Vocation All I Never Wanted

One of my greatest fears growing up was that I would get The Call. In Catholic school we learned about three vocations: The Call to religious life, (priest if you’re a boy, nun if you’re a girl), the married vocation, and the dreaded single vocation. Fr. Wright told us if you got The Call and didn’t follow it, you would never be happy. I remember praying, “Please let me get the married vocation. Please!”

Thankfully, God answered that prayer. But though I escaped the call to the nunnery, my path has had its own difficulties, which I was feeling last week. My writing group had critiqued my work again, and once again I felt discouraged and overwhelmed, like I would never finish the book, like it’s a fool’s errand, like maybe it’s all been a big waste of time and I should grow up and go back to my real career.

The morning after my critique, as I drove to Syracuse to spend a week with family and celebrate my brother-in-law’s wedding, tears streamed down my face, grief and discouragement merged into one big ball of yuck. Somewhere past Allentown I had calmed down enough to strategize. What could I tell people about the book? How could I explain that though I was struggling, I was still committed to it?

By the time I crossed the border into New York, I’d come up with an analogy. If writing a novel is a marathon, I’m on mile 16 or 17—-more than halfway there, but with the end nowhere in sight. I will finish, but I can’t think about the end, just have to put one foot in front of the other. Pretty good, though it still left unanswered why I had started running, and why if it’s so hard, I persist.

But the marathon sound bite was more than enough information for most people, so it wasn’t until the wedding reception, sitting next to Fr. Pat, who asked some probing questions about my protagonist and my process that it hit me—the novel is my Call. That’s why I do it. That’s why I persist. Because Fr. Wright was right—-when I ignored the Call I wasn’t happy. Something was missing, was off. And like any other vocation, it has its challenges. So even though sometimes I want to give up, to say forget it, to do something else entirely, I know I am called to do this, so I keep going.

As for the married vocation, congratulations to Ted and Moriah, who followed their call and tied the knot last weekend. I hope your marriage is like your wedding—full of family, friends, love, laughter and lots of dancing.

Life Goes On

Life goes on, dear readers. It must. Although part of me feels like life should stop, at least for awhile, it’s good that it doesn’t. It’s good to have to put on a party dress, go to a wedding, focus on something else for awhile. I still miss Grandmom every day. I still have moments that steal my breath, like when I came across her name in the contacts list of my phone. I know I’ll keep having moments like that, I know they will hurt. I also know some things I can do to help. Here is a partial list:

Working on the novel. After a two week hiatus from the novel, I returned to it. Reading about the De-da character in my book, who is mostly based on my Grandmom, is difficult. De-de is very ill in the book and Laura has to say goodbye to him and that all hit a little too close to home these past few weeks. So I moved on to other parts of the book, and happily worked on them, feeling the satisfaction I always get from writing.

Looking at art. Carl and I went to the Philadelphia Museum of Art where I was delighted to discover an entire wing I never remember exploring before. It was Disney-esque in its recreation of a medieval French monastery, an Indian temple, a Japanese tea house, transporting us to different times and places.

Booking travel plans. My aunt, uncle, and cousin invited me to join them on a Mediterranean cruise, and after some hesitation and guilt about taking a fabulous vacation without Carl, my loving and generous husband gave me the cruise as a birthday gift. I felt that elation I get from the possibility of new places, of adventure.

Surfing. I went surfing last weekend, which helps for the reasons it always helps—keeps me in the moment, gets me out of my head, into my body, into nature. And last weekend I had one of those magical surfing moments when I saw dolphins playing nearby as I sat on my board. Dolphins are one of the things that make me know that God is with me.

Writing. I have some new writing projects, an article idea I’m developing and trying to sell, some job opportunities I’m pursuing, all of which helps.

Unpacking Grandmom’s things. I found at least temporary homes for all of Grandmom’s things in my house. The more I use them, the less it stings to see them. Someday I know it will make me happy to see them, even if I’m not quite there yet.

Exercising. Most helpful is the hip-hop dance class I’ve started attending at the gym, which is great fun.

Seeing Grandmom. For a year now I’ve been driving Grandmom’s 1996 Cadillac Catera. It was one of the most extravagant things she ever bought for herself, and she was so pleased to give it to me. I’ve always felt close to her riding in it, and now that she’s gone, sometimes, out of the corner of my eye, I can almost see her sitting shotgun, journeying with me, just as she always did, as she always will.

Things Left Behind

Last Thursday I went to Grandmom's house for the first time since she died. It was difficult to walk into her house knowing she wouldn’t be there, that she would never be there again. But being there helped me to realize that she’s really gone, because there is no way I would be rifling through her dresser or her closet if she were alive. Even still I felt a little weird about it.

But I am grateful that I could bring some of her things home with me—a Waterford crystal vase, a gravy boat and butter dish, some baking tins, cloth napkins, pretty kitchen towels. It felt appropriate to fill in the gaps in my kitchen with things from Grandmom’s, first because she would never want anything to go to waste, and second, because we shared a love of cooking and entertaining. I think wherever she is, she’s tickled that I have her rolling pin, muffin tins, apron and gravy ladle. Best of all I found a cookbook that was obviously well-used and loved, published in the year after she was married. I like to imagine her as a young bride, trying new recipes, learning to cook as I have, from a book.

It stung a little to find so many gifts I'd given her. The cross I had brought back from El Salvador hung right over her kitchen sink, the napkin holder from Mexico sat on the table. I was glad to see evidence of how much I loved her in her house, pleased to see that she cherished my gifts, but also saddened. I didn't want to take them, because they belong with her, but since they can't be with Grandmom, I packed them up and found places for them in my house, along with the shamrock plant I had brought her for St. Patrick’s Day this year.

The hardest moment was finding the birthday card she had already bought for me. Of course she would have bought my card a month in advance. She hadn’t signed it yet, but she was never one for writing long messages, rather selected a card to speak for her. It's yellow with white flowers and glittery touches. In the center of the front is a picture of a yellow rose, and the message: “For a wonderful granddaughter: watching you grow has been like watching a flower blossom. With every year, you’ve changed in so many beautiful ways.” The inside continues, “This just comes to let you know that one of the best things in life is and always will be having a granddaughter like you to be grateful for, to be proud of, to love.”

Bitter bittersweet, these posthumous love messages.

Post Mortem*

After writing my last post I went back to the hospital. There was just nowhere else for me to be. So I sat with Grandmom, my mom, her brother Mart, his wife Marian and their cousin Dottie. We stroked Grandmom’s hair, we held her hands, kissed her face. We talked to her, we reminisced, we ate chicken salad and chocolate cake. At 7:00, I put Jeopardy on the TV, for Grandmom, even though none of us was watching it. Around 8:30, my mom and I left. Grandmom’s vitals hadn’t changed much in the hours we had been there. We knew the end was near, but no one knew when it would happen. She died within minutes of us leaving.

A song just came on my ipod with the lyrics, “When your mind’s made up, there’s no point trying to change it.” I’m smiling because this describes Grandmom perfectly, even in dying. She decided she was ready to die, and she did. Amazing, the will she had. This, too, I’ve inherited from her.

I had some happy events over the weekend, beautiful distractions from grief. I had a house full of some of my favorite people on Saturday, who showed up with food and flowers and love and children and even a tiny Corgi puppy to play with Nalu. Then yesterday, we had a wedding shower for my brother’s fiancée, Karen. Helping to plan for that, prepare, shop, set up, host, participate, and clean up were all good things to do this week. I wore Grandmom’s pearls, the ones she told me she wanted me to have during our last talk, and I touched them a lot. When the bride opened a gift from Grandmom, I wanted to scream and cry, but I didn’t. I sneaked a look at the card, just to see if it was her handwriting—it was—but I swallowed my grief. Instead I focused on making the bride feel special, loved, and welcomed to our family, because that’s what Grandmom would want.

Tomorrow is the funeral. I’m looking forward to the gathering of family and friends, the shared memories of this amazing woman. My in-laws are coming tonight, and I am grateful for that, another happy distraction. Every day, hundreds of times, I’m grateful for Nalu, my joyful little puppy. I’m grateful for my large and supportive family, and especially for my cousin Julie, who has always been more like a sister. I’m grateful for my Grandmom Owsik, who is not only still living and healthy, but an almost daily part of my life, living as she does just down the street from me. I’m grateful for upcoming weddings and births, for friends and their babies, for the many emails, messages, prayers and phone calls.

I understand now the usefulness of outward symbols of mourning, like wearing black for a year. I wish I had a sign that told people, “I’m a little fragile right now, not quite myself.” Since I don’t, I improvised, spending four hours and a king’s ransom at the beauty salon on Friday to make myself blonde. It was something kind to do for myself, and also a way to manifest physically how different I feel inwardly. And like acting your way into better thinking, I find that I can look my way into better feeling. I may not feel light-hearted and summery, but looking it brings me closer.

*Dark humor is part of the Irish heritage handed down to me from Grandmom.

Grandmom

My Grandmom is lying in a hospital bed, 10 miles from here, dying.

I hate typing that sentence. I hate that it’s true. Even today, all evidence to the contrary I hope it’s not. She’s fought off so many previous illnesses, isn’t it possible she could pull out of this? Possible perhaps, but unlikely.

Last Friday, when it seemed like just another hospital stay, I visited with her. We had an hour of girl talk. I showed her pictures of Nalu, and all the babies in my life, and we chatted about the weddings coming up this summer and the showers, and all the other news I had for her. She looked great, had plenty of energy, seemed optimistic. Right before I left she took out her dentures and I had a sense of foreboding. Her face collapsed in that hollow old person way. She looked vulnerable in a way I’d never seen before and I didn’t like. But I shook it off as a momentary thing. She was ill, but this wasn’t it.

Unfortunately things took a bad turn over the weekend. Her breathing got increasingly difficult, and she said she was ready to go home. Not to her condo in Media, but to God. When my dad broke this news to me on Monday, over a bad cell phone connection, I was shocked. “No, I just saw Grandmom,” I said. “She was fine. She was planning on coming to the wedding shower on Sunday, to the shore this summer, to Richie’s wedding in August.” I thought it must be some terrible mistake. But slowly the news penetrated. When my mom said that if I wanted to say goodbye to Grandmom I should go the next day, I knew this time was different. No one had ever said that before.

I cried and cried. Nalu did her best to cheer me up, acting goofy and mischievous, but even as she leapt and spun, fighting with her stuffed monkey, the tears streamed down my face. I was not ready to lose Grandmom. I didn’t care that she’s 92 and that she’s ill and that I’ve had her for 33 beautiful years, I still was not ready.

And how could I say goodbye? What could I possibly say? I was really scared. Right until I walked into the hospital room to find my Grandmom alone. And then it was just me and Grandmom, just as we’d always been. I told her everything that was in my heart—that I didn’t want her to die, but that I understood that it might be her time; that at least I knew she’d be with my Grandpop, with her sisters and her beloved nieces who had left us too soon. I held her hand, and she held mine, transmitting warmth and strength to me right through her skin, a love transfusion.

I told her I was grateful to have inherited her Irish charm, and her stubbornness. I recalled for her that she had taught me the word stubborn when I was girl, having called me it when I was misbehaving. Though I understood that she was frustrated, I still had to ask, “What does stubborn mean?” We laughed at the memory and she told me, “Some stubbornness is good. It will help you in life—help you to make the right choices and stick with them.”

I thanked her for writing down her recipes for me, for teaching me how to make her classic Sunday roast beef dinner complete with homemade gravy. I thanked her for her mother’s serving platter that she gifted to me, and the teapot that her mother-in-law had given her when she’d gotten married. I told her how I cherished the memories of when we were two single girls together, sharing rooms in Ocean City and in Ireland. I told her how I treasured our times together in Media, going to mass and coffee with her and her girlfriends. I thanked her for being a great example to me of how to be a feisty lady and a kind lady and a compassionate lady.

And after I told her everything I had to say and listened to everything she had to say, we just sat together, holding hands. A few times I looked up at the TV, which was on without sound, and saw professional wrestling, which just adding to the surreal feeling. Grandmom is dying and WWE is on TV.

I went back to see Grandmom with Carl last night, and she was in a morphine fog, still with us, but not completely, on her way out of this world. I still hate it. I still don’t want to lose her. But I know that I loved her as best I could, that she knows what she means to me, that I showed her every chance I had, and that is an amazing comfort.

I’m holding on to gratitude like it’s my life jacket. I don’t want to lose her, but how amazing that I’ve had her for 33 years, that we’ve been so close, that she’s taught me so much, that I was able to say goodbye. These are gifts and I will suck all the sweetness I can from them, to temper the bitterness.

Good night and God bless you, Grandmom.

The Dreaded Critique

I belong to the best writing group in the world. Really. Having struggled for so long on my own, longing for helpful feedback, I know how valuable it is to have eight astute writers reading my work and giving me their thoughts. In the few short months I’ve been in the group, I’ve become a better writer, editor, and reader.

And yet, even in this group that I love and value so greatly, getting critiqued is hard. It’s like taking medicine—I know it’s good for me, but I still resist, clamp my mouth shut, feel icky while it’s being administered. The first time was scary because it was the first time. Last night was the second time, and though I was a little nervous, I knew the group, I knew the vibe would be honest but gentle, I knew the intentions were to help me, my writing, and my novel.

Even still, after listening to the group discuss my third and fourth chapters for an hour or so, I felt overwhelmed. Some thoughts I immediately recognized as true. For example, I need to weave my protagonist’s struggle into the narrative more, not take a break from that as I set the scene or introduce characters. The descriptions need some work—yes. The Spanish needs proofreading by a native speaker—yes, yes. Maybe part of why it’s overwhelming is that there is so much still to do. And if I think too much about how much work remains, it feels impossible.

So this morning I’m going back to biting off one tiny piece and working just on that. If I can figure out a small step and take it, I often trick myself into taking a few steps, sometimes surprising myself by how far I get. And if I’m taking steps, I’m less worried, more in the moment, and still moving forward.

Thank you writing group! I will let all your thoughts sit for awhile, see which stay with me, which ring true. The more confident I get as a writer, the easier it is to receive others’ thoughts without thinking I have to agree with them all. Everyone is entitled to their opinion, including me. The trick is to stay open, but also trust myself to pick out what is helpful for me and what isn’t. Easier said than done, but at this too, I’m getting better.

Surfing in 50 Degree Water

Surfing in 50 degree water is something I never thought I’d do. But after surfing all week in Rincon, I couldn’t wait for the water to warm up to go out again. Plus Carl was going. As much as my competitiveness trips me up, it also pushes me to do things I otherwise might not do. So two weeks ago, when Carl said he was going in the water, I thought, well, I’ll give it a try. With the water temp hovering around 50, amazingly, my body was nice and toasty in my wet suit, once the initial blast of cold water warmed up, but my bare hands and feet hated me. It wasn’t like when the water is cold in summer, but eventually your body adjusts. No, it was painful, painful, painful, then numb. Amazingly, I wanted to stay in the water, I wanted to surf that badly. There were waves, although I couldn’t do much with them, as my frozen feet refused to hold up my body. But still I paddled around, caught a few waves, tried to pop up, and had fun.

With a good surf report Carl and I went back to the shore this weekend, but this time I insisted we stop at the surf shop to get booties. Mr. I’m From Syracuse and Don’t Feel the Cold said he didn’t need any, but I’ve never pretended to be tough about the cold. I tried on four booties—feeling like Cinderella once I found the right neoprene slipper—and off we went into the ocean. Amazing thing, neoprene. How can I be in 50 degree water, and not be cold? I don’t know, but I fucking love it. I felt like a whole new world of surfing opened up for me this weekend, one that gives me a few more months each year in the water—months when almost no one else is around.

Each time I take my surfing to another level, I hesitate. When I first started, I knew I loved it and wanted to do it as much as possible, but buying a surf board? Really? With no evidence that I’d ever be able to ride it? But I did it. Then when summer ended, I needed a wet suit. Then when Carl started surfing a lot, and hogging my board, we had to buy a second board. Our first surfari was another level, taking lessons yet another level, and now the cold water.

Each new step required another level of commitment, and yes, faith. And I can say that I haven’t regretted any of the time, money or energy we’ve put into surfing, because I get so much more back in return. I get entire days outside, doing something I love that’s good for my mind, body and soul. I get days with the ocean all to myself. I get exhilaration, adrenaline. And I get to share it all with my husband, who loves surfing more than I’ve ever seen him love anything.

This weekend as I paddled for waves, battling the wind and the current, as I stood up for the first time on our new board (woo-hoo!), as I watched the horizon and knew when waves were going to appear, I realized that somehow over the past year I’ve transformed from poseur to surfer. I don’t feel like a fraud in a wetsuit anymore, I just feel like a surfer.

If you want more surf blogging, check out Carl’s new blog, Surf For Your Life, which is all surfing all the time. Just don’t tell me if you like it better than mine.