Heidi Beth

Practice is “repeated exercise in or performance of an activity or skill so as to acquire or maintain proficiency in it.” When it comes to writing, I practice with the intention of mastery. Not over grammar or sentence structure. I will surely never manage such a feat. I want to master the art of giving what is real in a way that is digestible, leaving the reader wanting just a bit more. I intend to share my heart.

My problem is that recently I’m writing and sharing from a place that normally turns me into a recluse: transition anxiety, loose ends, success not yet attained. From my hiding spot, I usually watch the parade, being careful to remain invisible until resolution has been reached, until I can look back at the process, pull out a kernel of a already-lived-and-dealt-with reality and give it breath. Only then do I offer my thoughts for display, or so it has always been.

Allowing myself to be “heard” at a time when I used to stay quiet, I fumble, give too much, stumble, stutter on the page like the typical social misfit at a party, the one who can’t think of anything better than his shoe size to share when small talk fades into awkward pauses. It is this, I finally want to be a writer more than I have ever wanted to be anything.

At nearly every endeavor, be it skating, gymnastics, playing flute, etc. I have shown natural talent. But I have been able to walk away, content with reaching mediocrity, happy to find that at this stage in my life I have interesting stories of competitions and shows to share with my children and those I teach. Always, I’ve been content to either develop a talent little by little, as is the case with acting, storytelling, and teaching, or quit, like I did with sports and music.

Writing is the exception, the one thing I have worked at consistently, my whole life, pretty much since I could form letters. You know, I haven’t just quit sports, I’ve quit over fifty jobs, several relationships that I probably shouldn’t have been in anyway, and countless residences. There used to be a running joke, “Where in the world is Heidi now?” I laughed, hiding a shadow of “quitters” shame that followed me everywhere.

The truth is, Heidi was filling a notebook with the contents of her being, staying up too late, getting it all down on paper, sleeping through the alarm next morning, too embarrassed to show up to work late or ever again, thus being unemployed and on the hunt once more. My past is a predictable pattern of unpredictability that looks like lack of respect for responsibility. In reality, I’ve steadfastly marched to the beat of a different drummer. So be it. Only in my thirties have I been able to begin to accept this uniqueness/inability to just go along, and use it to build a life that makes sense. Thank God for my equally ill-fitting-with-societal-norms husband.

Today, shame still in tact, anxiety around my shoulders like a second skin, I am not hiding, waiting until I feel worthy to share what I’ve created out of the rubble and gems of yesterday. I’m speaking up in the midst of it, joining the chorus of life regardless of my insecurities.  Does quality suffer? I am quite sure it does, hopefully only temporarily, until I learn to hear my voice through the haze of discomfort while being seen at loose ends. Maybe then, I will be closer to mastery.

“Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness, that frightens us most. We ask ourselves, ‘Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, and famous?’ Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that people won’t feel insecure around you. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It’s not just in some of us; it’s in all of us. And when we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.” – Maryanne Williamson

Beautiful image found here

It’s all about timely tending of toilets.

Water was so high in our RV port-a-potty like tank, I could see waves when I opened the stool lid. Darn! Was I waiting for visual proof of need to act before draining the black water?! What was I thinking? Obviously, I wasn’t. A foul, almost palpable, odor came in waves, initially only when I opened the toilet, eventually filling the bathroom regardless of lid status.

I knew the drill, theoretically. Outside, I called to a campground neighbor who looked like he must know all about matters travel trailer.

“Yes ma’am, just close the grey water, then open the black. Yup, like that. Easy there, not all the way open, don’t want too much weight on your drain hose. That wouldn’t be good.” No explanation needed on that last point.

I took it from there. Black water tanks must be enormous. They take forever to drain. I knew better than to walk away lest a clog require a quick valve shutoff. No such misfortune occurred this time. This time. I’ll spare you the details of how I learned that not all drains are created equal.

There’s procedure to be followed when dumping. While grey water is closed, fill tank. Once black is closed again, open grey and let the emptying water flush the external drain hose clean. I did this. Fill black holding tank with several gallons of clean water, add deodorizer. I did this. Yet, the funk lingered in the bathroom. Again, I filled the black water, this time counting to one hundred slowly, then drained, and filled with several more gallons and another deodorizer pouch. Voila! All better… I thought.

We spent the rest of the day doing laundry at our non-portable house in town.

Since we have an MLS listing, and hope to sell our home (soon!) I do a walk through every time we leave. Lights out, floor clean, ac at 83, all water taps off, toilet flushed… toilet lid came off in my hand. Did it really? Yes. Now what?!

Thanking God upon discovering one must deal with a busted toilet cover may seem peculiar, but it wasn’t last night. Aside from trying to see the end in the beginning: i.e. better I should discover the brokenness rather than a prospective buyer, and besides, now we’ll have a partially updated bathroom, I was granted time alone after a day of managing children in a mostly toyless house, a day that began with the unexpected task of managing human waste. I was, by early evening, slightly grumpy and a bit sideways.

So grandma watched the boys, I enjoyed an hour singing along to classic rock, and after only five minutes of work kneeling in what is generally recognized as vomit stance while unscrewing the old broken seat and fastening the new, more beautiful wooden throne, I was a domestic champion. What could be better?!
All was now right in my little world, until we returned to the RV. A familiar unpleasant aroma swirled around the outside. Fortunately the inside of our camper was back to smelling like nothing in particular, and nothing like an outhouse, but our poor eastern neighbors may have suffered due to my lack of know-how. Once again, I closed the grey water, filled it a heck of a lot fuller than I had in the morning, then ran it through the hose. Time will tell if all is well.

Yesterday, sniffing steam from our Chefmate electric kettle, I burned the tip of my nose. I was trying to determine if I could smell the plastic interior cooking. It did. Time for a new way to heat water for coffee. Two nights ago, I scratched my chin getting out of bed, a small chunk of skin extracted. Today I look a bit like Rudolph the red nosed reindeer with an acne-picking scab. This was my first observation after getting dressed and doing my hair. Fortunately the rest of the day didn’t match my two minutes of external assessment before a reflecting glass.

Matthew spent the early afternoon pacing from bedroom to kitchen, narrating an epic tale. By the rise and fall of syllables dramatically rendered, I could tell the story had him enthralled, but I have no idea of its contents. Devyn hid on the lower bunk, creating in a sea of Legos while listening to Moonlight on the Magic Flute. I sat in a stretch of sunlight, basking in air conditioning, and appreciating the glow, but not the feeling, of a 101 degree day.

Three times Matthew decided to go outside to wait for our anticipated company. With each exit I opened my window in order to keep an ear on him. He always came back in five seconds later, immediately resuming his pacing prose.

Just as I settled into writing out the rhythm of a typical Baker afternoon, there was a knock at the door. Seeing as our expected company didn’t know our exact whereabouts and would therefore be calling first, we were caught unawares.

A quick look out the window revealed Isaac’s smile. Isaac, Josh, and Ronda had blessed us with a surprise visit. Good timing, as I was bordering on grumpy but working mightily to be pleasant. I asked Matthew to open the door, but he was so surprised that someone was actually, finally, on the other side of it, he lost his bearings and hopped up and down instead.

Too soon, we were at the campgrounds park. Earlier in the day I had considered suggesting to Devyn and Matthew that we go to the playground, but hot is hot and I ain’t so good with it. I wilt. Turns out 101 degrees feels better with good company.

At one point, four boys occupied one seesaw. Devyn walked back and forth while the other three, their legs crossed and off the ground, determined to assist in balancing the thing in the air through tricky leans. Isaac experimented with the effectiveness of picking up and releasing handfuls of tiny rocks but let go the idea when letting go of the rocks made zero difference in the balance.

Ronda and I carried our conversation back inside behind bouncing boys, appreciating how our kids play when we get together. Isaac and  Matthew rough house and laugh like crazy. Devyn and Josh huddle in concentration over a pile of Legos. Today was no exception and a good time was enjoyed by all.

The whole sweet visit lasted around two hours of pleasant, mostly indoors.

We haven’t yet heard from the friends we made plans with. I expect Saturday is slipping away form them as tasks put off all week are finally being tended, taking longer to complete than anticipated, and we’ll see them this evening or tomorrow instead.

Our spontaneously appearing guests left an hour ago. The boys and I are back to being relatively quiet together. Lego-structure-creating has been replaced by nest-building, and pacing has turned into rapt concentration on a Superman comic book. I’m back to my perch by the window. But there’s a qualitative difference between now and when we were alone together earlier. Now we’re content, settled, basking in the glow of loving fellowship.

I didn’t publish this entry when I expected to. Got sidetracked by a campground hayride. Matthew’s first reaction was hesitance. Once aboard and moving, he asked for permission to stand. A few minutes later he announced a desire to go on a second ride. Devyn made friends with his hay-seat neighbor. After the ride, Devyn and Matthew made friends with Ryan, grandson of our lot neighbors. While Ryan’s grandma and I chatted, the three boys played with Legos and chased and caught fireflies. Home.

The poetry of morning quiet settles me, and I am comfortable not knowing. I can wait. But when I begin to tend to each detail of a new day, I must discuss proper placement with my rising shoulders, turn shallow breaths to deep, slow down, even make a mistake on purpose. Not an error likely to undo, damage, or result in chaos but a re-aligning of self-imposed boundaries, like giving myself permission to eat chocolate before breakfast.

At this moment, I am serene, humbled by the magnitude of being at the threshold of living my dream life – full-time traveling/road schooling in an RV with my husband and children. Yet, there is one critical detail still waiting for closure: will we sell our house, and if not, will we rent it to good tenants?

We can only begin our journey once matters of the house are satisfactorily squared away. I am continually handing this puzzle over to God. Many times a day, I roll the details in my mind, reshaping them from fear to faith, remembering past transitions of similar quality and how, after I had riled myself into a near frenzy, the outcome turned out to be better than I would have engineered if I’d had the means.

“As ye have faith, so shall your powers and blessings be. This is the balance. This is the balance. This is the balance.”*

I pray that as the day progresses, I can hold onto this peace.

* Abdu’l-Baha

waiting
busy quiet
every waking moment
i am moving meditation
focused

Gwen
a violet
pedals behind daddy
speaks of old puzzles
mastered

I only get in one if I absolutely have to, like when my mom was having a piece of her liver cut out for a biopsy and the hospital downtown Chicago offered NO exceptions to the rule. Stairways closed, period. Except in the event of fire. The event of claustrophobia would have to be worked through. Asking my mom to give me a call when she got back home, since “you know how it is with me and elevators,” would have been appallingly insensitive, not to mention a really bad example to my sons. How could I ask them to overcome irrational fears if I wasn’t willing to make an effort to at least tame mine temporarily. I managed, barely, exhausted the whole trip from sheer exertion of will.

On the way to the contraption, I always used the bathroom. I’d be empty if we got stalled half way up, and besides, intense anxiety caused me to really have to go, or else. I’m not a wimp on all fronts, but when there is no door knob, I freak. All the way up, all the way down, every time, head tucked in my husband’s shoulder, holding his arm like he was a teddy bear, I prayed and focused on each in-breath and forced exhale. I would not be a cool cucumber on the Enterprise.

One afternoon, while I was eleven flights up greeting and comforting my very confused mother as she woke from anesthesia, my husband and children were wandering corridors. When I was ready to go back to the place we were staying overnight, I called my life-long sweetie, asking him to please come get me for our arm-clutching descent. Not understanding the gravity of the situation I faced – alone, in front of a row of buttons, two sliding doors, and a painfully small box-of-a-moving-room that could shrink at any time with me in it – that naive man I married suggested I courageously hop on the elevator and meet him and the boys on three, then we could go to the ground floor together, and “Honey, wouldn’t you feel good about yourself for being so brave?”

While I sympathized with his position, that of having to round up children who were finally getting their wiggles out and having a darn good time imitating anything with wings, I absolutely could not manage the ride down alone, though I did try. I looked from the knobless doors to the ceiling height window to my right, throwing all sorts of creative affirmations at myself, “I am an elevator warrior. I am relaxed and trusting, calm and composed. I face fear with a smile, moving forward with…” I moved, but not forward. My fingers hit the buttons on my phone rather than the buttons on the wall. “Honey, Come get me please!” I don’t know what I thought his presence was going to accomplish if we got stuck between floors, or what danger we would be in, but I could not force myself to be reasonable, or alone in an elevator when I had the option of support, however inconvenient for my husband.

I was no more rational seven years earlier. Part of my birth plan involved securing permission with the powers that be to walk up four flights to labor and delivery when the time came. A little after 9pm on a Thursday, my dear and I walked into the check-in lobby, and over to the paper-signing cubicle. When the receptionist said, “You’re all set, the elevator is down that hall and to your left,” I said, “No thank you, I have permission to take the stairs.”

“Wait, miss, um… well…” She stammered, her brow scrunched in confusion, “I’ll need to… get someone to escort you up. Wait here.”

A middle aged, overweight man walked over to us. “Miss, I’m taking you up the elevator.”

“No you’re not, I made arrangements last week. I’m going up the stairs.” I was already half way to the appropriate door, one with a handle.

“Well, okay.”

As I always had before then, I ran up the steps double. My husband, who would have been beside me on our ascent to the place where we planned on meeting our first born, instead kept my escort company, seeing as that poor man couldn’t keep pace. By the time we all reached level four, I could hear my assigned assistant huffing and puffing down the hall, sputtering exclamations involving consternation, amazement, and a pressing need to sit down.

My husband isn’t thrilled about having to deal with my special phobia, but he sure enjoyed that four-story climb. Still gets a kick out of retelling our little escapade.

Turns out I was one to stay eerily calm through contractions. Having managed our way to the maternity ward, I stood before our equally serene midwife and said with a smile, ‘I’m pretty sure I’m in labor.  What do I do next?”

“You’re not in labor. You would know.”

“I do know.”

“You wouldn’t be so relaxed. Let’s take you to triage, check you out, then you can go back home.”

He checked whatever one checks for, raised his eyebrows, and informed me that I was, in fact, at the right place at the right time. A few minutes later I requested a trash can, leaned over the bed rails and threw up three times.

Unfortunately, every room in the maternity ward was occupied.

To be continued