Love Lessons

Twelve years ago on a Saturday in August, I hooked my arm through my father’s and traipsed down a cement walk that led us to a terrace where a small group of friends and family sat waiting. Two people were standing on that terrace—a minister, and Preston, who would in about twenty minutes (after we laughed and said vows and shed a few tears) become my husband. Next to the terrace was Boone Lake, and on Saturday afternoons the water buzzed with speedboats and pontoons. We expected to have to raise our voices during our little ceremony so that our friends and family could hear us since we weren’t wearing microphones. But for that half-hour, the lake sat serene: quiet and contemplative and beautiful. 

Sometimes life grants us all little gifts. That was one of them. The big gift was my husband, who for twelve years has been as steady and loyal and loving as I ever imagined he would be. Maybe more, really. Every day—and I mean literally every day—I tell him how lucky I am to have him as my life partner.

Before I met and married him, when I was still single and dating, I read an article titled something like “ten things you should look for in a partner.” (I’m pretty sure my mom clipped this article out for me, probably in hopes that it would help me with my dating selections, which could sometimes, let’s be honest, not always seem like such good ideas in the end.) I can only remember two of the items: one was to pick someone who doesn’t smoke, even if you yourself smoke (I did not smoke, though I still remember that particular tip because I found it interesting—the idea was even if you were a smoker, perhaps your potential non-smoking partner would influence you to quit, which says a lot about how strong a partner’s influence is). The other was to choose someone with whom, if you two got stuck in an elevator together, you would never become bored. The idea was to find someone whose conversation you didn’t tire of. I definitely heeded that advice. I have never ever—not once in twelve years—gotten bored with our conversation. 

The other day Preston and I were hiking and a group of about ten young women crossed us on the trail. They all had matching t-shirts, and now I can’t remember what the t-shirts said but I remember wanting one, too. They said something that indicated friendship and love. (Perhaps they were pink—that would have also made me want one.) We asked what the t-shirts were about and the young women said that one of the women was getting married in a few weeks. They asked if we had any advice. I said I did.

Who knows now what I told them? I can’t remember. I’ve been divorced—no one should be taking advice from me! But then I think about my second marriage and Preston and I think this: 1) Pick someone you admire and respect, someone who inspires you. 2) Pick someone with whom you can work out disagreements (I’ve always been the peacemaker in relationships, and Preston is more the peacemaker than I am). 3) And last, spend at least one minute each day telling your person you love her/him and why. Divorce doesn’t usually come because of one moment and one day; it comes from an accumulation of moments and days. Make more of those kind moments.

We could all do a little more of that, not just with the people we love but with neighbors, family and friends, strangers. 

Also, look for the gifts. Even during our greatest sorrows, life offers at least a small gift if we just stop and notice it.

May all of you find love every day.

Cookie heart photo by Roman Kraft from Unsplash.com. And yes, now I want a waffle cookie.

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Calling All Levels of Writers
for a Four-Day (Online)
Memoir/Essay Workshop

September 30-October 1, 2020

Want to write about your life?
Ready to become a better storyteller?
Don’t know where to start and need some direction (and motivation)?

In this workshop you will generate new writing, read writing that inspires, and learn some tools and techniques on the craft of personal essay/memoir writing. Learn more here.

Early bird registration rate until September 7th!

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Thank You to WETS

Thank you to WETS/NPR and Wayne Winkler for interviewing me. In this interview, I talk about my new story collection, A Small Thing to Want, how characters come to me, how I handle rejection, and advice I wish I could give to young writers.

You can listen to it here. (It's the first item listed under "PAST" appearances.)

All Because of the Skunks

This all started because of the skunks. One recent early morning, just after my husband let the dog out to our backyard, he spotted a skunk by our gate. He went out to retrieve our dog before she got skunked, and then he saw white stripes moving along the back fence. Was it a different skunk? Same one? Most likely a different one. All this was enough to know there was a skunk situation.

He got the dog inside the house (fortunately), and I started the texts—to a neighbor I’ll call First Neighbor, whose backyard abuts ours. We talked skunks and other wildlife creatures we had seen. He mentioned his family had installed an outdoor television and asked: was it bothering me? I hadn’t even noticed it, but I so appreciated his asking. I thought about how kinder the world would be if we always considered our neighbors, and I thanked him for doing just that. 

Then I asked First Neighbor if he had the contact information for one of our other neighbors—a family who moved in a couple of years ago, but whom I had only talked to briefly once or twice. They also live practically next door. First Neighbor did in fact have the phone number for Second Neighbor, so I started texting with him. We texted about skunks but also about jobs and how old his kids were. Now we had a little context for each other.

Later that morning, I ran into Third Neighbor on the street—I see her fairly often. Had she seen the skunks? We talked about that but also about the property across from mine. It was owned by a wonderful woman who died a month ago. Third Neighbor asked if I knew what was going to happen to the house. I told her I did not know, but we exchanged phone numbers in case I heard anything.

Years ago, when I moved into the neighborhood, four of my closest neighbors were seniors, all widows. I knew them all and liked them all. I felt safer knowing they were there, and they would sometimes tell me stories of things that had happened to one or another neighborhood family over the years, or about some funny incident that had happened on our street. Eventually, one of my dear senior neighbors moved away, and then a couple of years ago, another dear one did. The two seniors who stayed each had big hearts and gentle souls, and I felt grateful that they at least were still here. Then, at the start of 2020, one of them died, and now the other has. It was difficult to lose them both in the span of less than six months, and I feel the empty space they left behind. Both were neighbors that I talked to. One, especially, I chatted with often, and we exchanged plants, and I bought her jam and she made us bread. I miss seeing her—I miss seeing all four of them—and I miss knowing so many of my neighbors that well.

But then, the skunks came into our yard the other day, and by the end of it, I’d been in touch with three of my neighbors, one with whom I had never had more than a two-sentence exchange. Now we had had a conversation. I told my husband sure, we had skunks to deal with, but ultimately the skunks had made my day a good day. They’d brought me a little closer to my neighbors.

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Calling All Writers—Beginners and Non-Beginners

August 7, Noon EST: Online Writing Workshop. Join me in this FREE one-hour writing session with Community Building Art Works. We’ll talk about a piece of writing, I’ll give you a prompt, and then you will WRITE. Session is free but registration is required.

A Different Kind of Independence Party

Many years ago, I got married around this time of year to my first husband. It was close to my parents’ anniversary, which is also around the July 4th holiday. I can’t remember now why exactly he and I chose the date we did, but I can imagine I probably thought my parents’ own wedding date might bring us some luck. 

Not that I consciously thought we needed luck.

I’ve written much about our marriage—a young one that now, through the lens of many years, feels glossed with naiveté and wishful thinking. We decided to split just after Thanksgiving a few years later, he moved out soon after Christmas, and we officially divorced at the beginning of spring. By summer, the pain was still raw, and I knew our looming wedding anniversary would be tough.

So I did what I had been trying to do with other aspects of my life: to take control of it and make it my own. I had already moved around furniture to where I wanted it in our-old-place-now-my-place. I had already taken the book I’d made for him—that he’d left behind—of a few poems I had written for him (the intent was to add to it over our many years of marriage), and I had ripped out those poetry pages and made the book, instead, my recipe book (a book I still have to this day, and I rarely remember it once held a handful of love poems—now it holds mint pasta and yogurt berry pie dreams). 

To take control of it, for our anniversary, so close to July 4th, I decided to throw myself an “Independence Day Party.”

I wish now I could remember the details of the party. I think there was swimming and potluck dishes—likely a loaf of bread and a bowl of homemade hummus, which everyone always seemed to bring to potlucks—and I know for sure there were friends, new friends I had made since the divorce, old ones I held dear.

What I remember most about that party and that time, though, is me: I remember the young woman I was then, who was grieving but determined, and that determination would be the thing that would carry me through the years ahead, years I imagined as easier but that would present me with more losses: three strong friendships of mine would wither soon after, one more painful than all the others because I depended on that one to lead me through my crises. 

Maybe the lesson was to depend on no one. Or maybe the lesson was that I had to find my own way, just like the title of the party I threw for myself.

And I did, not without scrapes and knocks and heartache and tough lessons and some tears dampening my pillow, but I did.

For that determination I had all those years ago, I am proud. If I had known what lay ahead, I might not have been so determined. Perhaps not knowing what lay ahead allowed me to find strength I also never knew I had. And for that, and so many other things, I am grateful.

(Photo by Levi Guzman from Unsplash)

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‘Til Divorce Do Us Part

Speaking of marriage and divorce...

I was recently asked to do a reading for Get Lit Boone on Instagram Live. I chose a chapter from my memoir, The Going and Goodbye. The chapter is titled "Til Divorce Do Us Part." If you want to have a listen, here it is:

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