Truth in Our Words

Yesterday I found out a friend of mine has been diagnosed with a very rare form of cancer. After we cried together, she said things to me like, ‘I want this gone!’ ‘I want my body back!’ and then she asked what she should say when people ask ‘how are you?’.

You know. The trite opening. “How are you?” “Fine! How are You?”

The question we ask so often. The answer we always give. It’s something we use to start conversations, or to politely acknowledge the other’s presence when met in public. Something that allows you to speak and yet at the same time, quickly move on.

I told her what I had learned in going through the same thing. I’d reply with, ‘do you really want to know?’. Not in a sarcastic tone, but meaning it. If you truly want to know, I’ll tell you. If not, let’s move on. Either way is okay.

When you respond that way, there’s always a double-take. People don’t expect it. In their minds they’ve already moved on to the next topic. There’s hesitation that pops into their eyes. You can see them thinking that maybe they don’t actually want to know.

It’s like the time another friend was in the hospital getting treatments for leukemia. When I visited, I asked her what she needed. You know, that sister question to the statement ‘Let me know if I can help’. She said to me that what she needed most was someone to let her be sad. That so many visitors were coming in cheerful and chirpy, wanting to cheer her up, when what she needed was to cry, to rail against fate, to be honest. That was in the 1970s and was a lesson I never forgot.

Don’t ask unless you want honest answers.

And if someone does give you an honest answer, honor that. Don’t back away.

Sometimes our conversations are so shallow, so surface. Words to pass the time, to be polite, to say the expected thing. We talk about the weather in line at the grocery store. We ask how someone’s day is going or how their kids are. But how often do we really mean the questions? How often do we truly want to hear the answer? How often do we ask, even while our mind is wishing they’d hurry up and fill that grocery sack because there’s ten more errands waiting?

I wonder two things. Why we feel the need to fill air space around us with words that mean nothing, and why do we not say what we really want to say?

I know, polite society, societal norms, expectations. But still, why?

And then when someone does not meet those societal expectations, like, say, my husband who has no desire to engage in conversation with strangers, they are treated like they are rude.

Me? I can talk to anyone, anywhere, about anything. I want to hear everyone’s stories.

But I’m still getting hung up on why we talk but don’t speak, why we ask but don’t listen.

So if any of you meet up with me and I ask, ‘how are you?’ it’s because I really want to know. And I hope you’ll be honest with me.

Let your words be pure, be strong, and define you.

Life is too short to do otherwise.

Cover Art Version Five

It’s here! After many versions and many opinions which were greatly appreciated, the cover for the next book is done.

I learned quite a bit during this process. Things like listening to, and valuing, everyone’s opinions. I so appreciated all the input but the process reinforced for me how varied our tastes are.

I so wanted a shadow in this cover. I could picture it in my head, my cover artist tried multiple ways of fitting the shadow in, but none of the versions felt right. While some people liked the shadow and others didn’t, even those who liked it weren’t excited about its presence. So while not everyone agreed, I sensed an agreement of sorts in the lack of ‘that’s perfect!’. That enthusiasm was missing. I realized I was trying too hard to make something fit that maybe wasn’t meant to be. And when I saw this version without the shadow, I finally reacted with the little bubble of excitement that says ‘I do believe this is it.’

One friend, when she saw the cover, had the response I wanted to elicit. Even though she says she’s not much of a reader, she said the cover made her want to walk up that road and see what was going on. That comment made me realize that’s what I wanted to convey. The desire to open the book and see what’s going on.

And like I mentioned in a previous post, I also learned the biggest lesson of all. That a cover should be a short story and not a novel.

Now my poor overworked cover artist gets to start on the back cover.

Ghost Roads - the prequel to The Memory Keeper.

Ghost Roads – the prequel to The Memory Keeper.

Illusions of Safety

I remember a windstorm a few years ago. In the mountains you can hear the wind coming from far away, roaring up the canyons. You feel the tension, the stillness of waiting, knowing you can’t stop it. You watch the huge evergreens around you and how the tops start to sway. The wind is up high still, but that roar. It’s coming. The trees start to bend and then to whip.

I remember sending thoughts out to fir and cedar and hemlock. Hang on. Dig your roots in and hang on. Most did.

Have you ever taken a stick and bent it over your knee, snapping it in two? Remember that sound, that dry crack? Now imagine that sound magnified, deepened into something you feel through your feet touching the earth. Give that sound the background of the wind screaming past you. Follow that bone-deep snap with something like thunder right over your head.

That was a cedar tree coming down, unable to hang on. Taking its sister tree with it. Pulling a couple younger hemlock trees down, too.

No matter what nature sends us, our homes give us the illusion of safety. If you live where we do, you can close your door, maybe lock it, and all that could be dangerous is out in the wild. Bears. Cougars. Snow. Wind. Even the deep dark of a forest night. We feel secure hearing the rain pound down on the roof, as we sit next to the wood stove and hot fire. Maybe the tea kettle simmering gently over the flames. We tuck down under the thick pile of blankets, as ice forms on the river and water thickens until it no longer moves. We feel safe.

But really, in the mountains, there is always the chance of earthquakes. Whitewater rivers that sweep homes away. Landslides. Boulders bigger than your house catapulting down. Trees that can’t hang on.

Morning Star climbing route

Morning Star climbing route

In northeastern Montana, the illusion of safety comes from the high mesas. The openness. No trees to hit the house. No mountains to crumble down on top of you. But there, winters can hit minus sixty. Cold so deep you can’t breathe or even open your eyes. There, on those broad fields of wheat, tornadoes touch down and lift away all they touch. And yet we climb down into the cellars, close the door, and feel safe.

Montana storm

Montana storm

No matter where you live there is the illusion of safety. Either in your home, or in your car, or in your cardboard box under the highway overpass. We pull our jacket collars up, we tuck our hands under armpits, and we lock those doors against burglars. We roll up car windows. We clutch cell phones with a finger on speed dial.

But all those things that make us feel safe and in control are transitory. We go through our lives busy with daily routines, never paying attention to just how not safe we are until the news tells us to board up windows or move to high ground. And even then most people think, ‘I can drive that road without four wheel drive’ or ‘I can pass that idiot driver before that car gets too close’. It boils down to the ego of ‘it won’t happen to me’.

Driving home

Driving home

We never live our lives as if we’re not safe. As if, in a moment, we could be gone. We take things for granted. We tell ourselves to remember to call that friend. Say, ‘we really need to get together one of these days’. Hang up the phone before we remember to tell our son we love him, or to tell someone far away they are missed.

In our safety we are full of good intentions. Until it’s too late and then we are full of regret.

It’s in our nature to feel safe. To procrastinate doing those things or simply forget in the daily bustle. Don’t prepare or stock up because the store will be open tomorrow. Don’t learn how to grow or can or hunt or fish because the freezer will always run. Just huddle close to the fire that keeps shadows behind us.

Those good intentions are so strong.

Tomorrow.

I’ll do it tomorrow.

What makes you feel safe? And, are you, really?

What things are you putting off? Why? And which is more important – what you put off, or the reason why?

Get out there and live with no regrets.

Young climbers headed for Morning Star

Young climbers headed for Morning Star