All The Big Stuff

I wrote, a while ago, actually, on my last trip to Vancouver, about the stark difference between two different doors in my life.  Twice that I stood, consciously and deliberately and opened a door. 

The first door allowed a flood of love into my life. 

The second, a world of hurt. 

Both helped me to grow.

Let’s talk about the first door, shall we? 

At 19, I sat, across the country, on my tiny bed in my dorm room.  My mom, had just hugged me, left, closing the door behind her.  We had spent the day setting up this tiny room together.  I was ready for her to go but not quite sure what it would look like when she did. 

After a few moments, I took a deep breath, stood, and opened the door.  I opened it just enough that should someone walk by, they might be able to peek in, allowing me to smile.  This was my plan, to just simply smile.  Sure enough, as other students walked by, they smiled, nodded, and finally someone poked a head in and told me about a pop-up coffeehouse on the green that night.  I was asked if I wanted to join. I pushed down the jet-lagged, homesick feeling, and said “yes.”

That night, sitting on a blanket on the green, drinking coffee and watching the acoustic talents of so many of my peers, I felt at home. 

I found my people, my girls, my tribe. 

These girls, I hang onto today. 

These girls, the ones who have been with me through it all. 

These girls, the ones with whom distance means nothing.

These girls, the ones who made an unofficial pack to be there for all the big stuff with me.

So, here I sit, in an airport, en-route to the city that feels like home for me.  I’m here for it.  I’m here for more “big stuff.”

Gimme it all - all the milestone birthday surprise. Baby snuggles. Coffee. Patios. Shopping. Laughing till my belly hurts.  Gimme all the pure friendship, all the authenticity.  My soul craves “all the big stuff.”

I’m here for it - “all the big stuff.”

My Muse

Before you departed, you asked if I would write for you, making you my muse for a moment. I said of course I would, such a task is easy.  You are a wonderful muse.

Writing you is as easy as writing me. In you, I see pieces of myself as well as her.

You’re:

Silly

Wild

Free, and

Spontaneous

Those characteristics, combined, creates a soul who jumps, feet together, into puddles, and into life. Two feet, failure is not an option, only a lesson.

I see you, as I remember myself, as I watched her do it. Tiny red rainboots, muddy dress, skinned knees, tangled hair from the warm wind and summer rain, running towards the end of the driveway where the depression from the tires have allowed the rainwater to collect.  Into this puddle we jump, red boots together, creating the biggest splash a 4 year old can muster.  Soaking, we turn our face to the rain and laugh from the depths of our belly.  We are alive in everything that we do.

It’s a beautiful existence, jumping in with both feet.

But sometimes you’ll feel failure. You might not stick the landing, as a result, the fall hurts that much more.  This reality, however, doesn’t change your form, it’s the same every time and in every avenue – two feet, tightly together…and jump.

Every landing that you stick is that much more fantastic in nature. For you, there is no score of 5/10. Those of us who jump like this are awarded no part marks for effort.  We stick the landing or we fall flat on our face.

Both are landings, both add value:  When executed perfectly, the high is outrageous and infectious.  But when we fail, well, our face is in the puddle and everyone seems to be watching for the splash.

My People

An unexpected package was on my porch today.  I held it in my hands and turned it over, thinking of everything I’ve ordered online recently.  I have been known to shop online in the middle of the night as a way to stay awake while at work but this, from the bookstore, doesn’t jog my memory. 

I grab it on my way into the car, open it, and am instantly brought to tears. It’s from one of my people, the people in my world who think of me, and act.  She knew I was struggling, suggested a book, and when I blew her off, said I was too busy to read, she sent it anyways.  Perhaps I didn’t need the book as much as I needed to remember who my people are.

My people are the ones who act – they send the book.  

They call and facetime, because it’s warmer than a text.  They move their clients to fit with my days off.  I wake to photos of their kids, and have a good day messages, unflattering salon selfies, and videos of noodles being slurped. 

They remember my hard days, 11 years later.  I don’t know if they have to written somewhere or if my hard days are hard days for them too.  Either way, they remember, and act.  They keep my stuff tight but bring it out after a few drinks.  They know the ins and outs of me, and we laugh, from our bellies, once it’s moved into a funny, but never before.  They know that timeline without fail. 

They make me coffee when I pop in, and I pop in a lot.  My people made me dinners after every baby.  I didn’t cook for weeks on end after each birth.  Still to date, when they’ve made too much, extras show up at mine. Grapefruit in bulk gets split and half ends up with me. 

My people send me songs on the regular.  They think, Virginia would like this, and they act.  It’s simple but sometimes that song winds up on repeat and it might just be everything I needed on that particular day.  We drive, wild, song for song to the beach in the late fall.  My people say yes to fried chicken from the other side of town, because I want it and they trust it will be worth it. 

They love the way I walk in their homes, shoes off, arms open.  My style is not only appreciated, but I am told when it is missed.  My people tell me when they miss my presence in their homes, around their children.  I sit in their shops, an unpaid employee for the day at the counter, fed salami sandwiches when I get hungry.  My people like having me around, I never question if I’m too much.

We go consignment shopping together.  More importantly, if I can’t go, I know the things that have my name all over it will still get purchased.  I never miss a deal, even if I am not physically there. 

My people fly to see me and my children, they are at all big stuff without fail.  They wake early to get scones because they are my favourite.  They know the exact way I say their name determines my level of stoned.  My people know the things about me, they remember, and act:

They send the book, the book that I say I am too busy to read, and they remind me who my people are.

The Reply

Every year, at Christmas, I write to you.  Inside the envelope I include photos, photos of our growing family.  I know that this envelope will find its way into your hands, your aging hands, and bring a smile to your face.  However, every year that passes, as I drop the envelope in the mailbox, I pray a little harder that it is you who writes back.  A month later, when I see your name on the reply, I sigh a sigh of relief. 

We cannot escape the years that have past, nor the many, many years that lie between us.  Even then, 15 years ago, we referred to you as our Japanese grandmother.  Twice, sometimes, three times a week we’d spend time with you.  Like a true grandmother, your treats were predictable and appreciated; fresh bread on Tuesday, beer for Reuben, and the most delicious hotel omelette and iced coffee on Wednesdays.  We’d spend afternoons together; once a week with just me, once a week with just Reuben, and once a week the three of us would dine together.  I don’t know what I loved most - the days I could explain to you my upbringing and ask about yours or our time as a threesome, when you’d laugh your infectious laugh at how our modern-relationship worked.  You’d pry into the details and marvel at my strength as a woman and Reuben’s progressiveness as a man.  Little did you know, I still marvel at yours - wife of a doctor, mother, continual student, friend, and Japanese grandmother to a handful of lucky foreigners in Ube, Yamaguchi, Japan.

So, this year, when I opened my mailbox and saw your family name I smiled.  It was short-lived, however, because beside your family name was your husband’s name.  Replaced was your beautiful penmanship that I have gotten to know so well with more masculine calligraphy. I held it together with the mail in my hand until I walked in the door.  Reuben and I opened it and read your husbands words together.  Tears instantly flooded the page.  Cancer.  Last fall.  He’s grief stricken.  How will he live without you? How will any of us? 

Toshiko, my Japanese grandmother, you will be greatly missed, continue to be spoken of often in our home.  Today, I grieve.  Today, I remember that infectious smile, kind manner, and inquisitive mind.  You opened your heart and your home to two twenty-somethings and while it was an odd friendship, it was one that we hold so very dear.

Sayonara, Esato-San.