It’s been a strange week for me. After putting it off for about 35 years, I finally agreed with the doctor that my sinuses might be a tad, well, debilitated. I think his exact words were something like, “I’m wondering if you’ve ever experienced a decent breath.”
Apparently, I couldn’t put it off any longer. I’d run out of excuses. It’s not that I didn’t care, but everything else seemed to come first. Family, church, work, social activities, writing, cleaning—everything. Anything:
It’s nearly Christmas. Perhaps after the holidays.
Let’s get through summer vacation and then maybe I’ll have it looked at.
I can’t do anything about it now. I used up all my leave over the summer.
Are you kidding? I’m about to start a new job.
I have this giant stack of coupons to clip…
Long story, shortened: I finally said yes. I took a few days off and committed my brain to a stranger’s hands. He authorized someone to pump anesthesia into my veins and they wheeled me away. In that last moment of clarity, I looked back to my friend and said something I’ve never found the slightest bit amusing, but for the moment it was perfect.
“Smell you later!” I remember the nurses giggling, but nothing else.
Today I feel a bit like I’ve been punched in the face. I’ve spent the past few days trying to keep my head still, and tilted back to hasten healing, wearing a bandage that looked like a duck beak. No television, no standing, no lifting. I couldn’t move if I wanted to. I felt as if I were carrying my head on a balloon string, the faster I moved, the more it jerked backward.
By the way, to my fellow bibliophiles who think this might be a dream predicament, yes, I shared your optimism that I might be left with no option but to read. I pulled out a Kindle and held it above my tilted head—awkward but somewhat doable—until I dropped it on my beak. I think I saw actual stars. Sadly, I had to do this three times before admitting reading might not work out.
So, I did nothing. I don’t know if I’ve ever done nothing in my life, but it’s been strangely freeing.
Despite this tale of silly woe, don’t feel sorry for me. I’m not posting this lovely picture to elicit sympathy. I find it hilarious. I can laugh because I see only positives. Every day my head is a bit better. Tonight I’m going to try washing my hair. Tomorrow I’m going to work (which is not a victory for me, but my boss will be glad, I think).
The point is, I know where this is leading. I still can’t breathe. The doctor said I shouldn’t expect to for a week or so but I can be confident the victory at the other end will be worth all the pain and discomfort. I, too, am wondering if I’ve ever experienced a clear breath. I’m wondering if it will be like the first day I put on glasses and the entire world looked new—will the world smell new? Will I sleep through the night? Will the weekly migraines ebb?
Will I find myself shaking my head over all this procrastination, asking why I didn’t do this sooner?
Ah. There’s the real issue. Over the years, this is something many doctors have often approached me about. I deliberately ignored their advice and encouragement, preferring my ordinary status as a prominent mouth breather and migraine sufferer to something I didn’t know. I don’t embrace change. But now I’m excited about what tomorrow might bring.
Isn’t this like so many areas of our lives? I have many tasks on my “to do” list that I’ve ignored or put off, thinking the timing isn’t right, I’m just not ready, or I have too many coupons to clip. I’m only cheating myself. Many of those are pathways God has laid out before me that I choose not to walk on, because I’m not sure where they lead. They are victories He has in store for me if I would only denounce my ordinary status. I know. I just KNOW, when I finally take those steps I will see victory, and I will wonder why I didn’t do this sooner.
It’s time to send that letter. Sign up for that class. Apologize, whether you’re wrong or not. Submit that invention idea. Apply for that job. Listen to that voice calling. Every day that goes by is one more day without tasting victory. For me, that looks like submitting a book proposal. What does it look like to you?
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For the moment all discipline seems painful rather than pleasant, but later it yields the peaceful fruit of righteousness to those who have been trained by it. – Hebrews 12:11.
This spring we set the tree outside, certain it had died. However, its three spindly branches developed green tips almost immediately, and within a few weeks sprouted tiny leaves. Only then did I allow myself to become emotionally invested. I looked up plumeria on line.
My gardener husband was not undone by either pruning. For the plumeria, he researched a bit more and learned that it’s likely not terminal. He set the pot back upright and gave the sagging tree some water. Then he picked up the branches and carefully pruned their leaves until they looked like two long cigars, which he set out to air dry. Then he planted them in a new pot, side-by-side so they’ll support each other through this traumatic time.
So I’m going to essentially start over. Write a short blog here and there, attend a writer’s group or two, take on an editing assignment. This time, though, I will keep before me a vision of the plumeria flower to represent God’s plan for my life. If I have to, I will go about the mundane hours of each day singing, “frangipani, frangipani” (likely annoying my coworkers), to stay focused on the something better that lies ahead. I will remember (shout out to the poetry of Rob Thomas) that I am a black and white person with technicolor dreams. But I don’t have to be.
This first I call the Tree of Determination. You might say it’s a young tree with an old soul. This is a rebellious Eastern Redbud, which sports radiant purple (go figure) flowers every spring. This tree has clearly experienced a recent tragedy, yet refuses to go quietly into that good night. Notice how tall and full its new growth is. There’s nothing meek or hesitant going on here. This is how we were meant to be, alive and vibrant, pushing forward despite the negative buffeting of the world around us, and despite the passing of those who went before us. It’s okay, and quite healthy, to mourn those who are no longer with us, but we can also honor them by taking what they left behind and letting it nourish our growth.
pruned back the branches and let it rest over the winter. This spring there is evidence of hope. It put up a small patch of growth this year, perhaps all it can muster, as if timidly testing the environment. I will track this tree’s progress over the next few years, and reblog someday with hopefully a fantastic fall display. The lesson I take from this tree is, sometimes we know where we want to go, but we’ve been burned too many times to stick our neck out there. In that case, it’s okay to go slow. Do only as much as you can right now, but move forward. Fires can and may happen, but the likelihood that they will keep happening and in the same place is not great. That picture in your mind of where you’re going? That’s your dream. Do something every day that brings you closer. Don’t give it up, even if the world mocks you or knocks you down (see picture #1). It’s YOUR dream and they can’t have it.
was too focused on the roots of this tree to examine the leaves. Here’s a fully functioning, helpful tree. It’s tall, and straight, and even supports a swing. A giver. At one time, though, its roots were apparently boxed and tightly constrained. Sadly, the message here is one I see all too often. Many of us were once boxed and tightly constrained, but although we’ve been set free, we haven’t moved a muscle. We function, day after day, provide care and nurturing for others, but we keep our own selves confined. What’s keeping us from stretching those limbs and experiencing the freedom we’ve yearned for? Other voices? Reminders? For me it was fear of failure. Or more precisely, fear of success. I worried that if I succeeded with my first book, I’d have nothing else to say, and I’d be found out a fraud. The voice I listened to said anyone can write one book, but only a “real author” can keep the words coming. I still worry sometimes, but I know the dream is still in my heart so I’m striving to be a purple Redbud tree.
Oh, two announcements! First, for those who live in the area, I will be co-sponsoring a book signing with Bea Fishback this Sunday (April 30), at Brew Republic Bierwerks in Woodbridge (near Wegman’s). If you can make it, please stop by between 1 and 3. Even if the idea of good books and fellowship doesn’t grab you, at least try the beer cheese pretzels or the crab dip—such a treat!
AND, I’ve recently contributed two stories to the Lighthouse Bible Studies anthology “Breaking the Chains,” an uplifting place to start if anything in the blog above strikes a chord. This book addresses the spiritual attacks that keep us bound and believing things about ourselves that just ain’t true. If you want to take that first step forward, I’ll have books at the signing on Sunday, or you can order them here.
The new year has dawned like a magnificent sunrise over an expansive ocean, with a freshness of clean linen, the newness of a tightly folded flower bud, and the secrecy of a locked treasure chest. I’m giddy over the endless possibilities of what lies ahead.
Now K, I know you can relate to this story, because I know you’re a great dad and you’ve had days like this. So I want to remind you to see yourself in this scenario. Read it again and really see yourself, because, my friend, You Are That Man.
The Portrait Writer 