There is only one you.
God wanted you to be you.
Don’t you dare change because you are outnumbered!
Charles Swindoll
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Tags: Quoting
Dazzling and terrifying. These are the words that echo over and over again in response to both the text and its author, Bee Lavender. Goll-ee. I remember seeing this book somewhere, maybe at Powell’s after it first came out in 2005, and being really intrigued by the cover, especially that shade of blue ink. It reminds me of the mimeographs of elementary school and our secretary, I’m pretty sure she was called Mrs. Price (tall {or maybe just to a child under age eleven}, thin, and perfectly coiffed every day of my entire Thomson Elementary career, a variation on what Jackie O. would have looked like if she took the job), turning the crank on that blue barrel shaped machine, and making the most positively pleasant sound. Then there was the paper immediately after, cool, slightly damp and smelling, in the most heavenly way, of whatever chemical rendered it all possible. I’m sure it was all quite toxic and part of the reason I am the nutter butter I am today. That said, I still loved it.
And this gem of a book, to which I am returning. I didn’t read it then and specifically remember not wanting to. Knee deep in the throes of endometriosis (my condition is not even a word in my lousy dictionary/spell checker {I did NOT mean endomorphism!} – that so many women suffer from such a horrible disease and it doesn’t even register as a “real” word is beyond annoying), the thought of taking on someone else’s physical pain, even via a book, was out of the question.
Were it not for Facebook, I probably wouldn’t have given it another thought. Then Byron, a friend from my elementary school days (I’ll bet he remembers Mrs. Price, too), found me and, as I discovered from a link posted on his wall, just so happens to be married to the author. So there you go, a message from the universe that I might enjoy what his wife has to say.
Boy, did I ever. Bee Lavender writes about life, growing up in the outskirts of society in a place at once tender and violent, and her body being riddled by cancer after cancer, illness after illness, tragedy after tragedy, from the ripe age of twelve.
Her life is a steady succession of shocks, and though there is ample reason to feel pity for her, a teen mother, a body that will never be cancer-free, more surgeries and procedures than I can even fathom, it is certainly not her aim. Quite to the contrary, she is the type of woman who has taken her lot, for better or worse, and seen it as greater than the sum of its parts, far, far greater. She understands the repetition of life, the ceaseless cycles, and is ever more keenly aware of death and our proximity to it, at any given moment.
Yet, she’s hardly been afraid to live or exert her power. She travels, dances, and drives the countryside. She is fun and funny. She cannot be contained. She speaks her mind. She shares wholeheartedly. Dazzling and terrifying and absolutely worth reading. In a single sitting– I nearly forgot to mention that. I couldn’t put it down.
The hubster and I were on vacation on September 11th, waking up at a bed and breakfast in Anacortes, Washington. There was no television, so we were half-listening to a Canadian radio station (in French) as we chatted happily about our plans for the week, glad we had decided to visit this remote place instead of our first plan to visit New York City. In between our talking, I remember thinking that the radio hosts were getting pretty worked up about some sort of hypothetical terrorist attack. Then they started talking faster, and, for me, a bit incomprehensibly before saying, “Oh mon dieu! Mon dieu!” At that point, I knew it wasn’t a hypothetical situation and told the hubster we better search the dial for something in English. Then we knew. The “mon dieus” were the first tower collapsing and our world changing.
We went to breakfast and the truth of the morning hovered like a pall, affecting everyone with its ripples of darkness, and occasionally letting in more light. At first, it was quiet, guests eating in disbelief and wonder. Soon, however, another couple arrived, angry and ready to bear arms against any and all who disagreed with their brand of thinking. All while I ate my sausage and eggs. I decided I didn’t like B&B’s anymore.
Then there was the question of travel. We were meant to take the ferry to Orcas Island later in the morning, but there were serious doubts it would be running. At that point, no one knew what other modes of travel would be hijacked or sabotaged. It was such an awful, conflicted feeling. “I want my vacation to go on, despite the world crashing down.” And then, just like that, it did. We loaded our car onto the ferry and chugged along the water, admiring the views of land and sea under a bright blue sky, all the while feeling rather heavy and sad.
We arrived and did all the normal activities one expects, getting a little lost before gaining our bearings, shopping for groceries and at the touristy shops, eating the pure goodness of a lemon-slice pie at a cute-as-can-be restaurant, walking, hiking, reading, star-gazing. We were lucky and knew it, heart and soul.
Most striking were the absences. So many of my memories are like films, a Super 8 reel peppered with soundtracks of voices, laughter, music, animals, passing trains, planes, and automobiles. This would not be the case, here, in this place, for there was a dearth of sound. Hardly anyone spoke, anywhere, save to convey essential information. Then there was the house. It lay just a few hundred yards from the end of the road, a beautiful, contemplative spot, surrounded by gardens, a view of the water, and still more quiet. There were no trains, certainly no planes, and not a single automobile sound penetrated the woods. What’s more, there was no television or newspaper, absolutely no image of the tragedy that occurred. So in my normally vivid imagination, when I thought about what happened, there was a distinct blackness and the occasional radio voice to fill the void.
Ten years gone. Has it really been so long? Now there are pictures, horrible and terrifying, and sounds equally so, and a change in perspective with the fluidity of time. Before, the only loss was of my naiveté. Now, my brother is a firefighter, living and breathing, yet he is every single one who died that day. The shy smile, the tilt of the head, the conviction to move forward before all was lost and we had to start anew, every single day.
I will be the gladdest thing under the sun!
I will touch a hundred flowers and not pick one.
Edna St. Vincent Millay
Will ya looky there? I can finally see my reflection in the bathroom. Huzzah! No more dashing for the best light. Many thanks the hubster, my worker extraordinaire, who did a fine job hanging said mirror and painting this weekend. We edge closer and closer to a finished bathroom, my friends. One fine day!
While he painted (the black window – his work!), I canned. Eight pints garlic dills, six pints spicy dills, seven pints bread-and-butter, two pints pickle relish, four half-pints Hatch chiles, and two quarter-pints jalapeños. Seeing the jars lined up in the cupboard is highly satisfying. Being burned by hot vinegar solution is highly painful. My thumb will recover, however, and I will be ever more careful.
We also spent a lovely day with the Twists, enjoying excellent company, the serenity of country living, grilled steaks, fine whiskey, home grown blueberries, a sky full of stars, and a visit from an owl! Its profile was reminiscent of a cat atop a tree, and a big one, too. Very cool.
Here’s hoping you had a lovely weekend and are keeping safe amid all the fires and storms. Be well!
