SavageTimes

Warning: clumsy writing ahead.  If I wait to write this until I’m done processing, decades will have happened.

The mother of a dear friend passed away last week.

I have known the family since I was 6, when my friend decided she saw something worthy in me worthy. We lived down the street from each other, so I would spend quite a bit of time at her house, and vice versa, all the way through junior high, at least. It was my friend who introduced me to cheesecake, or rather a healthier version of it, which her mom made from scratch and used to pack in her lunch or let us have for after-school snack.

My friend’s house was so calm compared to mine. Her parents were laid back and low-key.  Not without an energy–they had plenty of energy–but it was strong and steady versus herky jerky, vibrant versus vitriolic.

I wasn’t there 24/7, of course. Perhaps my friend and her family had knock-down drag-outs several times a week, as my family did. My house had moments of calm, too, but there was, I felt, underlying tension often. I know my friend’s dad could and did raise his voice, as could her mother, when it was warranted. But it was warranted; it made sense even if I didn’t like it.  I felt at peace when at their home, as if I were floating down a strong, steady river versus navigating the clashing, banging white water rapids my own home often felt like.

My friend and I drifted as got older, quite possibly because I began to seek the clashing, banging rapids with which I was familiar, and the calm–any calm– made me nervous.  We fear the unknown, even if the unknown makes more sense.

Still, my friend and I stayed in touch, and I always tried to see her and her parents when I was in town.  The parents became first names as we grew older, and Judy–my friend’s mom–and I emailed here and there, upon the birth of my children, her grandchildren–she was so very proud of her son and daughter, their spouses, and each and every one of her grandchildren.

Judy had a whole life that I was only marginally aware of: she sang at gigs regularly around town with a partner and friends, she had a huge circle of devoted friends and family, she and her husband were the inveterate team. And yet, Judy never failed to be interested in my life, what I was doing with it, where I had been, and she also never, ever failed to ask me about my writing. As long as I’d known her, she stopped me in my tracks, held me in the moment, stilled my own crackle-and-pop-and-let’s-move-to-the-next-boulder need, even if just for a second or two (that’s a lot, for me).

When I saw Judy last summer, exhausted and weary from my own recent life changes, she was vibrant energy that seeped into my bones versus ringing against them.  We sat in her living room that was both so familiar and so different, with her daughter and granddaughters.  Her husband wandered in and mentioned he might have “wiped” the computer.  “He’s always wiping it,” one of the girls said.  I was holding my breath, waiting for someone to explode or for the energy in the room to shift into negative. Judy met my eyes and smiled.  I let out my breath.  We slipped around the next bend in the river at a pace that let me breathe.

And I thought, I want this….

In the last year, I have found my way to a strong, steady river.  My kids and I aren’t riding out the current with the hope that it’s the last, only to find out there are even sharper-edged boulders just around the bend. Don’t get me wrong: we all love to sink our teeth into a good rapids every now and then (erm…probably me and my daughter more than my son).  But we are capable of sitting in the living room, just being.

Whenever I’ve doubted my ability to find the balance, I think of eating graham cracker crust cheesecake in Judy’s kitchen after school, running around her house with her daughter and son in a crazy game of tag–doors slamming and feet pounding and no one getting angry, overflowing their toilet one time and Judy laughing about it (overflowing toilets in my house were not laughing matters), sitting in her living room with her daughter and her granddaughters, holding the moment, staying the course.

I wanted to attend Judy’s memorial back home last week more than anything. I could have made it work. It’s in my nature to go for the rapids, force the chaos.  I can always make anything work.

But I’ve been trying to slow down, let the moments unfold instead of forcing them, pay attention to how I feel about entering the rapids whenever I have a choice.  In this moment, I’d be dragging my kids, several close friends and their kids into the rapids with me, and I didn’t like that.

Crying, I whispered into my hands, “I want to do this, Judy, but I just don’t think I can.”

And I heard her.  Clear as the waters that run from the mountains out here.  She was in my head and my heart and ran through my soul like a warm spring day.  She said, “Just take care of your kids.  Spend this day with them.  Don’t worry about this.”

The day of Judy’s memorial, I took my kids to the fair. My daughter spent an enormous amount of time petting a baby donkey, and my son ate much of what was available along the main causeway. We talked about music and books and the best parts of the summer and what the next year would bring.  We drove for an hour round trip and spent an hour and a half at the fair.  My son snapped at me, and I rolled my eyes and smiled and we moved on.  We sat in traffic and I schooled them in U2. We did not go on any rides.  This year, we weren’t interested in the adrenaline. We laughed.

There are, I’m sure, plenty of jagged rocks ahead of us that we can’t see yet.  And plenty of rapids that we will choose to sail into. I know Judy had her own rapids–her life wasn’t all gentle waters, and I am certain she didn’t live nearly as long as she wanted to.  But she also chose her rapids as much as she was able, and choice or not, I believe she faced as much as she could with grace and humor.

So.  I will hold my own course along this wide, steady river, even when the quiet makes me nervous. And I will face as much as I can with laughter and grace–and, as often as I can, cheesecake.