before I was ousted.

I get a similar reaction if I mention “orchestra” or “archery.” People want to hear the stories that demonstrate that I’m at a more advanced level, which seems a bit unfair for something that falls under “hobby.”

If you haven’t read “All I Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten” by Robert Fulghum (I was tempted to credit Kierkegaard for fun, but I’ll let it go) you should. There’s a story (parable?) about asking children who among them can draw, dance, sing, or write where nearly every child raises their hand and responds excitedly that they can. When the same question is posed again to an older audience, people qualify their answers, and few raise their hands. As you go up in age, the number of hands raised becomes even fewer. “What went wrong between kindergarten and now? Whatever happened to ‘Yes! Of course, I can!’?”

These higher standards we put on ourselves make us feel like we need to say we can’t dance, sing, draw, or even write because we’re not at a professional level, we also are putting on others. So when I say “I write,” even with the qualifier that it’s my hobby, I’m not considered a writer by most adult standards. Much like I’m not a musician by that same measure.

What if we just accepted and celebrated our hobbies and those of our friends without needing it to be more? When you ask me about my hobbies, know that I sing, I dance, I draw, I act, I am a musician, and I am a writer, and so are you and so are your family and friends.

I’ll tuck away my soap box now. – Susan B. Anthony

(Proof from last Spring that I’m not a musician… oh wait, maybe we (or you) need to rethink hobbies?? Seriously though, I loved this concert. I love all of our concerts and I hope the latest concert posts soon so I can share it with you; it was fantastic. The people I am fortunate enough to perform with are fantastic musicians and lovely people, and our conductor is the best I’ve had. Understand, once upon a time I was a decent player in decent groups, so that says a ton.)

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I Take My Coffee Black

I don’t write reviews. I just can’t; I lack the ability. The ingredients for composing a good review include access to and the selective application of a review lexicon – a common language or vocabulary used by reviewers and understood by those who typically read reviews. It’s a bit like a wine connoisseur choosing to describe wines in terms of “notes”. It also requires not only a fairly broad knowledge of literature, but an understanding of the basic structure of a review, and some ability to defend your opinion. Let’s be honest among friends: I can barely keep up with this blog, much less something more lofty. Maybe it’s my lack of the needed breadth/depth of knowledge, my debate skills being those of a petulant toddler denied their favorite toy, or it could just be that I’m lazy. Regardless, I prefer my reviews limited to distributing stars, or if I’m feeling extra lazy, a simple binary choice – thumbs up or down. To put it another way – rather “to raspberry or not to raspberry” someone’s creative baby – that is the question (gah, curse my brain, I find I’m now doing the entire quote from Hamlet while working in the word “raspberry” as much as possible – see, this right here, is another reason I can’t write reviews and why you don’t want me to write them – I’ll “squirrel,” insert asides and non-sequitor to the point that you forget why you’re even reading my post. For example, now, you’re here for a review.

But before I drop it completely, please allow me this one indulgence… tis nobler in the mind to raspberry… Ok, I’m letting it go.

A Recommendation

A few months ago Dad asked if I was familiar with the author Tyler Merritt. He’d recently heard an interview with the author on NPR where he discussed his book, I Take My Coffee Black: Reflections on Tupac, Musical Theater, Faith, and Being Black in America. Now my Dad isn’t one to typically go around recommending books. Ok, that’s not entirely true. In high school, he’d recommended A Tale of Two Cities, Dune, and everything written by Kurt Vonnegut, which I read and enjoyed. (Well, more “enjoyed-ish” “enjoyed-lite” or “grimaced through” when it came to Dickens. It’s a solid story BUT it could stand to be edited for pacing. Hey, by the time I was a teen, attention spans were on a rapid decline, and paid-by-the-installment Dickens novels were grueling. Sir, imma need you to wrap this tale up, because your narrative(s) plod along. This run-on sentence is truly the worst of times, and that Defarge woman with all that knitting… ooft!

My apologies to the Dickens fans. Great stories, but… (For the record, don’t get me started on the turtle chapters in Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath.)

Anyway, all of that to say that it’s been a day or two since Dad sent a recommendation my way. So when he recommended Mr. Merritt’s book, I snapped it up … and promptly put it on my counter where it joined a to-be-read pile that will one day consume my house.

Still, I decided to cheat a bit and just go out and find the NPR interview online. I wanted to check that box off the next time I spoke to Dad and prove I was a good daughter who sometimes paid attention. I landed on the author’s website The Tyler Merritt Project. I looked around hoping to get a feel for who he was and what had drawn Dad to him. On his site were links to several of his videos including episodes of I Take My Coffee Black. I listened. I watched. And then I immediately purchased the audiobook, which is narrated by the author so I could hear him tell his story.

You can go to the site or YouTube and watch those, but I actually want to share the one that went viral before he wrote his book. Below is “Before You Call the Cops”

The book is autobiographical, and the author shares engaging stories that are very open about his experiences and who he is as a person – owning his many impressive accomplishments as well as some of his failings. The result makes him relatable and very human. He creates proximity to him – one of the major tenets of Tyler Merritt’s philosophy – that through proximity you create empathy. This idea, nay truth, that when we are exposed to others – we get a better understanding of their perspectives and can then more fully appreciate their struggles. In fact, in one of the chapters, he talks about his “Safe Place” experiment where he brought together “…individuals from varying political, racial, ethnic, and religious backgrounds to participate in face-to-face discussions about hot-button topics to encourage healthy and safe – and sometimes even humorous – dialogue. By stepping out from behind the safety and anonymity of computer screens and social media, Merritt shares ways for individuals to engage more productively, no matter the issue at hand.” 1 (The bio said it better than I ever could, and I did try.) The conversations were at times quite raw, but the participants walked away with a better understanding of each other.

I’m going to stop here, because as I said at the beginning, I don’t write reviews, it’s not in my wheelhouse, but I can make recommendations. And I highly recommend you read this book, because I truly believe we’d all be better people if we knew Tyler Merritt.

Quick plug for the audiobook: At the end of the book, Tyler Merritt has this wonderful conversation with his best friend, Tony Award Winner, James Inglehart. I sincerely want them to host a regular something – podcast, YouTube channel, TV/radio show, anything. Together they are so fun and just brought me joy.

  1. Quote from The Hachette Speakers Bureau’s bio of Tyler Merritt’s. You can book him to speak at an engagement or host one of his interactive Safe Place talks. ↩︎
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2023: That’s A Wrap

As I sit here typing, I realize that as much as I try, I won’t find the right words to wrap up my 2023 in a way that’s satisfying to me. My words won’t quite capture everything that’s happened (and in some cases, if I’m honest, didn’t happen) and also be relatable? meaningful? enjoyable? See, words! They’re my downfall, but they’re why I write. My hope is one day to actually express myself well. That’s not an attempt to earn some flattery; it’s an honest statement. I could start with, “I meant to write more.” I did, but let’s face it, every year I always mean to write more but always come up a bit short. I write “write more” on planners and scribble those same words on my soul. I make declarations. I set intentions. “I will write more” and then another year ends. So, instead of dwelling on one small bit of what I didn’t do, I’ll talk about what I did instead, and I’ll try to do it in a way that isn’t like a social media Beth PR campaign showcasing just how enviably green the grass is over here. (If you’ve read the few pieces I did post, you know it wasn’t.)

Below is a highlight of what I got into last year – month-by-month because when I think it’s “inside the box” (the outside can be a bit overwhelming). Remember, this blog is mostly for friends and family, and you poor souls who are either bored or simply curious about what an aging and quite average Texas stranger has been up to. Feel free to skip ahead, I mean, I lived it all and I’m even having a tiny yawn.

A Few 2023 Highlights (psst, I made that ball on the top row – go me!)

January

I made some proclamations. I intended to embrace the word metamorphosis but instead seemed to have clung to the phrase status quo. Bummer. 

February

If any of you watched any news about Texas, you probably saw we had a wee freeze in these here parts. Texans are teased a lot when this happens, which is fine. “Oh no, it’s below 60 degrees, Willie Dean. Grab the big coats. I reckon we may have to eat momma if things get much worse! Hold ‘er down!” We usually make up for our intolerance to cold during our summer months (see June-August); however, this was special because it iced and all of us became too familiar with the sounds of tree branches tearing away from trees and dropping to the ground. When we emerged, we looked around in horror as limbs covered yards, houses, cars, powerlines, etc in neighborhood after neighborhood, and city after city. We spent the next few weeks bumming chainsaws and favors from friends (thank you, Edward!) just to get back out into the world, and our cities hired crews to clear the debris.

In the end, my branch pile was the only one left in the neighborhood because the city couldn’t get their truck at the right angle to remove it. I called several folks. Promises were made that they’d get right to it, that they were working on it, and then nothing happened, and that nothing kept happening for weeks. Finally, my evil neighbor (look, she worked hard for that designation, don’t try to take that away from her; she’s got a lot of angel chores (her term) ahead of her before she can move up to being even be in the running for neutral neighbor – hey, it’s her Sisyphean chore for being a somewhat wretched human) chewed out the city on my behalf. They hopped to it, and a crew finally removed that mountain of limbs. Go her! That rock went up that hill just a bit more. You go, girl! (Even I can recognize she occasionally does good things.)

March

I took a glass-blowing class (FYI, those furnaces are no joke). I also got to pet a rescued skunk (she was saved by a local wildlife rescue organization that allowed me to pet their rescued blind possum the previous year). I’m sure her name was Flower, because well… Bambi said so and he is the Prince of the Forest. My liege.

April / May / June

  • I visited Dad. I visited Dad again, and then I said goodbye to the geese, the John Deere I couldn’t help fix, the long trips there and back, and the home that he and my stepmom lived in for nearly 20 years as Dad prepared to sell it. I’ll miss you, geese. You’re rude, and kind of hissy, but you had character. I may have cried a bit; it was like leaving behind all the echoes of my stepmom – everything about her erased in an estate sale.
  • I decided not to fundraise for AFSP. There are a few reasons, and I’ll get into almost none of them here, but one I will talk about is: I decided everyone deserved a break from my relentless arm-twisting/heart-tugging activities – y’know, the things I do to ensure our team’s campaign is successful. Now, true story, I love fundraising, but to be really successful – where I’d like to be – I need a dedicated group who lives in this area to work with me. If anyone is interested in working on a project like that with me and can commit to about 2 hours a month, which would include some in-person/virtual meetings, let me know. I’m serious. I know we can do great things and make a difference, but I need a dedicated group willing to work hard.
  • I became a STAY – or STAY-lite thanks to Julie. (THIS ISN’T A COMPLIMENT, JULIE! STOP SMILING! YOU’RE AN INSIDIOUS LITTLE MONSTER.) What’s a STAY? I’m glad you asked. A STAY is someone who is a fan of the K-Pop group known as the Stray Kids (you may have seen them at the VMA’s where they won Video Music Award for Best K-Pop Group with the music video for S Class. It’s from their 5 Star album). I now may know all of the performer’s names. I may have opinions on my favorites. It’s also possible that I have “Stray Kids Essentials” as my go-to workout playlist, replacing Linkin Park and Tool. And while there’s absolutely no proof I do this, when I’m at the gym I may look around and, as quietly as possible, like I’m gym secret service, whisper “psst, hey Siri, play Stray Kids.” Then, if I were to do this, I may clear my throat loudly, dart my eyes around, and pretend to be cool, like one does at the gym. Look, I don’t judge you. A real quick and serious aside here, for those who may not be familiar with K-Pop, and because this actually came up on one of my social media posts, the term K-Pop refers to pop music that comes out of South Korea. The “K” does not stand for “Japan”. Also, fun fact, S. Korea is not part of Japan. There are a lot of differences and the two countries have a fairly complicated relationship that we can discuss offline if you’re really curious. Now, to be fair, there is J-Pop and you guessed it, the “J” does stand for “Japan”, but sadly I’m unfamiliar with any J-Pop bands. Anyway… I give you some Stray Kids. (That’s Hyunjin highlighted in the video; he’s my favorite.)
Stray Kids all around the world. (AMIRITE?)

July / August / September

  • There was this heat wave that hit the South; it was miserable. It may not have been as miserable here as it was in other places, but my counselor did start bringing it up every session, “Are you still mad about the heat?” “Is it still 107 degrees with lows in the upper 80’s, then ‘yes’!” I spent a long eight weeks just being irked over something out of my control, but in my defense, it was hot.
  • I created a vision board as a way to capture what I actually wanted to do, and as I look over my shoulder, I accomplished a lot. Sure, I haven’t traveled to Scotland (if anyone wants to adopt me and send me on a three-week trip to Edinburgh/Inverness/Glasgow or start a GoFundMe, I’d say “thank you” a lot) and I also haven’t used the fire pit (clearly some items are more achievable than others), , but I’ve made solid strides. In fact, one that got marked off came to me in September…
  • LUNA! I got a dog! She’s pretty great; I’m not gonna lie. She’s funny. She’s smart. She’s a destroyer of worlds (or balls, plushies, most toys, wooden landscaping). She’s what you call a super chewer. Huge thanks to the woman who rescued her and her wonderful fosters for taking such great care of her. Right now we’re working on her fear of strangers – especially tall people – but we’re getting better. Tall strangers just need to stop telegraphing, “Hello, puppy, I’m here for murder” and she’ll stop reacting “Be gone, stranger. I shall thwart your murdering.” (We actually have a protocol in place for greeting new people thanks to the trainers from Every Dog Behavior and Training (Really nice/patient folks and great trainers) and things are improving, which make her life a tiny bit better)
  • Finally, Dad got a new home and moved much closer, which means I get to see him more. This was definitely another wonderful thing that happened and helped take the irrational “Why is it so hot?!?!?!” edge off of my summer.

October

Two big things happened in October. I started training with my former trainer’s husband, which got me excited about the gym again. I spent part of 2023 training with two different folks. One was fine, I mean, I liked her well enough, but she had a serious family emergency and had to step back from training. My gym then assigned a less experienced trainer who they said did strength training. On day 1, as we were chatting, he said, “I’m a functional trainer and I don’t really work with weights.” Neat. I should have stopped there. I like functional training, I do functional training, but I like to also incorporate strength training, and I tolerate cardio, because I’m kind of a champ like that. Functional training only makes me cranky. I spent most of those weeks trying to convince the guy that I was capable of more and he kept not hearing me. I reached out to my original trainer who gave some great advice, “Why don’t you train with my husband?”

Great question! I quit the other guy and went to Dustin. Voila. I like training again.

If you’ll allow me one complaint, though. The other day (fast forward to December) I was whining to a friend that I wasn’t as strong; I’m not and I was feeling puny, and then realized I’d done 7 sets of 12 reps of deadlifts. Basically, 84 deadlifts as part of my workout! Go me! I mentioned this to Dustin, and he said, “Yeah, but your first two sets were warm-ups” (insert a little flat-faced emoji here). “They still count” and he replied, “Yeah, like walking to your car counts as cardio. Is it cardio?” Yes! RUDE! (insert another flat-faced/emotionless emoji). (A message to my former trainer, “I totally get why you sassed your trainer last week. It all makes sense.”)

The other October thing that happened – I had two fairly attractive guys under 30 (one who was probably closer to 20) hit on me over the same weekend – two different locations. I meant to make that a blog post then, but may still write more about that later because it’s kind of a funny story. In that moment, I felt like I was being Punk’d (or whatever show the 2020 version of Candid Camera currently is) because people hitting on me is just not my life. I told my counselor who then asked what was going on, and I shrugged. I guess I was just killing it that weekend? But damn, alright universe. Thanks!

Ooo, and since it was October, I attended a costume party dressed as Weird Barbie, because what girl didn’t have one? (Mine is actually still tucked away in a box. I’m so sorry Weird Barbie. I was trying to make you prettier and well, things happened and you were the victim.) The party was lovely. The hosts were great, as always, and my cousin came dressed as Sally (The Nightmare Before Christmas). We had such a good time!

Ooo (again) – I wrote an article in our agency’s magazine about Suicide Awareness, I received some great feedback, and I had some very real conversations with people about their own experiences.

November

  • I went to a pretty boy’s wedding – the wedding of the century – and had a blast. It was one of those long-awaited things, and it was beautiful and perfect. The pretty boy “‘Johnny’ That ain’t you!” looked, as I mentioned, “pretty” but he may have flipped me off at the well-intended compliment, while in uniform. The gesture was, let’s face it, “pretty”, even if it was wholly unwarranted. (Your takeaway here should be that I know a lot of rude people, AND I’m always lovely and a victim to their outrageous outbursts.) At the wedding, I gained a new friend (acquaintance?) in the form of a co-worker’s wife and we’ve since had a couple of fun playdates.
  • Then after the wedding, while I was in one of the cabins enjoying time with my cousin – a rare treat – there was another suicide in the family, I had to run off and leave the joy at the cabin door. I had to watch as Jay’s mother was informed of another death; it was heartbreaking. Two weeks later, my friend Rick died. That’s when I had an anxiety attack that spiraled quickly into a panic attack while leaving a pet-sitting gig – stuck in traffic – no way to exit the car – I couldn’t breathe and had to sit with it. Thanks to failing lights, a 10-minute trip home turned into a 45-minute nightmare. A friend coached me through breathing exercises. So much for my streak. I pulled out of my orchestra’s Christmas concert. I couldn’t focus.

December

Better things happened.

  • I was introduced to an all Star Wars store. I didn’t know I needed this in my life, and there it was! WHAT?!?! I may have bought stocking stuffers for a friend. I may have also bought a little Grogu (he’s soooo cute) figure for me, because OMG! STAR WARS! (Did you all know I’m a huge geek? *bow* *bow*) And I coveted a Stormtrooper Barbie, which friends then surprised me with for my birthday.
  • Speaking of which, I threw myself a birthday party. Ten hours of torturing friends with board games, pizza, and a group sing-along in a private karaoke room. I had a blast and got to see several people I hadn’t seen in a long time.
  • I gave two shout-outs on Instagram – one to an author, Tyler Merritt, whose book I Take My Coffee Black, I’d just finished, and I got a note back. He’s now my second favorite author of all time. Second only because Kevin Hearne sent me an email a few years ago, so he’s obviously #1 forever. (I plan to write a post about Tyler Merritt’s book; it’s really good.) The other shoutout went to Coach Raneir Pollard, one of the coaches on Supernatural: Unreal Fitness. Hey, they both make the world a little bit better by being in it and I thought they should know. They both replied, and that just made my month.

Other Things

A few extra and random things…

  • I read some fine books – if you like SciFi, I highly recommend Project Hail Mary, and of course, I Take My Coffee Black, which like I said, I do plan to write a bit more about.
  • I performed in a couple of concerts and I got marginally better at viola (I got better, right???)

So, that’s kind of a wrap-up of my 2023. I’m not sure what 2024 will hold. I’m not going to make promises or set intentions here to try to hold myself accountable; I know me too well. But my hope is I’ll have new experiences, meet new people whom I enjoy and who enjoy me, hear some good stories, that I’ll be inspired and maybe inspire, that I’ll get a hug (maybe a date or three?), and that in the grand balance of the universe, more things will good than bad.

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Rick,

Well shit, dude.

Sorry for the language, generations of ancestors just recoiled starting with my Mom, but just shit.

When I foot-in-mouth texted (a new thing now) and called you out for “ghosting me,” I imagined several quick-witted, sassy retorts except the one I received. “This is Heather using Rick’s phone. I’m so sorry to tell you this over the phone, but Rick passed away last week.”

I’m not going to lie, my first reaction was, “Seriously?” I had doubts, and then I surfed over to the local paper’s obituaries only to find you there – arms folded across your chest – that hint of your trademark smile. What??

I stared at it again throughout your memorial yesterday – through prayers, and hymns, and readings, and eulogies as we all said goodbye. I wish you’d heard Joshua speak, he spoke so well; you would have been proud. What an incredible young man you raised. Through our tears, we were able to also smile and chuckle as he shared stories conveying exactly what you meant to him in his life. He spoke clearly and bravely and without anything written in front of him as he fought back his own tears. It made me wish he’d been in town for one of our game days. Your kids are amazing. No surprise there.

Beginnings and Endings

I’ve been trying to remember when I first met you and how we became friends, but our friendship just seemed like it always was – always had been – a given without any real beginning. I had to have been 15. It had to have been Geometry or maybe English or any number of classes, but obviously not German because you went with French??? (I’m pausing a moment and doing my very French laugh in my head; it’s pretty good. There are mimes and an accordion playing, and it’s of course in black and white.) I saw you every single day for the three years we went to school there. You were this constant in my life – so smart, so funny, so sweet. I know you hate being called “sweet,” but you were.

In his eulogy, your best friend told a story that when he met you he thought you were a nerd. You’ve said the same about yourself and added your belief that girls didn’t pay attention to you until you hit a growth spurt. I don’t remember that at all. What I do remember is you standing at my locker in the Math hall taking up my books and walking me to my next class. You were cute and hella charming, and I think my memory about you is better than you or your friends; you didn’t have the “girl perspective,” but hey we were all stumbling around – too many hormones – too much self-doubt. In fact, other guys from our class had that same misconception. All of you – just wrong!

But let me just say, I had a pretty big crush on you throughout high school. Who wouldn’t? You carried my books!

Flash forward a bit to our senior year in college. I remember being at your apartment for one of your parties. I can still see you smiling across your living room just having the time of your life.

How did that happen? Did we talk on the phone? I don’t remember at all.

Our lives went their separate ways until we reconnected at Chez Zee’s several years ago. I remember thinking as we said goodbye, “That was lovely, but I’ll never see Rick again.” I think you’re the only person I know who, when they say, “Let’s do something soon,” you actually have a plan to do that something soon and we did.

Jay once said about me, “You can be a little overwhelming when you like someone” and in you, I met my equal. You were this tornado that swept into my life, and suddenly we had movie dates, dinners, board game days, and cheese-tasting events. I tried new restaurants and new foods. Ok, I admit, I’d never had a chalupa before, but in all fairness, there’s no real point to them because there are tacos. Tacos are perfect. See, you take all the stuff that you put on top of a chalupa, and then you fold it thus containing all the goodness and keeping it from flying all over the place. Hear me out – that’s some culinary Tex-Mex magic happening! But I suppose that chalupa at your favorite chalupa place was actually exceptional. I would have it again. I would also curse as all the bits fell all over the place. Among the other new foods I tried because of you – paellas. I give it a solid “Eh”. It was good. I’m glad I had it, but I’m not sure I’d eat it/drink it/slurp it again, but thank you for expanding my world a tiny bit.

You shared your love of all things Star Wars. Holy crap, dude. You built a diorama for your youngest son. That alone should have earned you Dad of the Year; it was so cool – so amazing. I learned at your memorial that this was something you’d done for all the kids. What?!?! How awesome are you?

You shared articles – the latest things you read in the New York Times or the Wall Street Journal. We talked politics. You griefed me about my adoration of Beto and then dragged me to Elizabeth Warren’s headquarters when they opened… in Beto’s old HQ… (hmph) your little victory lap through the place was noted, and you rightfully earned my stinkeye.

You shared your frustrations, your joy, and of course your new girlfriends to get my opinion.

Wherever we went, whatever we did, you always made sure I was one swift kick, elbow bump, or leg tap away so you could telegraph your thoughts about whatever was going on. Ok fine, sometimes the message was “get your face under control,” but in all fairness, that one girlfriend said some surprising things that you didn’t fully acknowledge until you broke up. It was rude to kick me not once but twice at the nice restaurant. We don’t kick friends! We thank them for their thoughtful involuntary yet insightful eyerolls. You’re welcome!

For board game days, I loved that you always came, and despite all of my friends who were there, who genuinely knew me better, you’d sit next to me and it was suddenly us vs. them. We’d sit and snicker over our inside jokes. It didn’t matter that we hadn’t actually developed many. You’d lean in and say something in a low voice, and then we’d transform into this annoying pair of besties/confidantes who’d never lost any time. I’m sure my other friends thought, “What the hell? Who is this guy?”

By the way, I loved that you showed up to one of our games in costume. You were a hit and made quite the impression!

Some Other Things I’ll Miss

  • Your love of Halloween – your Jon Snow… nice!
  • How you’d get super excited and just go all out with decorations. Move over plants!
  • Your love of Goodwill (did she really claim you had a Goodwill spending problem?! In a legal document. WOW! Is that a thing?) and Half Price Books.
  • Your love of board games and how you did your best to help one game store stay in business during Covid.
    • You were always fun to play against and let me point out again that I beat you in Dracula. Probably because I’m awesome! And I didn’t need to watch the videos or read the rulebooks. That’s just skill, baby! BOOM! (Or “luck.” Whatever.)
  • Your passion for law
  • Your humor (even when it was childish and I wanted to punch you)
  • Your contagious excitement about things.
  • Your swagger. Rick, this is going to come as no surprise, but you’re cocky as hell.
  • Your equal passion for politics. (I’ve told you this more than once because of your interest and involvement in politics, you should have run for office. I know the reasons you didn’t, and damn, we all lost out.)
  • Your “c’mon now” which always encouraged me to push just a little harder and it always worked.
  • The fact you caught a rattlesnake (what?!?!), had it stuffed (what?!?!?), and now someone is inheriting it (*gulp*). Who goes out and just catches a rattlesnake for funsies?
  • Your love of the beach, and your “away” office in Port A.
  • This goofy little sign for my desk that you gave me that reads, “We’ll always be best friends because you know too much!” (So did you, thanks for taking that stuff to the grave. You did, didn’t you?)
  • That dopey Gerard Butler stand-up. (Hey! I stand by my love of Gerard; he looks amazing in a suit!)
  • How you’re always game for anything, and …
  • Your unconditional love of your amazing kids, and how truly amazing they actually are.

Ern’s Dream

Ern woke up from an intense dream where the two of you were talking. It’s not mine to repeat here, but he called to say, “…and in the dream, I told Rick you thought he was dead, and he told me to tell you he’s ok.” I cried.

The Road Goes On Forever

I don’t know what happened to you; it’s not mine to know. You’d stopped responding to texts; it was weird. I could always lure you out and then I couldn’t. My feelings were hurt, and I was really mad at you for a while. Then this past week I was told you’d been sick for a long time and had spent the last month in the hospital before passing away. There are some hints as to what happened out there, and my friend, I’m so sorry. I’m sorry for me and for your friends and family. You were loved and you will be missed.

Love you, miss you, my friend!

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Homework

“My therapist suggested…” should be the start of every story. I mean, think of the endless possibilities – all the genres it could easily cross. At least that’s what I think at this moment. I mean, I am the author (supreme overlord of my story), and it works for the purposes of my universe (today (I have to be specific, because who knows what tomorrow may bring). I’ve deemed it so. Physics… philosophy… they all work differently here.

Only children, am I right?

I was going to try to work a “Once Upon a Time” spin into all of this and make a ridiculous claim about Cinderella, but I backspaced all over that and thus saved you seconds of reading. Still, tell me that a story about Disney princesses in therapy wouldn’t be compelling. Oh, wait…

Let’s start again and finish the sentence.

My therapist suggested I write today.

Well, the truth is she asked what I could do that would help me, and I said, “Writing” and this is how writing became my homework. (Fun fact: “Watch a Steve Harvey clip from Family Feud” was also on the list, which I just checked off, soooo I’m clearly crushing therapy today. Fine, back to writing!)

Why do I need to write?

I had an anxiety attack last night.

These attacks are a recurring gift I received as a result of Jay’s death. A friend reached out almost on queue – as if he knew something was wrong, “Are you ok?” “No.” “Remember to breathe.” “Ok.” He sent me a guided video on box breathing. I tried. I lost focus every 3rd to 5th breath as tears spilled down my face.

I haven’t had an anxiety attack in nine months. If you understood how frequently they came before, you’d realize going this long is a huge deal. I made it through Jay’s birthday, my wedding anniversary, the anniversary of Jay’s death, our real anniversary (the one that matters to me), an “I’m in crisis” call, and another suicide within our family last month without having a single anxiety attack.

A lot of it made me very sad, but I could breathe. No attacks.

For a split second, I dared to believe the attacks were a thing of the past.

They weren’t.

Sunday finally tipped a bucket that had reached the top when I received a text that a friend I’d known since I was 16 had died. I had to make calls. I had to reach out and notify others. I had to console people. Meanwhile, I was trying to find help for a relative regarding a potential legal matter. More calls and texts as that story unfolded. I pivoted back and forth between the conversations while also just fielding the normal day-to-day texts that were coming through. “Happy Sunday!” “That looks so fun!” “What happened? Oh no!” I tried to tailor my response and feelings to each conversation as I tried to switch my focus to the matter at hand and then shove the other issues to the side over and over and over again.

A friend opened my front door in the middle of it all and I was just sitting there, a disheveled mess on the couch, holding my phone; I’d forgotten to get ready for our lunch date. “I’m sorry.”

On Monday I spent the day feeling numb and despondent as I replayed everything that happened Sunday – how I’d miss him, how I worried about the relative with the legal issues, and adding to that – thinking about how a friend and her “the best girl ever” dog, was saying goodbye that day – thinking about how sad I felt for her family and for myself – how I wouldn’t see those cute little ears bopping along as we walked around the block ever again. No more whiskery muzzle in my face as I rowed in her garage.

The evening rolled around and the numbness was replaced with an hours-long anxiety attack that was teetering precariously on a panic attack.

“Are you ok?” “No.”

That’s when I lucked into an appointment with my therapist, and today I received my homework.

Watch Steve Harvey.

Write.

… and the final one…

Cry.

Why do I need to write? I never really answered, did I? Writing is my outlet – one I’ve ignored for a while. It makes me happy. Maybe I’ll go for extra credit tomorrow. I don’t know. But I do plan to tell you about my friend and maybe I’ll also tell you a story about a special dog.

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Wanted: Middle-Aged Dragon Riders

Write. Right. Right. A few weeks ago (or really about five months ago), I read this great piece from a blog/blogger I enjoy where the gist of it was encouraging people to write more. I took it to heart, gave it some thought, imagined myself doing it, and then… well… there were a ton of naps, some doom scrolling, and all manner of other things to distract me. Mind you, the whole time I was thinking, “Yes, you should get on that writing thing, huh?!” quickly followed by, “Or, hear me out, what if we just binge-watched one more show?” x10 x20 (Look, this isn’t about judgment or the fact I’m just now discovering The Bear or Always Sunny in Philadelphia).

(Grammatically, the above is probably a huge mess, but can I point you to e.e. cummings? My writing is basically free-style blog poetry. AMIRITE? Huh?)

So, here we are again. Back to the old drawing-press and more than a month has passed.

Let’s start with some pleasantries.

Hello, friend!

You’ll be glad to know that I’ve calmed down from being poked (see previous poking post for reference), and I’m moving onto a new fresh topic. Can I get a little, “whoo hoo, go Beth”? Keep in mind this fresh new topic is likely a bit influenced by the Barbie movie (a movie I didn’t expect to like, but I loved it to the point I damn near stood up and applauded mid-movie) and it was also heavily influenced by a friend of mine.

We’ll start with her, and end with some thoughts and a request for your ideas (and maybe a margarita).

Last week a friend asked me quite sincerely (with also a heavy hint of frustration/disappointment), “Where is my letter of acceptance to Hogwarts? When do I discover I have powers? When am I selected to join that secret society that holds all the truths? When do I become a dragon rider?

Fair.

Her overarching point: there are so many stories out there, but none where a woman over 30 years old becomes a fantastical hero. There are YA stories. There are stories for men. But where is hers?

Where is mine?

Sure, we’ve made some progress. These days, storytellers are now likely to take into consideration things like the Bechdel test. For those unfamiliar, it’s a simple test that helps bring to light issues of gender inequality. But we need to go even further.

In stories, after 30, female characters tend to be defined as mothers, wives, matrons, matriarchs, or even bitter, jealous, vain villainesses. If a magical thing happens in a story and the character is past their 20s prime, then that thing happens around them, in spite of them, but not to them – never to them. Where they were free-spirited, beautiful, enigmatic creatures who, let’s say, wandered a marsh or were discovered in the woods surrounded by plucky, singing rodents, the remainder of their lives is summed up in a simple phrase – “happily ever after”.

I could actually deep dive into this, and would love to do so, but I’d much rather do so over late-night margaritas where we hash this out until we fall asleep. (Hint to friends. Let me also recommend: San Antonio and we stay overnight in a hotel on the River Walk. I’m not even kidding.)

I don’t want to fade out in the “Happily Ever After”.

Here’s where I’m ultimately landing: How do we change that? For me, I know I can’t write the story I imagine; that’s not in my wheelhouse. I write anecdotes. I can’t write the stories my friend needs – one where she can see herself as the hero – as the 30-something dragon rider. I can’t write the one I need – where I’m standing in a swirl of light and power and not cast as a crone or spinster or reclusive, toothless, hut-living, cackling, dirt-floor sweeping, hedge witch (a real story trope that’s filled with dried herbs and bits of newts). We need stories where we can stand on our own and are considered heroic, beautiful, courageous, and powerful. We need stories where we’re driving the action and it’s thrilling. And these stories need to depict the heroines at an older age – 30s, 40s, 50s, etc.

We need that next thing that we get after Barbie.

First, baby dolls, then Barbie…

I wish I could host a short-story competition because that’s what I’d like to see next. I’d like to see writers submit the stories I want to read – that my friend longs to read. (The legal bits surrounding something like this are what genuinely make me pause.)

So, I’m putting that idea out there in the world.

If anyone has ideas, I want to hear them. How do we re-emerge from being written off?

How do we get my friend to see herself riding her dragon?

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Poking Bears: Please Tell Me What I Believe

When it comes to topics for posts, I tend to steer away from certain subjects. Posting about work, while arguably cathartic, can also be a career-limiting opportunity. Calling people out and using their full names while on a rant can result in your Jr. High bully contacting you and asking you to stop being mean. (True story). And posting about politics can be a bit divisive. As for that last one, I’d honestly rather post about my salary or sex life, which, Dad, if you’re reading – it’s non-existent. Boys, am I right???

But today I’m breaking that rule (again) thanks to a recent conversation where I ended up growling a good deal, and because I’m excellent at dwelling on things, that growl has grown louder – loud enough that it’s beginning to drown out my ability to watch Daisy Jones and the Six, which I really want to get back to.

When it comes to political parties, I have good friends, many quite passionate, on both sides (or if you’re of a mindset that supports that goes beyond the idea of a two-party system, then I have friends on all sides). Personally, I try to look past party lines and measure people based on how they walk through this world. Are they kind? Are they compassionate? Are they good to animals? Will they help someone in need? Are they open to ideas – to learning, to growing?

To be even more clear, I am friends with people, not parties.

I like to think that they, for the most part, support their political parties based on a genuine belief that their candidate’s platform, if actually enacted, will be the best for their community. I also like to think that they don’t buy into everything their party says/does/supports and that they don’t like and support every candidate that runs under that banner. Kind of like me!

As for me, if you were to graph out my political beliefs on an X, Y axis (I’m a nerd like that), then I’m almost a centrist. However, I lean a particular way due to certain issues I find quite important that will always keep me voting firmly on one side. That said, I don’t enthusiastically support every candidate or every item on my party’s platform.

So, I be-bop through this world with my arguably rose colored “live and let live” ideas.  Lowering them occasionally for major destabilizing events and laws that negatively impact how people are treated or based on the care people are able to receive. That’s about as close as I’m going to get to making a political statement here. (In private we can talk all day.) 

Another good way to think of me, if you’d prefer a different image that doesn’t involve me skipping through a meadow, my head adorned with a wreath of daisies chained together while singing Joy to the World, is a hibernating bear who is super low on sleep. If you leave me alone, we’re probably going to be good.

Unfortunately, yesterday someone decided to poke me with a very sharp political stick.

The gist of it was:

Person: The [insert political party] hates all Asians.

Me:  What?!?!  Do you think I hate all Asians?

Person: Not you. I don’t consider you a [insert political party]

Now, I’m going to pause a sec. This is something my friends on the other side try to flatter me with. I imagine the thought process is, “Beth is politically on the other side from me. However, I like her AND she doesn’t seem to eat most chubby babies like those other [insert political party]. She must be lying to herself and secretly one of us. I’ll *wink* *wink* to signal I know she’s one of us”.

Pro tip: Don’t wink at freshly awakened bears.

Me: Make no mistake that I am a …, but please enlighten me on what I believe.

Now I’m not going to continue with the full blow-by-blow of the conversation, but as part of the highlight reel, it included a statement that everyone who voted like me also has no understanding of history – that they don’t know why people fled from China, Cambodia, and Vietnam. I mean, forget the fact that a couple of the girls with whom I was friends in school had fled those areas and sought asylum with their families. My politics prevent me from understanding. I couldn’t possibly have a CLUE as to why they’re in the US. I guess I think they just derped across the ocean for funsies and for McDonalds. (Aside: I know it’s challenging to convey sarcasm, so let me state for the record that I am familiar with the history. School boards hadn’t voted to erase it, yet.)

I got a little colorful with my response. “Y’know, you’re absolutely right. Now that you mention it because I’m X, I do hate every [painfully overly long, sounds like an air raid, blooooop sound].”

I said it for shock value.

If you’re going to claim I believe something, based on how I vote versus what you know about me personally, then enjoy hearing from my mouth the thoughts you’re accusing me of having in the most expressive way I can muster.  (I can muster a lot – blame the junior high bullies – that’s when I learned I could get them to leave the quiet girl alone if I used my words – a delightful combination of “oh no, we need to grab a dictionary for this abuse” and “welcome aboard, sailor!” I like to punctuate it all by blinking innocently in an, “Oh dear, who said those awful things?” kind of way.)

There was a pause and an uncomfortable laugh. Hey, you said this is what I believe so let’s just hear what that sounds like.

It sounded awful.

And I truly can’t think of a single person who votes the way I do who would ever say anything that ugly or hateful about any group, much less the group in question. AND I can’t name a single person, on either side, who believes what we’re being accused of or who isn’t aware of the history behind these asylum seekers.

They continued to educate me. Apparently, my party also isn’t aware that people from the seven countries in Central America and 12 in South America don’t share a single hive mind and don’t have the same thoughts/beliefs. Weird. News to me. I always thought there was just some south of the equator Stepford thing going on and assumed the indigenous tribes were all in lockstep – same mind, same goals. You’re saying some are different? Let me just sound that word “different” out – let it roll around in my mouth. How novel. My mind is expanding into the infinite. Thank you, kind sage. Go on. Teach me more about what I think. (Also, generous heaping of sarcasm.)

The exchange was just exhausting and frankly quite insulting as they usually are when you start throwing around generalities. All people who are like X believe Y.

My growling isn’t going to fix that, but I will leave you with one last thought.

Recently, I listened to an interview with a noted economist who was asked who he saw as being among the major international superpowers 25 years from now. Unsurprisingly, he said, “the USA and China” But he also ended that thought by stating, “However, currently the biggest threat to that is the continued political polarization that’s occurring within the US.” It’s something to think about.

We need to identify those things that unify us, not those that further divide us. Us vs. them is fine when it’s the Chiefs vs. the Eagles and we leave it on the field, but it’s not so great when we become so tribalistic we stop seeing the other side’s humanity.

I’m not my party. I’m a person.

I’m not a generalization. I’m an individual.

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More Orchestra Stuff

As I’ve mentioned before, I joined an orchestra last year.

Before I really get into that, I want a share a small piece of my background.

I started playing in 6th grade. Now, in my city, sixth graders went to their own school because we were considered to be a bit too old for elementary school but we weren’t quite ready for Jr. High. So, off we went to sixth-grade school. (It might have been called a Sixth Grade Center. Who knows? A few years have passed between then and now. Also, beyond this being a fun/random Austin factoid, it has nothing to do with my story. You’re welcome, world.) However, it was during my stint at this little sixth-grade island school that we had the opportunity to choose some electives. Now, if you were into music, those choices were: choir, band, or orchestra.

No one had to ask me twice, I knew what I wanted to do.

Choir.

My grandfather sang opera. He’d once been evaluated by an instructor who taught the acclaimed Italian tenor Enrico Caruso. (I have the news article since it was a huge deal for his small community – local farm boy sings!) My grandmother sang. My Dad and all of my aunts sang. Plus, I’d been in choir in elementary school. A LEGACY! I had this. I was an alto waiting to harmonize and the audition was a done deal before it even happened… until it actually happened. That’s when I learned about stage fright.

The choir teacher played a simple single octave scale that she invited me to sing back. A scale. Eight notes. That’s all I had to do – do-re-me up and doe-ti-la down – and my vocal cords froze. I let out one sound – a very quiet “meep”; the only sound I could force out. She played the scale again and I meeped. She played the scale one final time, and I meeped a final time, and then I was dismissed. Tears fell down my cheeks. I felt ashamed and embarrassed. I didn’t understand what had just happened. All I knew is that I couldn’t sing.

I’d let down my family. (Pre-teen girl brains are fun!)

As a last-ditch attempt at redemption, I decided to play an instrument?? My other grandfather could play well over 10 or 12 proficiently. My Mom and my other grandmother could both play piano. And the grandmother who sang, well she used to be in a group where she played guitar and double bass.

Legacy??

Thankfully for the orchestra, there were no auditions. You simply had to pick your instrument. And I knew what I was going to choose. I would follow my grandmother’s lead.

Double Bass. A no-brainer.

I came home excited and proudly proclaimed my intentions. “Just like Grandma!” That’s when my Mom informed me that we weren’t the kind of people who had bass money. We were the sorts who had that flashy tin whistle/kazoo kind of money. I could choose something else. Anything smaller than a bass.

0 for 2

That left me with cello (nope), violin (big nope), or viola (I suppose?). I liked the richer sound of the viola; it was much fuller than a violin (it’s a fifth lower and larger, which gives it a slightly deeper/more mellow tone) and bonus, I didn’t have to play it between my legs.

That’s how I chose viola and that’s also how I became the only kid in 6th grade to play it.

I was considered talented.

There are a lot of stories between then and now, including a whole short piece I could write about “talent vs. drive/dedication.” However, I’m not going to bore you with other than to say I played through my sophomore year in college, dabbled a bit here and there, and then stopped playing until I joined this current orchestra. At one point, I’d been on track to go to a music magnet before we moved to a place where that wasn’t offered, and I used to spend Saturdays in music history, composition, and performance classes.

Now that part of the story does serve a purpose (unlike the mention of Sixth Grade Centers), and that is to highlight that I wasn’t just an average kid doing the “orchestra thing” to please my parents. I once lived and breathed this instrument. That brings us to present day.

Present Day (Called out in case you missed the end of the previous sentence.)

I wasn’t naive. I knew going in that not having played in decades would present challenges. The physical part would definitely be hard: from my delicate little un-calloused fingertips – to my posture – to holding my instrument properly for long periods of time. I was right. Things hurt. Things hurt a lot. Heck, I did things my former instructors and conductors would find just downright cringe-worthy. I even asked my principal violist if it was ok if I came back, bracing myself for a “please don’t, Beth” which he never said. (He’s a great guy, a good section leader, and a very good violist.)

What I didn’t anticipate is how much I’d forgotten: from music theory to playing in an orchestra to following a conductor, to… y’know… music symbols. Are you kidding me? Music symbols? Codas, volta brackets, da capo, dal segno, simile marks… the things I thought were so ingrained that surely they were would into my DNA. I’d forgotten key things about bowings (which can be dependent on the time period the music was written in – ex. staccato isn’t always the same staccato), and don’t get me started get me started on positions. When the principal violist turned around and said, “Beth, play that in 1/2 position,” my immediate thought was, “I’m landing what safely on the Moon?” because, with a simple sentence, he’d completely short-circuited my brain.

But with practice, I’ve improved a ton …

… and I still have a ways to go.

So, with that said – let me fast forward to our concert from this past May where we played with a phenomenal community choir. (I don’t expect you to listen to the whole thing, but I hope you’ll enjoy a minute or two of it before browsing to your next internet stop.)

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Raison D’être

I’m not much of a pacer. This doesn’t mean I’m judging my pacer friends/family who enjoy a good power walk from A to B to A to B to… (you get the idea – you all know what pacing is.) It’s just that pacing isn’t my particular go-to stress move. Personally, I prefer internalizing the pace – mental pacing if you will. Where you may not mind seeing the same door/hallway/window on a loop, I don’t mind retreading the same paths in my brain. I’m actually an unheralded marathon pacer from way back. Fact. I regularly reach my mental daily 10k step goal (usually in the middle of the night when I’m trying to sleep and my brain says, “You awake? How about that thing… right? GIRL!” Go me! And I can go over a thing, pick at it, tease it apart, and stitch it back together for hours, months, or decades.

I ruminate. I’m a ruminator.

I also feel things in big ways and express them in bigger ways – all of the emotions from joy to sadness and everything in between. (If you’re an enneagram person, like my counselor, that’s all the information you need to conclude, “ahh, she’s a <insert #>”) Just one of the fun things I get to work with/on thanks to finally finding the right person to talk to about all the things.

So, a little over a month ago I was feeling things in a big way (in this case, anger) and I was pacing back and forth in my mind like a caged predator – barely restraining tidal waves of energy and looking for an avenue to explode. Oh, and I found it. My brain kept screaming, “Tear down The Big Blue Mess. Let’s just do it. Burn it to the bloody ground.” Y’see, I was irrationally angry over an incident that actually didn’t warrant that kind of extreme reaction, but there I was mad.

Now, as I mentioned, I talk to someone, and thankfully I have a nice little notebook filled with strategies for those moments when I feel things in those big ways – alternative courses of action that I can take before I react. And still, even with those in place, I wasn’t ready to stop combing WordPress for some big red “Nuke” button. The act was calming. Thankfully for me (since this blog is actually for me, and I’m super lucky to have you guys follow along), I took a deep breath; I have nearly 19 years’ worth of stories here – stories that started on Blogger in 2004 before there were transferred over to this platform. I wasn’t going to throw all of that in the bin. I breathed a bit more, calming down, and then I nuked a post like a person who is mature and in control would do. Whoops. Hey, I may have strategies in place, but something I have to flip a side table as I let something go.

My eldest cousin took note of the missing post. She didn’t know exactly what had happened, but thought, “I’m going to check in on this because something seems a bit off.” She poked her head into my room, noticed I was sitting on a ledge, and crawled out there for a cousin chat. She sympathized, empathized, (and all the -izeds like a supportive cousin does), growled in support allowing me to breathe. She then patted me on the head and tugged me back inside. Cousins sometimes have magical powers that go beyond notebooks filled with strategies.

In the weeks since I’ve thought about the direction of this blog – where it is and where I want it to go. The truth I never share: I actually wanted to be like P.J. O’Rourke or John Kelso – both recognized humorists – one nationally, one more locally. However, I acknowledge that rediscovering my voice since Jay’s death has been a struggle. I miss him every day – that’s 2,551 days as of today. He’s a part of the fabric of who I and because of that, the blog has had a strong focus on grief and suicide awareness. Those conversations are extremely important. However, I don’t want them to be the only conversation or theme for The Big Blue Mess.

So, I’ve decided this blog needs to return to its roots – letters to friends and family. That may never get me to P.J. or even John notoriety, but maybe I’ll make a few of you laugh along the way, and that works, too.