It's time for honest talk

There is an old story about a writer who goes to his teacher and says, “Teacher all the stories have already been told. There is no need for me to write. Everything that needs to be said has already been written.”

“It's true that there are no new stories,” the teacher said. “The universal lessons have been taking place for a long, long time and the same themes have influenced humanity since time began. But no one sees that story through your eyes and no one else in the world will tell that story exactly the way you will. Now return to your desk pick up your pen and tell the world what you see.”

On Monday, August 11^th I was sitting by the creek with my coffee cup at 9:00 a.m. It was my day off and my bones were warmed through and through with all the blue sky morning sunshine of that day.

On Facebook I posted my status, “Oh. What a beautiful morning.”

Friends chimed back and in no time we had the first verse from the musical “Oklahoma” ping ponged between us.

“Oh, what a beautiful morning. Oh, what a beautiful day. I’ve got a beautiful feelin’, everything’s going my way.”

And then I got a text from Daughter #3 wondering if what she had heard on the news was true.

I wish Robin Williams had found some blue sky to get him through his San Francisco Monday morning. Desperate times, desperate measures. No more “Mr. Really Funny Guy.”

And so he joined the ranks of the many, far too many, who choose that unthinkable, unfathomable solution. 

Suicide. 

It happens there in a city far away. It happens right here in the heart of Sunset Country. It happens a lot. It happens one time too many. 

I am a survivor of suicide; a loved one left behind.  

It’s been nearly three years since that cold winter’s day when life changed in an instant for me—indeed the one who came upon a life’s end—and for the many other tender souls whose lives blew down in the hurricane aftermath of the suicide.

I remain in steadfast hate of the word suicide and every time I hear of it’s reaping, a sinking feeling as real as rain comes upon me. I feel breathless and sick to my stomach and if I’m caught off guard, I get slammed with a bout of post traumatic stress disorder—and that my dear readers I would not wish on my worst enemy, not ever. It takes me hours, sometimes a day or more to recover from it’s ravaging.

And still, what to do about the ongoing reality of suicide in our community and in our world? Sink or swim?

If I, as a survivor, sink then I lose sight of some very important lessons sent my way; to be grateful for my life, to have fun, to laugh, to share my honesty, and not to live with a closed heart.

So I do my very best to swim for the shores of gratitude, determined to breathe in blue sky moments and plant seeds of communication, encourage others to talk about feelings, learn about depression and suicide and speak it’s name until it rolls off tongues and has no where to hide in those dark corners of unspeakable conversations.

Rabbi Jonathan Sacks believes that the pain we experience in life can lift us to a much higher and deeper joy if we can say to the bad times, “I will not let you go until you bless me.”

Grow awareness. Speak the truth of what matters most to you. Please.

A roving report on a summer's end

I have boat legs and the keyboard is sliding across the desk.

I have just stepped off the “Morning Dove” after four glorious days of sailing on good old Rainy Lake during the annual fall cruise with the Rendezvous Yacht Club.

I cannot imagine a better way to welcome the crisp autumn than to be in a sailboat in a hideaway cove in a visual theatre of red maples.

Don’t get me wrong; it was a cold and rainy “get there.”

In fact, the big mama of daily forecasts must have been having a real belly laugh up there, repeating the same crummy scenario I’ve seen twice now in this fall cruise realm. She did however pull some temperature and sunshine strings too, giving us a chance to dry out and switch from wool sweaters to cotton short sleeves.

But hey, I am a northern girl and I love this northern country ‘round the clock and back again.

So there I was sailing away from shore, loving every minute of it, bobbing up and down like a duck, clad in the same pathetic mismatched little rain suit. The same handsome, kind man remains at the helm in my life—a most excellent companion and navigation teacher too who strengthens my resolve to tackle a rolling sea.

He flashes that great smile at “Little Miss” despite her vintage “Russ Troll” doll hairdo whipped into a coif by the lake winds of September.

I stayed true to my autumnal pattern and went for a swim in the lake. I did not shout an ice-cold scream, but I wanted to. Instead I was invigorated by my northern “Little Mermaid” spirit. 

Once again, I did try the whiskey—Scotch whiskey this time. Oh Lord. Whose idea was that anyway? Despite my proud ancestral bloodlines to Scotland, Scotch whiskey tastes really, really bad.

I’m not even sure why I had three glasses of that nefarious beverage. Perhaps I was trying to impress the 14^th century spirit of William Wallace, the great warrior of Scottish independence. 

All I know is that I spoke to Ralph the next morning and he said I was a fool. 

Insert jolly roving laughter here.

And oh yes, Robert Service was in the house. The recital of “The Shooting of Dan McGrew” filled us up and laid open the importance of the old traditions of reading really good poetry from books out loud among adults.

The stage was set in the old Malamute saloon and we took our starring roles as the lady known as “Lou”, a crazed miner, and “Dangerous Dan,” very seriously (with lots of laughter.)

We even had a special effects department who controlled the boat cabin lighting in the dark moment of gunfire between the two storybook rivals. Fun, fun, fun.

Too soon, too soon, with the end of the fall cruise we closed the book on a summer’s worth of sailing, but we squeezed that orange really well.

Once again, thank you sailors for enriching my experience. Thank you for this day and that, and the want to do it all again next year.

Henry Rollins penned, “We know that in September, we will wander through the warm winds of summer's wreckage. We will welcome summer's ghost.”

Indeed I do.

How I spent my summer hiatus

How is it possible that seven weeks have zipped by since I last made notes in this column space? 

I have in fact been gunning to sit down and tell you for the past three weeks all about what’s been happening in my neck of the woods, yet somehow the critical time frame that I usually cordon off as writing space crumbled away again and again like a dry bran muffin while I was busy squeezing the last drops of juice out of my summer orange.

Maybe I should start by agreeing with fellow Times’ columnist Wendy Stewart who last week wrote, “I loved the freedom of summer holidays—the lack of routine and the impromptu adventures . . .” 

Yup.

Nonetheless I was feeling guilty about taking time away from my weekly writing session until I realized history was repeating itself.

13 months ago I wrote a column about being back to the writing table after—you guessed it—seven weeks of summer holidays!! Go figure.

And once again I squeezed the orange juice out of my orange this summer, and no matter her short season I am thankful for every day of it. 

Yet it seems like only yesterday (though five months have passed) since I wrote about how I was wearing spring weather like a favorite old good luck t-shirt. “I wore it like an old softened faded pair of jeans that fit just right. I wore it like a reunion with a best friend after a long while of being apart. I wore it well.”

And yet now, here I am rushing to beat the clock of chores before the sun of mid-September sets far sooner than the one I remember on that July day, just yesterday?

In the last seven weeks I’ve filled my life with the adventures of my summer, sailed Rainy Lake to nearly my heart’s content, penned my diary days with “August whatever 2014” because I was a free spirit and the date didn’t matter.

And I watched my old farmhouse get an amazing facelift. She has all new windows and new siding with all the trimmings and best of all, a second chance.

I have been afraid of change, but not this time. This house renovation was a Cinderella project, round three times and more fantastic and gorgeous than I ever could have imagined.

I didn’t think I’d ever feel this way but I do. I am no longer the caretaker. I am home.

And while my mind got to wandering through all the possibilities for more upgrading, my two cats—obviously more afraid of change than I—dug themselves under the freshly restored back porch—and remained under there for nearly 24 hours until dragged out by the scruff.

And then it was the last day of August, arriving like a speeding train.

And then, after eight years of living here, I discovered chokecherry trees in my yard.

13 cups of ripe berries and nine jars later I had my very first batch of homemade jelly—which actually turned out to be nine jars of chokecherry sauce for pancakes or ice cream because the pectin didn’t set. 

Life is full of setbacks; little ones, big ones and time waits for no one.

And here we are almost able to spot October on the horizon, while reaching for a sweater and the electric blanket and wondering where did the summer go?

I hope you squeezed the juice out of your orange. Keep squeezing.