The phone jangles us awake. Wrenched from the warm crease of sleep, Dreamer and I wedge our feet into shoes. The painters we hired want to pressure-wash both our decks — our charming but overly-furnished decks — this morning. Five days ahead of schedule. And they’re already en route.
We scramble around the smaller deck like Keystone Kops in rumpled pajamas. Rain pelts everything. Lawn chairs, lanterns, bee traps, plants — we jettison décor as fast as we can.
Why would anyone pressure-wash decks in the rain?
The arriving crew frowns over our second deck, half-smothered in vegetation. Like the carnivorous vine in Little Shop of Horrors, my “Feed-me-Seymour” Virginia Creeper must go.
They rev their machine. I rip branches from railings. Dreamer hacks stems thick as thumbs.
Drizzle, of course, morphs to downpour. Did I mention I’m wearing white pajamas?
*****
Here I am days later, winding myself up again trying to get the story down. It’s exhilarating to write, having survived months of illness, brain fog, daily rice, bananas, and gallons of broth. It’s nerve-wracking, too.
What if my writing chops slid down the drain with, ahem, everything else?
Nervous hunger erupts. I pace. Edit. Tear into a bag of chips. Oh, the salty zing of vinegar, the glorious crunch, the greasy addicting coconut oil . . .
I eat all the chips.
What happened to my oh-so-serene resolve to avoid binges fueled by insecurity? I planned to take recovery slowly. Simply. Beatifically.
I stash the empty package beneath discarded carrot peels. So much for my strict recovery diet. Willpower proves flimsy as paper, and I wince at my inward crumple of shame.
*****
Meanwhile, back on the deck: Where’s the machete when you need it? We de-jungle railings, toss the slash to the ground. Our growing heap of greenery feels like an accusation.
I’m entangled in more than deck cleanup.
I want a do-over.
The crew unplugs their equipment. They coil their hoses, then drive away.
We gaze at the decks. Pressure-washing scours away every peeling fold of paint; it also exposes small stubborn islands of rot. Beneath the sheen of rain, the old wood gleams. Patient sunlight presses through layer after layer of parting clouds . . .
What have you crumpled and stashed beneath the carrot peels?
“I want to unfold. I don’t want
to stay folded anywhere, because
where I am folded, there I am a lie.”
—Rilke
Photo by Sandeep Swarnkar on Unsplash
You might also enjoy Fire and Rain
Laurie, this is glorious! Your writing is every bit as honest, perceptive, lyrically poetic, full of humour and depth as it always has been. You’ve succeeded in making this weary woman smile through her pain, and grin wider at the crumpled chip packet incident. Hilarious! I’m so glad you are recovering a measure of health and strength, my friend. Thank you for this beautifully told tale. I’m with Gena. When is the book of anecdotes coming out? I would love to read it. Sending gentle hugs, blessings and love across the pond. xo
Dear Joy, what a delight to hear from you on this Sunday morning! Thank you for writing.
I am asking God to intervene amid your weariness and chronic pain even as I thank Him for your gift with words and your marvelous encouragement. Blessings on you, gentle friend.
I could read a whole book of your experiences with life, your observations, your honesty, even your addiction to chips. I Identify with it all. You take us with you on your journey in eternally and extremely. And what a wonderful journey it is. God bless you dear friend.
Dear Gena, thank you for letting the words pull you into the story, and thank you for the ways you identify and resonate with my scribbles, post after post. I’m so grateful for you in my life. Everyone everywhere needs a Gena in their personal balcony!
Laurie I rejoice that you are on the road to recovery and I will concur–your writing chops have only been honed and heightened in my humble opinion. What a gift and grace your sense of humor is…and your perspective.
Always so much appreciated.
Jody, my friend, your words mean so much to me, thank you. I am truly blessed to have you in my virtual life. And who knows? Perhaps we’ll meet again this side of heaven . . . You really encouraged me tonight. So grateful for you.
Precious Laurie!!
I am sooooo very happy that you are well (PRAISE GOD!!!), and that your beautiful writing isn’t creased into a drawer somewhere. I’m so glad you are able to share with us again, and I assure you, you have not lost your creative, lilting touch!! You never will, frankly. You are incredibly gifted! We have a deck too, here, and one across the back side of our cabin. Both have been power-blasted, but we have done it ourselves. Well, truth be told, I watch from inside, while my husband does the honors. I need someone to come into my study and my basement and do some power blasting there, which may be finally what I need to make a dent in my books and papers— my downfall. And I’ll bet there are notes folded into books and notebooks, too! Yikes! Yes, I need to unfold! I really enjoyed that quote by Rilke, and it’s new to me, too. I love the spirit of it, but the more I read it, I can’t be exactly sure what he meant, and especially sans context. Do you have your own interpretation of it? I’m curious. And from what poem does it come? I’m unsure that anywhere I am folded, I’m a lie. I do believe in transparency, and in so being, I must spread out my soul thin, like sheer gossamer. I should permit no thick folds in my soul, because true, stuff hides in the folds of life (and in the basements, too)! I know God is taking me on a deep decluttering journey of heart and home. He’s been asking me to do this forever, and I KEEP RESISTING…..folding my arms, if you will, in utter stubbornness. I need to unfold them, and roll up my sleeves instead and dig in! But there are other folds that are not unhealthy… like when God folds love and kindness into my heart . . . or when I was sitting straight at a school desk, my hands folded (often obediently at the direction of the teacher), and listening attentively. And I love that Jesus is my gentle and good Shepherd, and I, His little sheepie, count myself as a fortunate member of His fold. And I ask Him to keep me in a fold, His pen, where He protects me and helps me not stray. Laurie, right after your post, I suddenly remembered the wisdom of Kenny Rogers (ahem, of *all* people!) in his old song, The Gambler!! Couldn’t believe I even remembered it!
“You got to know when to hold ’em
Know when to fold ’em
Know when to walk away
And know when to run
You never count your money
When you’re sittin’ at the table
There’ll be time enough for countin’
When the dealing’s done. . . .
“Every gambler knows
That the secret to survivin’
Is knowin’ what to throw away
And knowin’ what to keep.”
Right now, Laurie, I’m asking God to show me what to keep and what to throw away—when finally to let go and “fold ‘em,” things I can’t solve, attitudes to fold up and pack away, and a committee, I just left. But I also need to know when to hold ‘em, whether the Lord, precious people God has placed in my life, and His purpose for me, and hold ‘em close to my heart. Please know that I hold *you* especially dear!
Love
Lynn
Dear Lynn, as always, you make me blush with pleasure, and nod my head in recognition, AND you make me think. A trifecta of goodness. Once again you enlarge upon an idea in ways that fan my curiosity and wonder. I love the way your mind leaps.
And I agree Rilke’s lines can be read more than one way. Folding/enfolding/being part of the fold (belonging)—these are such life giving connotations.
Folds can be elegant as drapery (I’m thinking togas now!), deliciously secretive as a note passed in class (or the memory of it, years later), and winsome and exquisite as origami.
Those lines grabbed me because recovery, for me, feels like a time of opening and unfolding, coming clean—especially about areas too given over to self and its clamorings.
Here’s the whole poem by Rainer Maria Rilke, Rilke’s Book of Hours: Love Poems to God
https://www.goodreads.com/quotes/235176-i-am-too-alone-in-the-world-and-yet-not
In my mind I hear Kenny’s laid-back, bemused, gravel-laced voice and his artful storytelling. Fun to revisit that song.
Your study and basement sound like glorious archives, well worth sifting through. I once read about a woman who folded notes to future readers into the books she donated. Isn’t that a wonderful idea? I found many a note my mother had tucked into a book after she died. So when it’s time to unfold those arms . . . I’m going to imagine you on a treasure hunt, culling through your collected papers and ephemera and library. Loving curation can be a joy, I believe. Keep me posted?
I enjoyed your marvelously creative juxtaposition of events, words, prayers, self-questioning…. as usual! I also appreciated your cherished readers’ observations and contributions. Unfold me, Lord, lumps and all….
Pacia, thank you. I love that you’re part of this wise and vibrant community of readers. I learn so much from the comments. In the golden oldie words of the Association, “Cherish is the word . . .”
Praise God, every twenty-four hours God gives us a do-over, a new beginning. TODAY, a fresh, Power-washed start. TODAY no chip bag under the carrot peelings because the patient Sonlight WILL permeate the clouds of defeat. Thank you, Laurie, for your Spirit breeze of honesty, truth, and hope!
Amen to that! It’s stunning, isn’t it, the myriad ways (and days) we can begin again. Nancy, the energy of your hope is palpable on my screen. You make me want to stand up and cheer!
What a fun story.
Worded so well, I felt like I was there is I read.
Except for feeling sodden, I hope! Thanks, Mike.
Our decks are now freshly painted and we will take our sweet
t – i – m – e putting all the stuff back..
Reading your posts make me smile and ponder every time.
Rain, emergency clearing, white pajamas. That’s an Oscar-winning scene! And, can I ever relate. The heap of accusing greenery shines light on the dilemma (perhaps especially on creative types) of how to engage the moments. We choose the quiet, soul-stirring creative moments over the noisy should-do tasks; then the should-do tasks fly into a rage of needed attention. Just imagine, in our eternal homes, I don’t think the two will compete at all. Bliss.
Carol, we must have resembled a sitcom minus the laugh track.
You’re so right about the ongoing dilemma: the urgent vs “how [we]engage the moments.” I look forward to leaving “should-dos” behind and immersing in bliss on the other side. Thank you for using that word to describe it!
Thanks for this! I don’t want to stay folded either.
Sarah, you are so welcome! Those lines from Rilke were new to me. I read them shortly after our clear-the-decks debacle, and now they’re becoming an ongoing prayer.
I don’t know that I hide it under the peelings, more like run from it….that is, the certainty that I have blind spots. Everyone sees it but me. Self-Doubt. It’s a killer, isn’t it?!
A killer, yes. And those blind spots? I tend to either forget, or ignore, how visible they are to others, especially those who know me best. Doesn’t it just make their ongoing acceptance of us all the more wondrously dear?!