Category: gratitude

Worthy of Note

jamieahughes2 Comments

The last twelve weeks have been strange. My mother discovered that her aortic valve was failing and that, without open heart surgery to replace it, she likely wouldn’t last the year. Obviously, she chose the procedure, and since that decision was made, we’ve been dealing with the fear, worry, and frustration that comes with healing and recovery.

I’ve been with my parents in Florida twice, leaving my own family back home in Atlanta for three and a half weeks and six weeks respectively. Some days have felt like weeks thanks to the elastic nature of hospital time while other moments have passed in a blink.

Being in the ICU, step down care, and eventually rehab has compelled me to grapple with my both mother’s mortality (since she nearly died after the surgery) and my own. I’m just a few weeks shy of my forty-fifth birthday—at what most people consider to be the halfway point of my existence—and contemplating that fact has led me down some darker hallways of thought. I’ve seen what’s happened to Mom and other patients, and with a grimace, I’ve wondered, Is that what’s coming for me?

Watching my mother learn to walk again after a stroke has made me appreciate my own feet, knees, legs, and hips more than ever. What marvels they are! When I want to get up and go, I can do just that. And while I might not be as fast or as flexible as I was twenty years ago, there is no place forbidden to me.

Her struggles have made me look at things differently, especially those things I overlooked before. My kidneys and bladder work beautifully, on a schedule that I have control over. My lungs expand and contract, a pair of beautiful pink bellows, drawing in the oxygen I need and eliminating the carbon dioxide I don’t. I breathe deeply throughout the day, relishing how good it feels to be able to do so.

My heart—my strong, beautiful, capable heart—beats seventy or eighty times a minute without word one from me. Sometimes, I lie in bed alone at night and rest my right hand on my chest right above it. I feel the slight flutter and thump each time a part of it opens and closes and sincerely thank it for what it has and continues to do for me.

But it hasn’t always been this way.

I’ve spent so much time absolutely hating my body, wishing I could unzip it like a dress, drop it to the floor, and put on something—anything—else. I’m too tall, my feet too large. I’ve stared at every bulge and sagging area with dismay, wishing I could be just a little smaller and firmer. I don’t see my dark brown eyes as beautiful (though my husband certainly does). All I can see is how one, slightly altered by the hemangioma I had until I was a few months old, is noticeably smaller than the other when I smile. I don’t love my hair, which is thinning in the front due to some particularly terrible genetics on my mother’s side, so I hide it with headbands and scarves. People always comment on how cute or sporty they look, but to me, they’re a source of shame.

I’ve never even enjoyed the romantic thrill of being picked up and carried by a man. I tell myself it doesn’t matter, that there are a dozen ways to be wooed. But if we’re being honest, I feel like I’ve missed out. And sometimes, I get pretty damned angry about it.

The end result? I try not to smile too broadly in photographs. I use my height as an excuse to be in the back of every group shot, hoping and praying no one will see too much of me and judge me for every little failing I can’t help but notice. And I also tend to wear darker colors with minimal patterns, nothing short or sleeveless, so I don’t draw attention.

I never do anything physically risky for fear I’ll embarrass myself—that I’ll be the fat chick who falls on the dance floor or who gets stuck somewhere. Back in the 1980s, there was a video of a woman in a bigger body trying to parasail, but rather than be lifted gracefully into the sky, she stumbles and falls. The poor thing is dragged through sand and surf before finally being hoisted up into the air, her arms pitifully flung out like the instructor showed her.

People laughed of course; they always do. That’s the point of a show like America’s Funniest Home Videos after all, but I was horrified. All I could think about was how she must have felt, and I decided right then in my little pre-teen heart that I would never put myself in a similar situation.

Do I still want to be smaller, smoother, and more graceful? Absolutely. That desire will never stop because, perhaps wrongly, I still believe I would be happier if I looked like the magazine spreads and make-up ads tell me I should. But I’m trying to appreciate what I have and who I am, to live in harmony with the body I’ve been given. It has needs, many of which I’ve failed to provide because I thought I didn’t deserve them.

No, my body isn’t perfect. But I’m trying to be more generous with myself. And I’m also choosing to celebrate those lucky souls who are comfortable in their own skin rather than envy them. For instance, at the gym a few days ago while huffing and sweating on the elliptical, I watched two black men work out together. Both were young and strong, but one was obviously the more gifted athlete. Lithe and graceful as a dancer, he did knee lifts and sprints, changing direction both in the air and on the ground in a way that seemed entirely effortless. It was glorious, like watching water move.

They ran football routes, laughing and celebrating whenever one bested the other. And I couldn’t help but smile too (and not just because of the beautiful display of black joy in front of me, though I’m always up for that). After being around sickness, injury, and deprivation for so long, it was a relief to witness two people who had honed their bodies to physical perfection delighting in them.

Image courtesy of Treehugger.com — https://www.treehugger.com/the-incredible-science-behind-starling-murmurations-4863751

In his poem “The Great Scarf of Birds,” John Updike describes watching a flock of starlings creating a murmuration above him. In the concluding stanzas, he writes:

the flock ascended as a lady’s scarf,
transparent, of gray, might be twitched

by one corner, drawn upward and then,

decided against, negligently tossed toward a chair:
the southward cloud withdrew into the air.

Long had it been since my heart
had been lifted as it was by the lifting of that great
scarf.

The starlings are otherworldly and nearly inexplicable, but that doesn’t stop the speaker from marveling at them. The transcendent moment they created lift him out of normal space and time into something more altogether golden. I taught this poem for years, thinking I understood it. But it was only the language I grasped, not the emotion. But I understand now.

My starlings left before I had the chance thank them. But I hope and pray I’ll always remember the moment and that maybe—just maybe—I’ll be able to delight in my body in such a way that others notice me too.

Everything Which Is Yes #3

jamieahughes2 Comments

I don’t think there’s a single arena of life that COVID-19 hasn’t radically altered. Everywhere I look, trees are blooming and things are coming to life, but my kids’ sports are cancelled. We can’t go to the doctor’s office unless it’s an emergency. School and work are still going on, but they’re happening in the comfy (for now) confines of our suburban Atlanta home. Honestly, we’re beyond blessed. We each have a laptop to work on, solid internet service, and room to spread out. We have a nice neighborhood to walk in as well as a backyard with a porch. We’re also beginning to build raised garden beds to grow produce, bringing two beehives back to the yard, and applying for a permit so we can have chickens. These projects will both help us pass the time in a healthy way and, in the long run, help us be more independent.

Because I have multiple sclerosis (and am therefore immunocompromised), getting out and volunteering isn’t an option for me, but I want to help my neighbors. One thing our family loves to do is read, but our libraries are closed for the duration. And that got me to thinking about people who might enjoy a new book or two during this crazy season (especially if they can’t afford to buy them online). Thankfully, there are Little Free Libraries dotted all around us, so we decided to clean off some shelf space and donate a few well-loved tomes to folks who might welcome the pleasant distraction only a book can offer. To find Little Free Libraries near you, visit this site.

Two baskets full of books (for both grown-ups and littles) later, we set off in my trusty yellow car. The first two libraries we found had solid offerings, and we took a book from each (making sure to leave a few in return). But the third one! Oh, the third one! It was in a family’s front yard, and it was—in a word—perfect. The library was painted to match the owner’s house. It was spacious, so the books could stand up straight in two rows. The glass was clean, so you could see everything inside before you opened the door. There was a little bench nearby to sit down and scan a book before leaving, and the owners had even put a jar of precious Clorox wipes in there so people could sanitize what they took and put in! How freakin’ thoughtful is that!? I ended up taking three from that one because it had a great selection and left several of my favorites behind (including an autographed copy of A Gentleman In Moscow).

There was something about that entire experience—being able to both give and receive in such a beautiful, intentionally designed, and welcoming space—that left me feeling somehow lighter than I have in the weeks since the coronavirus hit the United States. I didn’t talk to the people in that house, but I felt like I had a conversation of sorts with them. I got to know them just a bit through their library. It was obvious they cared about it (and by extension the people who came to use it), and I was thrilled to be able to contribute something. We were making a connection in that space, however brief, and it was a reminder that people care and life will go on eventually. And when it does, I hope I can do a better job building and maintaining community.

On the way to stop number four, we passed a little house where kids had written “Everything will be okay!!!!!” in sidewalk chalk across the width of their driveway. Topped with a very detailed rainbow, it certainly stood out, and we stopped the car to look at it for just a second or two. The fact that those kiddos decided to take the time to post that message, to encourage and reassure people they’d never meet struck something deep inside me. They, too, were reaching out with all those colors and exclamation marks. They were building community in some small way. Both they and the library owners were speaking shalom into this broken, scared, sin-sick world. Bless them. Bless them all, Lord.

As night drew in on the last day of this very long and stressful week, I stood on the back porch watching the sky fade from gold to pink to a muted purple-gray and enjoying cool evening air full of storm promise. I listened to the soothing murmur of wind moving through the tall pine trees, transforming them into long-limbed dancers that graced the sky with slow waving. Perhaps they, too, were speaking shalom. Or perhaps they were simply swaying to the music of the spheres that’s just beyond our fathoming.

Everything Which Is Yes #2

jamieahughes3 Comments

Yesterday, it was raining. It had been for two days. I sat in the car and stared at the too-bright screen that told me my commute to work was going to take 45 minutes through a cold, dark morning and couldn’t help but groan. Everything in me wanted to turn around, to return to my still-warm pajamas and never crawl out of them. But that’s not an option when you’re grown, so I took a deep breath, turned on NPR, and set out.

In recent weeks, I’ve struggled with sadness. It hasn’t kept me from doing what needs to be done, but it feels like I’m covered with a lead blanket that dulls my mind and slows my body. For several reasons I won’t bore you with here, I’ve felt my “otherness” as of late, been hyperaware of things in my life that make me different from most other folks. Though I’m often surrounded by people at work, church, and home, I’ve felt painfully isolated—lonely despite the company.

But today was a better day. The sun was shining. It was wonderfully crisp and cool outside now that the rain has passed, and I spent the morning working in my new favorite coffee shop, Rev Roasters. (I have a feeling quite a few of these posts will have their origin in such a space. They’re just so full of delights, and I have the time and headspace to notice them there!) Unbeknownst to me as I stood in line, on the first Friday of each month, they serve their drip coffee for free. Their Peru Cajamarca tastes great no matter what, but mercy, I think it was even better today. I creamed and sugared up that bad boy until I was content and set to sippin’ while I enjoyed a bacon cheddar muffin and a blueberry scone.

And you know what? I felt at peace with all the people around me. Some were chatting with tablemates while others hunched over laptops, pouring themselves into whatever work or passion gripped them. In my grey hoodie, my own computer open before me and magazine proofs spread across my own workspace, I looked shockingly like everyone else. I talked to very few people, and even those with whom I spoke, we shared very few words. But it sure felt good to be among strangers, to be somehow accepted by them. We were all extras in a café scene, and for the first time in a long while, I didn’t feel like I stood out for any reason, good or bad.

Strangely enough in this mixed media space, my seat was not an industrial high-top stool or a wooden chair painted with some kitschy design. It was an old church pew, one of two in the place, well-worn and smoothed by the passing of many a holy backside. My body knew its shape well, and I felt comforted by its presence beneath me. A bit of the sacred in a space where I hadn’t expected it. A man sat beside me, and when his partner, a woman (co-worker? friend?), slid over next to him to share a funny video on her phone, I felt them laughing together through the wood and reveled in the silent tremors of joy, delighted to feel their mirth.

Wonderful, too, was the moment I shared later with an older woman as I perused the calendar/planner section at Barnes and Noble, killing time before picking up my youngest from school. From opposite sides of a shelf, we sang along with America’s “A Horse With No Name,” she on the melody and I on the high harmony. A little concert for no one but ourselves.

Today, in more ways that one, “it felt good to be out of the rain.”

Everything Which Is Yes #1

jamieahughes6 Comments

Perhaps ee cummings put the idea in my head years ago with his poem, “i thank you God.” Or perhaps it’s because I’ve been laughing at and lounging in The Book of Delights by Ross Gay lately. Maybe it was Frederick Buechner’s The Remarkable Ordinary or this article by Norann Voll in Plough. But whatever the reason, I’ve been more aware of the beauty around me these days, of grace in all the beautiful, kaleidoscopic ways it can show up in a life—especially one like mine, which has been beset by stress and worry for the last year and a half.

It seemed wrong not to tell another person about the “leaping greenly spirit of trees,” the “blue dream of sky,” and “everything / which is natural which is infinite which is yes” in my life. So, to that end, I hope to begin blogging periodically about the winsome, altogether lovely things that cross my path. I hope they bless you as they have me.

Today is October 22, 2019, and I spent the better part of the day in Amélie’s French Bakery & Café in Atlanta writing an essay I’ve had in my head for quite some time. Firstly, can we talk about what a delight it is to write something that’s been knocking around inside you? To have the time and space to allow words to bubble up and flow together into sentences and paragraphs, to create something that will allow another person to look and maybe, just maybe, say, “I get it. I understand exactly what you’re getting at” is a blessing I can never discount.

I sat in a sagging blue velvet armchair and read, priming the pump for writing, noshing on both a chocolate croissant, all butter and flake, and a tartine topped with melted brie, bacon, and fig. (I saw no reason to choose.) The sandwich was sweet, salty, and rich all at once. Joyful flavors. The world just doesn’t seem so dire when warm fig is spread on a toasted baguette.

In cafés and coffeeshops, there is a special level of camaraderie I have yet to find anywhere else. For some reason, people trust their neighbors, those folks hammering away nearby on their own laptops, to watch over their things while they run to the bathroom or to the counter for a refill. I know I certainly did, and that’s how I met Cheryl. Before I walked out of the building to pay for parking, I locked eyes with this hoodied angel over her copy of Mary Karr’s The Art of Memoir and asked for the favor, which she happily agreed to. (How can a person reading Mary Karr not be wonderful!?) I did the same for her, and together, we made it all happen.

When I went back to order lunch and bit of sweetness (a lemon tart the cashier referred to as “teensy weensy” and a chocolate mousse cup the size of a half inch socket), I just happened to return with a palmier for her. “I thought you could use a little something,” I said. “It was perfect,” she told me later. “Just what I needed to finish my work…and my tea.” We talked shop for awhile (she’s a freelance journalist with a five-year-old son) and about how hard it is to be a writer and a mom in the same body. We shook hands. We blessed one another and parted ways.

I’m so full.