The Breaking Season: Reflections for Christmas 2015

As I sit here on a dreary December afternoon,  with a bright fire in the hearth, and Nat King Cole singing about the chestnuts that should be roasting there, I think of this season of Christmas, and how God specializes in brokenness.  I reflect on the fact that He broke into our humanity to bring us the blessing of His loving and saving grace, through the gift of His Son.  Jesus was broken to make us whole, and wounded to heal us. His body was fragmented so that through Him we could be fulfilled.

Brokenness.  

Everything is broken. And not in a good way.

At least, that’s how I felt in February of 2015.

My internship at the time wasn’t igniting any of my passions as a social worker, and my graduate classes felt as though they were being taught in a foreign language.  In both my work and social circles dangerously tumultuous relationships were only in the very beginning stages of wreaking havoc in my life, and yet, I sensed the forthcoming destruction, even then.  Broken spirit.

The effects of my Cerebral Palsy had rendered me immobile with pain most winter mornings, and something had to be done so that I could continue functioning in all of my obligations. So, that month, I began my eight-week sessions of Physical and Occupational Therapy.  At twenty-five years old, I felt like I possessed the energy and agility of someone more than three times my age, and there were many mornings when I wept as I struggled to button my blouses. I mourned that none of my muscles will ever work as well as I would like. Broken body.

I had ended a series of really uncomfortable “getting to know you” dates with a guy whose only commonality was that we are both legally blind.  And though I knew that this man would never be well-matched, there was still an aching.  My endless hope for a loving, respectful and committed relationship faltered-- yet again -- when I accepted that he wasn’t Mr. Right. And he was, like, the fourth Mr. Not Right in the last six months. Broken dreams.

 I cried out to God. But God seemed so far away.  Or, rather, I was far from Him. Broken heart.

February was always my least favorite month.

 On the last Friday in February, my dear friend, Sasha took me to dinner. She wanted to care for me in the best way she knew how – with hot soup and a warm heart. She and I sat across from each other in a cozy Panera Bread booth, and the words she spoke carried me through that night, and through this year.

“I used to run like hell from the idea of change and breaking and ending,” she began. “Because it’s just so painful. But, I’m learning to rush into it, now.  To embrace it, no matter how destructive it seems, because breaking is sometimes necessary. Look at nature. It happens all the time, in order for new growth. ”

During the winter months, God breaks and bends the twigs and trees under the weight of ice, and snow, and cold. And this process seems long, and painful and deathlike. But, oh! How necessary, this breaking season, so that spring may triumphantly come, and hope may break through the thawing ground, and brilliantly bloom with new life.

Many times this year I’ve attempted to write about the Breaking Season, yet never knew how to begin.   I realize now that this season, for me, lasted this all of this year, and thus, I couldn’t begin to speak about it until this very moment. I’ve broken away from those relationships and environments that were breaking me. I’ve sat with loved ones as we cried over our broken pasts and shared our fears of an equally fragmented future. Some good relationships broke, too, and I mourned that loss, as well.  And through all of these agonizing changes, I have found a tremendous gift of peace and healing.

Peace and healing in a time of brokenness and despair.  That’s what Christmas is all about, isn’t it?  I love the juxtapositions in our Christmas celebrations.   We celebrate the miracle of hope and promise and renewal in the bleak of winter – at a time when everything is dead and withering away. Light comes to the world at the darkest time of the year, and Christ is born in a barren season.

The beauty of these contradictions remind me of a poem by Robert Hayden which is entitled Ice Storm.

In the poem, the narrator is awake in the middle of the night, watching as a blizzard curls its vice-like grip over trees in his field, and he is speaking to God about the destruction he observes.  In the final stanza, the narrator says:

“The trees themselves, as in winters past,

will survive their burdening,

broken thrive. And am I less to You,

my God, than they?”

I often recite these words as a prayer on those days when my heart feels as lifeless and frostbitten as winter’s snapped and ice-glazed branches.  When I need a reminder that I am heard. When I need a reminder that I am His.  

Now, I know that I will experience breaking in this next year, and the year following, and every year after that for the rest of my life. Ten months ago, I wouldn’t have been comfortable committing that truth to page. But, I am slowly becoming more like my dear friend, Sasha, and not only accepting the change, but embracing the brokenness of this life. These struggles, these devastations, are only emboldening me for the life God has in store.

Everything is broken.  And it is beautiful.

Merry Christmas.

Nourished By Breadcrumbs

"Give us this day, our daily bread."

In the years since graduating college, praying this line from The Lord's Prayer has taken on new meaning for me, in the both the spiritual and physical sense. I've had to pray that line in it's most literal sense, on more than one occasion, because there have been numerous times when my fridge and  bank account were both entirely empty.

Working less than part-time and relying on a bus to get to and from my groceries doesn't always guarantee that food will be readily available. Yet somehow, I have never gone hungry. A dear friend shows up at my front door with home-made meals to freeze and last me months. Another friend packs up the canned goods, pasta and bread mixes that her family no longer needs, and sends them home with me after work. Or, sometimes, Mom shows up and makes me a meatloaf, "just because". In these moments, God has fed my body,  and reminded me of His physical provision, in all times.

Yet, I've also had time to reflect on what this prayer means for my spiritual nourishment, and have found that the most fortifying meals often come from the smallest of breadcrumbs.

***

I haven't been to church in years. I've certainly church "sampled" since graduating Calvin, but never committed. There are a lot of reasons behind my absence -- the biggest of these propelled by my own fear and anxiety of walking into a service alone, especially if I had to take a Go!Bus to get there. These fears were formed before the advent of Uber.)  Can you imagine that entrance? A small bus, pulling up to the curb of a church, and there I am, cane in hand. There's no room for anonymity, there, and I kind of want that quietness coming into a worship service for the first time. I just want to fade into the background and be fed by The Word --  until I'm more comfortable to immerse myself in a community of  faith.

And I assume that anyone else coming to a church for the first time, regardless of their journey in life, regardless of the burdens they carry, regardless of their ability, might share these same desires.

 I don't want "those" questions -- the ones about my vision loss, about it's connectedness to my faith journey, about how strong I MUST be  -- to be an initial part of a church experience, and I'm here to tell you, in all my "sampling", those questions have been asked in one form or another. And I understand why they are asked in church, just as I understand why I am asked them at a bus stop. I get that people are trying to connect and understand, and I appreciate the thought, but on some level, it's exhausting. Shouldn't the Church be the one place where I am not defined by my bodily limitations, but rather by my identity as a member of the Body of Christ? Is that too much to hope for?

So, I haven't gone to church. And I have felt that absence greatly affect my emotional and spiritual health. I think I have been starving for church community. There's been a hunger to meet God in that place of worship, and I have been neglecting it.

This summer, a friend of mine invited me to Christ Church, the community of faith that he had been attending for the summer. (He had only been living temporarily in GR for an internship.) The service we attended was also on the day that he was moving back home, and I appreciated that this service would be our final "hurrah!" before we parted ways for a few months. Worshipping with loved ones has always been really important  to me.

I really loved the service. The sermon spoke directly to more than one questions of faith that I had been wrestling with, and I so enjoyed singing traditional hymns. While there, my friend and I met a wonderful couple, who, after learning that this was my first time attending, warmly invited me back to future services, even though my friend was moving away. Tiny morsels of assurance. Tiny nuggets of communion.

It was about a month later that I decided to go back to Christ Church. I felt the prompting after listening to one of the podcasts online, and just felt a tugging, "This-Is-Where-You-Should-Be" on my heart. That Sunday morning, I woke up early with the intention of attending the 8:30AM service. I was a nervous wreck as I got ready. I had never, ever, ever gone to a church by myself, and there was an absurd amount of thought about how this would go. ("So, I just, like, walk in and sit down? Like, by myself? But what if I'm late?") As if I was the first person, ever, in the whole history of the world, to attend a Sunday morning service, single-o.

With each moment, I kept looking for God's assurance, kept hoping that He would feed me with bits of this day's bread. And of course, He did. And of course, I faltered in my faith quite a few times that morning. The Uber showed up on time. Yep, God is here.  But oh, no! We're running late, because the Uber got lost! Should I still be doing this? You're only two minutes late, and they're on the second verse of that five-verse hymn. Chill. (Sometimes, I imagine that God says, "Chill" a lot, to me.)

 I made it through the service. And yes, "Made it through" is probably a horrible descripin of anyone's church experience, but I was such a ball of anxiety and nerves that morning, that the making it through was providential, because, in spite of all my stomach-knotting angst, I was abundantly nourished by the service that day. And the biggest bounty came at a moment when my own hunger for recognition howled in my heart, at the end of the service. When everyone was congregating around Sunday school activities, I suddenly felt very alone. This was why I avoided church attendance by myself.

I started this dialogue within, completing doubting that it would make any difference. "Wouldn't that be great if that couple was here, today?" I thought. "I'd really like to see that woman again. I could really use a friendly face. Some sort of sure sign that everything will be OK. But that won't happen, because what are the odds that she's in this service, let alone that she would remember me? I shouldn't hope for -- "

"You came back!" And just like that, she parted the crowds (it all felt very cinematic, actually) and walked towards me. She exclaimed, "Oh, I've been thinking a lot about you, and wondering how you are!" She embraced me as though she had known me her whole life.

In that moment, I was welcomed into a community of believers. Prayers that I didn't even know how to articulate were answered. Faith had been fed. This is where I'm meant to be. May I never starve, again.

{"For I received from the Lord what I also passed on to you: The Lord Jesus, on the night he was betrayed, took bread,  and when he had given thanks, he broke it and said, 'This is my body, which is for you; do this in remembrance of me.'" -- 1 Corinthians 11: 23, 24}









  

Make The Moves Up As I Go: Learning to Dance Around the Haters

My cousin Brielle and I have always been incredibly close. We both grew up with two younger brothers, so ours is a sisterhood formed from those innumerable family get-togethers when the boys would gang up on us, steal our diaries, or chase us with their nurf guns. When we were kids, Brielle and I would go to great lengths to extend our time together. On one such occasion, we handcuffed ourselves together, so that our parents would have no choice to let me go to Ludington with her. (Spoiler alert: That didn't work out so well. All we achieved was angering our parents when we couldn't find the key.) As we grew up, Brielle and I spent so many summers together, cruising Hamlin Lake on Uncle Dave's boat, and eating strawberry shortcake in Grandma Dot's kitchen. Taylor Swift provided the summertime soundtrack, and we often drove around Ludington  singing about the boys we loved, and dreaming of the lives we would lead.

We're both on similar paths now -- two single women, enrolled in graduate school, both addled with a slight shopping addiction, and a desire to excel in our chosen professions. We still listen to Taylor Swift together and we each have a favorite album.   At least twice a year, we get together for a girls' weekend, which is our deliberate attempt to step away from our studies, and pour into some much needed bonding. These weekends are pretty habitual in their scheduling. Lots of laughter. A little bit of liquor. And in the mornings, coffee and lemon pound cake. 

On Saturday night, Brielle arrived around 8:00pm, her travelling closet bumping behind her. We debated whether we should wear leggings or leggy dresses. We sang along with Top 40 hits as we styled our hair, and we painted our lips with gossip and gloss.

Our night at The B.O.B was typical, filled with dancing and drinking, and giggling and greasy food. Just two twenty-something gals looking to blow off some steam. Just two of the thousands of drinkers and dreamers that congregate in bars all over the city on any Saturday night. Just one of the crowd.

Until we got to "Eve".

It's our favorite of all the bars at The B.O.B, and it's always the final stop of the night whenever we go out. As we sauntered together towards that dimly lit hallway, Brielle's arm linked through mine, and my cane sweeping across the floor in front of me, our excitement mounted. We had received a second wind, and at one in the morning, we were ready to dance until last call.

The bouncer at the entrance stepped out in front of us, both arms extended in a "Stop! Halt!" gesture. Even I could see his scared shitless facial expression. The whites of his eyes were intensified because of the black light above him. "I can't let you in there," he said as made us move to the side so that the other, normal, non-cane-wielding folks could pass.  "Hold on now, what is this?" he asked.

Brielle and I looked at each other. She was the first to speak. "Wait. What?" she looked at him, genuinely confused. "I don't get it. Why aren't you letting us in the club?"

"That," he gestured to my cane. "Like, what is going on with that thing?"

Oh. My. Gosh. Seriously. This is really happening? Right now. So dumbfounded was I, that I couldn't speak. Thank God Brielle had the tenacity to respond. "What are you even..." she began, grappling for words that hung in the sweaty air. "It's her cane. She's visually impaired." Her tone implied the final word "dumbass", but my cousin is far too classy of a lady to say that stuff in public.

"Well, I didn't know. I thought it was like, a weapon, like you're gonna go hitting people --" the bouncer's tone became unusually defensive. Had it not been directed at me, I might have laughed at his absurdity.

His words, I could hear them, but in that moment, and even now, they seemed so far away. I felt myself slipping away, mentally. I just wanted to curl up inside myself. As I looked down at my cane, I mumbled something to the bouncer that felt like a dismissal of his ignorance. And maybe it was, but I just wanted to get the hell out of there. I don't even know what I said, but my legs were carrying me forward, my cane moving like a metronome to the beat of the unknown music down the hall.

Suddenly, Brielle's arm was around my shoulder, and she was asking if I was OK. I just kept saying things like, "Not now, not here. I'm fine. I'm really fine. Let's not do this. Can we just dance? Please. I need to get away from this place."

We finally reached the entrance to the dance floor.

"I never miss a beat.
I'm lightning on my feet.
And that's what they don't see-ee-ee. 
Mmm. Mmmm. That's what they don't see-ee-ee.
I'm dancing on my own.
I make up the moves up as I go. 
And that's what they don't know-oh-oh. 
Mmm-Mmm.
That's what they don't know-oh-oh." 

These familiar lyrics fell on our ears as we joined the throngs of dancers.

"Cassaundra!" Brielle squealed. "Do you HEAR what song this is, right now?!? Oh my gosh, this is PERFECT!"

"IT'S TAYLOR!!" I shouted this as if Ms. Swift and I were long-lost BFFs, as if she were walking across the room towards me at that very moment, singing her "Shake It Off" anthem just for me.

I folded up my cane, tucked it under my arm, and bounded with Brielle into the middle of the dance floor. Brielle held my hands and we sang the chorus together, belting out the lyrics as if our lives depended on it. Especially that "Haters gonna hate, hate, hate, hate, hate" part.

The middle portion of the song, in which T-Swizzle has her little rap, was beautifully performed by my cousin.

"Hey, hey, hey. 
Just think - while you've been gettin' down and out 
About the liars and the dirty, dirty cheats of the world,
You coulda been gettin' down 
To. This. Sick. Beat."

It was euphoric. I was laughing and tearing up all at the same time, so thankful for the blessings of beautiful music and my beautiful cousin. Both provided my words when I couldn't find them. The song ended, and Brielle declared that we must get one more drink to celebrate the serendipity of Swift.

We pushed our way to the front of the bar, where a Neil Patrick Harris look-alike with "hella good hair" (That's a "Shake It Off" lyric reference) asked the two of us what we wanted to drink, and then proceeded to pay for my Sex-On-The-Beach before wishing me a great night, and disappearing into the darkness.

Emboldened by my fruity drink, the kindness of attractive strangers, and the lyrics of everyone's favorite Cat Lady, I decided to confront the bouncer about his unkindness. "You should totally do it," Brielle yelled in my ear. "You're always such an advocate, Cassaundra, and he needs to know that he can't treat people like that. Plus, you're so good with your words."

Sometimes in life, you have to know which battles to fight. And maybe you shouldn't choose those battles at midnight. Or when you're tired. Or when you've had two cocktails. Or when your adversary is going to be a dick no matter what you say. But these are the things we learn in life.

I walked up to the bouncer. "I just need you to know what this is,"  -- I held up my folded cane. "just in case another visually impaired person walks through these doors. I just want you to know that you made me feel like a second-class citizen when you stopped me and questioned me. I know you didn't mean any malice. I just needed to talk to you about this. I need you to know how I feel."

"You were really rude about it," Brielle interjected and spoke to him.

"I was not," he cut in.

"Well, yeah, you kind of were," Brielle said again.

"I just need you to know how I feel," my broken record speech supplied these words again.

"Look, I thought we were done with all of this," his tone was angry. "If you feel like I was rude to you, that's YOUR feelings. I didn't stop you. I didn't say, 'Are you BLIND?' Would you have preferred if I had? Because I could have said that. I thought this was taken care of. And now you're back here, in other people's way, keeping me from doing my job. NOW who's causing the problem?"

Nothing was going to get through to this guy. And in that moment, I kind of hated myself for drinking that night. If I hadn't been drinking, I could have been more assertive. I could have asked for his name. I could have shown him that individuals with visual impairments are worthy of respect. But, because I was just another chick in a bar, and he was a dick on a power trip, nothing I said mattered.

It's time to surrender. Put up the white flag. Pick up your white cane. Go home.

I politely thanked him for hearing me out, just so I could escape the trainwreck of a conversation, and I grabbed Brielle's arm. We made our way to the crowded elevator, and down out into the summer night. Brielle grabbed my phone, and ordered the Uber. We waited together, and I began to cry. My cheap mascara was running all over my face, like something out of parody.

From the viewpoint of  the partying passerby on the street, ours was a scene that might look like hundreds of others this close to last call. In this setting, my tears were not linked to my cane.To those strangers on the street, I was just a bewildered twenty-something weeping openly while her friend calls a cab, and comforts in soothing tones. Perhaps she's bemoaning a lost job, they might think. Or lamenting love gone wrong. There was an odd sense of peace in that perception of broken normalcy.

"I don't know what to say," Brielle said as we looked out on the city before us. "I've never seen you have to handle this before."

"That's Okay," I sniffled.

There was a moment of silence between us, and then Brielle said, "Do you think God gave you this for a reason? Like, He chose you, specifically, to deal with all of this?"

"I know that He is good," I answered. "so, yeah, maybe in a way, He chose me. But we all have our stuff, you know? Mine doesn't make me any more special."

Brielle nodded. "I now it sucks, but that guy, for better or worse, is going to remember this night. And I know it hurts now, but you may have made a difference for the next person. I really, truly believe that, Cassaundra. But please, don't let him get to you. Think of all the good peole in this world."

I bit my lip in determination. We waited a few more minutes in silence, my tears still falling. Suddenly,someone nudged my shoulder. I turned to see a kind man's face.

"Wipe that mascara off your face, girl," the Stranger said. "It's all going to be alright. You'll see."

And he ducked into the bar before my "Thank you" could properly reach his ears.

Moments of miracle. Taylor Swift. My cousin. Neil Patrick Harris' twin. That kind stranger. All of these little seeds of blessing, blooming before me amidst the weeds of ignorance and cruelty. And it is these moments that keep me moving forward, that keep my steps even and steady in the pursuit of love and kindness and acceptance.

These miracles are the music of life. And I am going to keep dancing to This. Sick. Beat.

In Remembrance of Audrey Hepburn

Happy Birthday, Audrey Hepburn! Her grace, elegance, beauty, compassion and kindness have inspired me for years. And, one time, in the spring of my junior year of college, I wrote a short story which finds its roots from her movie, "Charade". In honor of Ms. Hepburn's birthday tonight, I thought I would share the story here!

NOTE: My Creative Writing class elected that I title the story "Charade" as well, but I think I prefer the original title of my draft, "Not Like The Movies", so that's what I am sticking with today. 

Not Like The Movies  (Written on: April 25, 2011)

Cassaundra E. Bell 

~ * ~ * 

The wooden-framed screen door of the cabin smacked shut as a gust of wind ripped past it and thunder roared through the skies. Lightning danced in the darkness, reflecting off the lake.

“It’s bad out there,” twenty-two year old Lexi called into the cabin as she shuffled through the door, hauling her luggage behind her. The wheels grated across the bare, wooden floor.  “Stupid weatherman. He promised sun, sun, sun, for all of Labor Day weekend. This sucks.  Hey.” Her green eyes brightened when she saw the television sitting on an antique table in the corner of the room. “We get cable up here? What’re you watching, Mandy? It looks old.”

Mandy laughed from where she knelt in the cabin’s broom-closet-sized kitchen.  She was unpacking

food from a nearby cooler and putting it in the refrigerator. “Oh, I’m not really watching.” She pushed up the sleeves of her University of Michigan sweatshirt as she stood up, revealing thin arms untouched by the sun.  “It’s just on as background noise. It’s one of my favorites, though. Charade. And it’s not that old. Made in 1962. Oh, look!” she exclaimed pointing to the screen. “This is one of the best scenes.”

 Mandy rushed to the couch, and plopped down, curling her slender legs up to her chest. Her brown eyes widened with the smile on her lips.

On screen, Cary Grant was trying his best to evade the romantic advances of the much younger Audrey Hepburn, as she climbed into his lap and peppered his neck with kisses.“Uh-oh, oh! Hey, knock it off. Now, come on, Reggie, listen to me,” Grant protested.

Hepburn sighed and leaned back. “Oh, here it comes--the fatherly talk. You forget; I’m already a widow.”

“So was Juliet. At fifteen.”

“Mmm, I’m not fifteen." Hepburn purred the line, and resumed kissing her tanned co-star.

Mandy giggled at the lovers on the television screen. “They’re so cute together.”

“He’s way too old for her,” Lexi groaned.

“No, he’s not. They just have a May-December relationship,” Mandy explained.

“What’s that?” Lexi asked as she rounded the couch and sat next to Mandy.

“Oh, ” Mandy began. “a May-December relationship is when there’s a considerable  age difference between the man and the woman. Usually the guy is older – that makes him December  – and the woman is younger, like spring, or, the month of May.  Oh,” she sighed and gazed longingly back at the screen. “I want to meet my own Cary Grant someday.”

Lexi raised an eyebrow as she pulled her blonde hair into a pony and laughed. “You and your old man crushes. I don’t get it.” She stood,bored with the movie. “I’m going to go set up the sleeping bags, and

then take a hot shower. Can I have the bottom bunk?”

“Go for it.” Mandy smiled. “Besides, this technically is your place, since your parents rented it out for us.”  

Within a few minutes, Mandy heard water sputtering through the pipes. Its sound added comfort to the cozy log cabin. This weekend was going to be exactly what she needed. With her final year of college looming before her like one of the thunderclouds outside, Mandy needed to get away with her best friend.

She reached behind her and grabbed an old blanket that had been resting on the back of the avocado

green couch, and wrapped it around her shoulders. Mandy tried focusing on the film, but the storm outside was vying for her attention, distracting her from he romance on screen. The cold rain beat against the windows, shaking the glass in its panes, and through the pops of lightning, Mandy saw the pine trees whip violently with the storm. The waves of the small lake churned and frothed.

Electricity ripped through the sky, and then all of a sudden, she was in complete darkness. The cozy lamps around her died, and the image of Cary Grant on the TV blacked out.

From the bathroom, Lexi yelped. “What the heck?!”

“Power’s out,” Mandy called. “Are you OK?”

“Yeah, I’ll be fine. Could you just find my flashlight? I think it’s on the lower bunk.”

“Sure thing,” Mandy responded.  She inched around in the darkness until she found the sturdy wooden table at the far end of the room, right next to the fireplace. She grabbed her flashlight and turned it on, its beam providing a small halo of comfort in the darkness.

Mandy tiptoed to the small bedroom, and found Lexi’s flashlight on the bed. She grabbed it, and headed to the bathroom.

She knocked. “Got your flashlight here, Lexi!”

“Come on in,” Lexi said and Mandy pushed open the door. “Over here.” Lexi’s hand stuck out from behind the shower curtain, and Mandy handed her one of the flashlights.

“I noticed there was a fireplace. I am going to try and find the matches that I brought, and see if I can start a fire.” Mandy said.

“You can do that?”

“Well, I said, ‘try’.” Mandy laughed and left.

She walked back to the bedroom and knelt next to her bag where she had packed some matches for fire-building. Then she made her way back to the main room and set the flashlight on the ground. Holding the matches to the beam, she struck and watched as a little spark of light grew on the match head. Placing it in the fireplace, she frowned when it sputtered out. The wood was probably too damp.  Frustrated, she decided to look for some candles. She could light those, at least.

She looked through all the drawers until she found three candles and candlesticks in the top shelf of the kitchen cupboard. Soon, the room became enveloped in the haunting glow of the candles. Mandy placed the candles strategically around the cabin.

Someone knocked on the door.

“Don’t answer it!” Lexi hissed. She stood in the doorway of the bathroom, dirty clothes collected in her hands, and her hair dripping wet over her clean sweatshirt and jeans.

 “Oh, would you cut it out?” Mandy tossed back at her, but she had to admit, she was a little nervous as well. She called cheerfully to the stranger at the door, “One moment, please!”

 A voice, robust and friendly answered. “No need to hurry. It’s Jay Washburn, the manager of these cabins. I saw you girls pull in and came by to see if everything’s all right with the power outage.”

 Mandy gasped and rushed to the door. She yanked it open, her flashlight trembling with her excitement. “Jay Washburn!”  Before he could respond, she bounded into his arms. He staggered backwards, nearly falling off the tiny porch and into the rain. Mandy backed up, embarrassed by her jolt of enthusiasm.

“Oh my God, Mandy Jones,” he exclaimed and smiled that familiar crooked grin. “What the hell are you doing here, up in the woods like this, kid?”

 His ruddy face was the same as she remembered, and his dark blue eyes surveyed her in surprise. The salt-and-pepper of his hair glinted under the flashlight’s beam.

 “Well, I wouldn’t necessarily say I’m a kid anymore,” she said quickly as she brushed a  loose strand of dark auburn hair away from her face. “I’m going into my senior yr. at U of M. I’m here on vacation. What are you doing here, Mr. Washburn?”

“I manage these cabins during the summer. It gives me something to do, plus a little extra income, which is always nice. Who’s your friend?”

“Oh, this is my best friend and college roommate, Lexi. Lexi, this is Jay Washburn. He was my English teacher during my junior and senior years of high school.”

Lexi stepped forward and took Jay’s hand, a mannerly smile on her lips. “Hello.”

 “Has it been nearly four years since you were in my class?” he asked as he turned to Mandy in amazement. “You look so different.”

 Mandy blushed, hoping he meant it as a compliment. “You haven’t changed, Jay.” She was determined to address him by his first name.

He chuckled and winked. “Part of my charm. Are you ladies all right?”

“Well,” Mandy began, filing his wink away in her memory. “I can’t get a fire started over there. If you could help us with that, we’d really appreciate it.”

He walked over to the empty fireplace and knelt. "Sure thing."

The beam from Mandy’s flashlight followed him, spotlighting the work he was doing. Mandy grinned. Her blush deepened as she thought about how strange it was that she would run into him after four years.

Soon, the fire was crackling in the hearth. Jay surveyed his work and stood, wiping his calloused hands on his jeans.  He turned and smiled at them. “There you go. opefully this will give you enough heat and light until I can see about that power outage.” The candlelight and crackling glow from the fire softened his aging face.

“Jay, thank you so much,” Mandy smiled. “Oh, I’m so glad to see you!” She shook his hand, and then looked to Lexi before she continued. “Um….if you’re not busy tomorrow morning, we’d love to have you over for breakfast, as a way to say thanks for your help.”

 “Well, I can’t say no to a good breakfast. Besides, I can’t wait to hear how my favorite student has

been since she left me.” He patted her shoulder.

“Say, ten, tomorrow morning?” Mandy suggested, trying very hard to ignore the compliment he had just paid.

“Come hell or high water, I’ll be here.”

 Mandy laughed a little too loud, walking behind him to the door. “Bye, Jay.” She closed the screen door, and then bolted the heavier door behind it. When she was sure he was out of earshot, Mandy let out a juvenile cry of delight, and fell dramatically into the arms of a nearby chair, her excitement spilling over into a wide and exuberant grin. Finally.

“Oh my God. Really, Mandy? Him? He’s like, fifty!” Lexi sat down on the couch.

 “No…” Mandy began slowly. She brushed the splitting ends of her hair behind her ear. “He’s not fifty. He’s in his forties. OK, he’s forty-six.”

“Forty-six?” Lexi exclaimed. “That’s like—what? Twenty-five years older than you? He’s old enough to be your dad! In our freshman year of college, when you told me you had a crush on your high school English teacher, I was picturing some young, hot thing. Not him.”

“Stop,” Mandy commanded. “Lexi, just stop for a minute.  You don’t understand. It’s so much more than his looks, OK? I have had feelings for him for a very long time.”

“’Have had’? As in, ‘still do have’ feelings for him?” Lexi’s voice filled with concern. “Is he married? What do you even know about this guy?”

“No, he’s not married. He sings and plays guitar and he can quote Shakespeare like nobody’s business. He’s kind and gentle, and he’s smart.  He’s passionate about literature and writing, and he’s funny and I just…care so much about him.”

The two sat in silence for a few moments before Lexi hesitantly began, “So, I’m curious. How did these feelings for him start?”

Over the next hour, Mandy told the story of how she had fallen for Jay Washburn.  She had been seventeen years old at the time, a junior in his high school English class. It was spring semester, and they had been analyzing the work of Robert Frost. On this particular day, the discussion revolved around the poem, “Bereft.” She remembered it all so clearly.

“So, folks, talk to me. What’s the poet trying to get across here? What is the tone?” Jay had asked the class. When his question remained unanswered, Jay supplied, “It’s sad, isn’t it.  But, what does this sadness convey? Is it about old, lonely Jay Washburn?” He chuckled, then opened the book and began reading the last few lines of the work. “ Word I was in the house alone / Somehow must have gotten abroad, / Word I was in my life alone, / Word I had no one left but God."

In hearing him read these lines, especially after such an odd insight into his singleness, Mandy felt sadness for him, and a sudden longing to relieve whatever loneliness he had hidden away in his heart. For the rest of the semester, she caught herself wondering about him, focusing on parts of his personality that she found most charming, and by the end of the year, she realized how hard she had truly fallen for him.

In the fall of her senior year, Mandy enrolled in his Shakespeare class. Not because she had a particular fondness for the Bard, but rather because of Jay’s passion for the subject. She spent countless afternoons in his classroom, seeking his guidance in paper writing and scholarship applications, and delighted in the one-on-one time they spent together. The two found commonality in their love of nature, and in the way they teased one another. Jay even wrote a letter of recommendation for Mandy in which he devoted an entire paragraph to her witty sense of humor and engaging personality.

“And so, I’ve continued writing to him,” Mandy concluded her story. “Just to keep him updated, you know. He doesn't respond to every e-mail or letter, but when he does, he’s always so encouraging of how I’m doing at school.”

“Did you ever get any hint that he was potentially attracted to you?” Lexi asked.

“Well, he wouldn’t have been able to show it, would he? Not with me being in his class, like that.” Mandy gazed at the ceiling in thought, asthe retreating thunderstorm reverberated around them. “I don’t know. I mean, I felt like there was a chance that there might have been…something?” She blinked. “I want to talk to him this weekend. You know, see how it goes at breakfast tomorrow and proceed from there.” She leaned back into the couch cushions, and nibbled on her lower lip in thought. After a moment she said, “I wish I had Audrey Hepburn’s confidence.”

Lexi took her friend’s hand. “Audrey Hepburn only had that confidence because it was a movie. Someone scripted that for her, Mandy. Your life isn’t a classic Hollywood film.”

“I know, I know,” Mandy said. “Look, Lexi, is this crazy? I really, really want to see if I can have a conversation with him about this.”

Lexi shifted uncomfortably in her seat. She began to pick distractedly at the fringing hole in the knee of her jeans. “Just be careful,” she finally spoke. “See how breakfast goes tomorrow, and then go from there. Don’t make any rash decisions. This is going to be weird for him, too, you know. Because, I’m not gonna lie, he probably hasn’t been thinking about you for four years, especially not in the way you’ve been thinking about him. I would hateto see you get your heart broken.”

****

Labor Day morning came with clear blue skies. It was mother nature’s one last brilliant attempt to preserve the brightness of summer before giving way to the chilliness of fall that lingered in the breeze.

Mandy and Jay sat at the end of the long dock, each in a folding chair with a small table stationed between them. Steam from a kettle on the table top curled to the sky above. Mandy watched it rise before gazing beyond the steam and at Jay. His eyes were fixed on a point over the water.

Mandy reflected on the past three days. They were perfect in their relaxation. Mandy had spent just the right amount of time with Lexi in the great outdoors, hiking in the surrounding area and canoeing out on the tiny lake. She also spent some time with Jay. They went into town together to get groceries, and at night, around the community campfire, Jay entertained all of  the guests with the lookin'-for-trouble way he played his guitar.

“So, another year to go, Miss Jones?” Jay broke both the silence, and Mandy’s train of thought as he turned and looked at her.

Mandy curled her fingers around her thermos. “Yes, thank God.”

“Hey now,” Jay’s voice lowered in concern. “You’re too young for that kind of bitterness.”

Mandy choked back a laugh. “I didn’t mean for that to sound bitter. I just…I’m ready, you know?”

Jay smiled as he reached across the space between them and patted her hand in a fatherly manner. “God, what I wouldn’t give to be a college kid again. You need to enjoy every moment of it.”

Mandy shifted in her seat so that she could face him better. This was not how she wanted their conversation to begin.

Look, I know it's  asking you to stretch your imagination, but don't you think you could pretend just for a moment that I am a woman?

Audrey Hepburn’s words to Cary Grant fired in Mandy’s mind as something she would like to say at that moment, but she knew she couldn’t.

So instead she began with, “Jay.” She tilted her head looking for what to say next. Because it had to be now or never. “You know those letters I always sent to you? Even after I graduated?”

“Yes.” he nodded. “I read them all.”

“Well, I just…you need to know why I sent them. Uh, it’s not that I didn’t appreciate your teaching, and your—” she struggled to find the words. “ —interest in my academic endeavors, but I always felt that  you and I – I mean, what I mean to say is, you always – you’re special to me. I know we have an age difference, but that doesn’t matter to me. It never has. I just – I would like to – I want to see if we could --”

Not at all the eloquence of Hepburn.

Jay’s smiled with sad understanding. “You’re so young, Mandy. You’re only what, twenty?”

“Twenty-one,” she corrected firmly, her voice cracking. “But, I—I don’t care.”

He took a deep breath. “Mandy, I thought you might feel this way about me. My suspicions were confirmed this weekend when you so eagerly offered to help out with things around here. I’m very flattered that you would find an old guy like me attractive in that way but…” His voice softened. “I was your teacher. You were a minor when we met. What about my job? Do you know what people would say if they found out I was dating a former student?”

“I know I was your student, but I’m not anymore. And I know that people would talk.” Mandy’s voice rose. “I would work through that with you. I just -- You mean the world to me, Jay,” she began. “You always have.  And I just want you to know how much I…” Mandy’s voice broke.

When Audrey Hepburn cried in the movies, men swept her up in their arms, and said things like, “Oh, why didn't you tell me I was in love with you?” But that wasn’t going to happen, here. Mandy knew that. She wasn't Audrey Hepburn. So, she didn’t cry. She just felt pathetic.

Jay rose and took her hand in both of his. He pulled her to her feet. "We can't, Mandy."

Mandy took her hand from his and laid it across his cheek, wishing with all of her heart that he would change his mind. With one last look in his eyes, her gaze begging him in vain, Mandy turned and walked back up the dock.

***~~~******~~~

Lady In Waiting

7:23 in the morning. I am  one hour and thirty-seven minutes early for today's round of Physical Therapy and Occupational Therapy appointments, and as such, I am the only one in this white-tiled waiting room. I am here before the receptionist, before the coffee, and from the looks of the pitch blackness outside, I'm earlier than Daybreak herself.

My life is in a constant state of waiting, especially these days. Waiting rooms, and waiting for rides. Waiting to get to class. To work. To my internship. The "getting there" is completely out of my control.  Sure, I can tell the folks at Go!Bus dispatch that I need to be somewhere by 9:00am, but I can never guarantee the timeline. Last week, on two occasions, my ride was an hour and a half late. Today, I am extremely early. Rare and blessed are those rides when I get someplace on time, and rarer are the rides when I am not riding all over town for two hours, before I get to my destination on time.

Waiting.

When I am waiting for the Go!Bus, I have time to think. I have time to go through stages of anger and frustration. Of pity and self-loathing. Of hating systems and corrupt individuals who run them.  Last week, when the Go!Bus was so late, I ranted in my mind. Be cautious, dear reader, for the words that I write next are true, and of that moment, but not at all polite or congenial. 

It started with exhaustion: How long have I been standing here? How long do I have to stand here, out in this cold, before they come and get me? I could go inside and wait, but they never know where I am, and I can't miss this bus. I have to be out here, so I can see them. 

Then it moved intoself-pity: This sucks. I hate my life. I hate this. I fucking hate my eyes. This is ridiulous. Why do I have to be the one on the look-out for THEM? I'm the blind one, here! God! Why can't I just get in a fucking car, and fucking drive! I would BE THERE by now! I'm tired. I'm tired of this life, this waiting, this constant struggle to just go anywhere. Fuck. 

Done waiting in a blizzard, I shuffled  and turned around to wait inside the foyer of my apartment building. I clicked on my phone to check the time. The bus was now 34 minutes late. I called dispatch, and politely asked where my ride was, but also expressed my frustration at being late for my  internship.  "I am so sorry, Cassaundra," the dispatch operator said. "We have been lacking in drivers lately, a lot of folks just not showing up, so we're working as best as we can Someone should be to you anywhere between ten and thirty-five minutes."

Waiting.

And that's when my anger became directed at broken systems: Damn that Go!Bus. They need to hire more drivers. And they need to pay those drivers more money, so that they choose to go to work and stay in their jobs. Because if the drivers don't do their job, then I can't do my job. I hate this system.  

And it continued like this, me screaming in my head, fighting back tears, fighting with God, fighting to not just throw my hands up in the air, and call it a day before it had even begun.

Waiting.

And the Go!Bus arrived. And, as I had suspected, it didn't know where to stop, and zipped past me in a blur of blue and red, and roaring diesel. I bolted out the door, my anger mounting in my voice, curling around my words as I screamed, "HEY! YOU! GO!BUS!" Tripping in the snow, tripping over my cane, I rounded around the corner of my building, and with panted breath, rushed to where he had parked the vehicle.

The doors opened. "You....are....supposed to be... BACK. THERE," I heaved as I gulped in frostbitten  air.

"Sorry," the driver shrugged.

And I got on the bus, and started my Monday.

When I am waiting for the Go!Bus, I think about the kind of car that I would drive. (A lime green or powder blue VW Bug, thanks for asking.) I often wonder what I would do if given back the time that I spend on busses on streetcurbs. I wonder how my life would look if I could drive. I would probably sleep in, knowing that in a car,  any one of my numerous commute routes would take, at most, twenty minutes.  I would probably open a tab at a Starbuck's that's "on the way". I would have a backseat full of everything that I need - rather than a mammoth collection of purses that double as Mary Poppins' carpet bags ("Oh, you need a lamp? I've got that in here, somewhere...."). If I could drive...

If I could drive, my phone would most likely always be charged because I would have a car charger right there. And my butt would certainly always be warm, because, heaven knows, if we're living out this fantasy right now, my imaginary car totally has seat warmers. If I could drive, I would constantly play a blend of my favorite music -- from Michael Buble to Michael Bolton, from Taylor Dayne to Taylor Swift.  And you had better believe I would be singing along to every single word. 

I know that I shouldn't complain, that I should be thankful for the blessing to live in a city that offers door-to-door transit  for its disabled and elderly population. And I am thankful. Most days. It has become increasingly difficult to hold out that gratitude. I still don't know how to hold gratitude, and to hold anger and frustration. I can't wrap my mind around the idea that both are valid emotions, and are not exclusive. Because it feels like they should be. I'm hoping to understand these complexities. 

Waiting. 

And as much as I complain about the Go!Bus, as much as it makes me want to scream and gnash my teeth, and get all Psalmist and weepy, I am also devastated that this service will no longer be available to me, come Monday morning. 

March 16th, 2015 is my  proverbial stroke of midnight. That's when my horse-drawn carriage of a Go!Bus turns back into the squatty, orange pumpkin of multiple, fixed-route bus lines. I hope that glass slippers make for good walking shoes. 

You see, according to the Go!Bus Powers That Be, my disabilities are not severe enough to warrant receiving Go!Bus service all year round.  Just at night, and just during winter months. "Limited Access", they call it.  

Limited access. For those who are already limited by physical disability. Yeah, that makes a whole lotta sense. 

This information was delivered to me in November, and though I knew that I could  have appealed this decision, at the time, I decided to lay that battle aside.  As a full-time graduate student, with a part-time job, and an internship, I didn't have the time or energy to bring a case before a panel and fight for transportation rights. Because why the hell do we even need to discuss this? I am legally blind, and i have Cerebral Palsy. I can't drive a car.  The regular bus routes, while accessible, are not the best for my already fatigued body. End of story. 

I have reapplied for the Go!Bus, this time, enlisting professional recommendations from both my physical therapist and a blindness rehabilitation counselor.  I hope this helps. I've done all that I can do. 

And again, I wait. 

Lyrics and Loneliness

As it is the last day before the full-swing of my semester begins, and because I am feeling a smidge  woebegone, I'm spending this Sunday listening to jazz, and reading Summer At Tiffany, the memoir of Marjorie Hart, who was one of the first women to work at Tiffany & Co. during WWII. 

I first heard of this book during my maiden voyage to Manhattan this past summer. It was in the gift shop of the Empire State Building, perched between copies of Capote's Breakfast At Tiffany's and Audrey Hepburn coffee mugs. I didn't buy the book that sunny day in NYC, but I did download it to my tablet some weeks later, and have been reading it casually over the last five months. The episodic, carefree nature in which it's penned makes Marjorie's story the perfect little "popcorn read" -- It's light, fun and filling. A simple pleasure, and one that doesn't need to be completely digested in one setting. I can put it down for weeks at a time, but when I'm curious about the madcap, Manhattan goings-on of three college girls, I turn on the tablet, and I'm transported back to the sweltering summer of 1945, my journey made complete with dizzying cocktail parties, dashing Navy boys, and dazzling Tiffany diamonds. 

One thing that I truly love about this book is that Marjorie constantly mentions the Big Band music being played during that summer, and always relates the swinging melodies to her personal, sentimental moments. Even the conversations she has with her other twenty-something gal pals are loaded with 1940s lyrical references.  I connect very deeply with this. My mind operates in terms of music  - my own moments of emotional elation or frustration can often find resonance deep within a song.  I hate to admit this, but there is a Taylor Swift song for nearly every romantic experience I've had for the last seven years. And it's not as though I listen to her music and think, "Wow! I had better create a moment that mirrors these words!". Infact, it's quite the opposite -- I can listen to a Taylor Swift anthem and realize quite suddenly, "Wow! That reminds me of [insert year] when I fell for [insert name]."

 I'm the kind of person who incorporates music into my everyday.  Frustrations at work? Satiated with one quick text  of "Haters gonna hate, hate, hate, hate, hate!" to a dear friend during my lunch break. (Yeah, super profound, I know!) Heading to New York for vacation? Better make a playlist with only the best songs about The Big Apple. And my desire to visit the East Coast? Further stoked when I heard Barry Manilow sing about those "long, rocky beaches" in the second verse of the ballad, "Weekend In New England".

Powerful, real lyrics get me every time. Perhaps that's why I so dearly love the music of The Great American Songbook. Lyrics by Berlin, Gershwin, Mercer - no matter the decade in which they were penned, these songs speak of timeless themes. Hope and heartache bloom in every life, and in every century, the saltiness of tears remains the same.

It is one of these transcending musical moments which inspired this blog post. Hours ago, I was reading a passage in Summer At Tiffany in which Marjorie is sitting with girlfriends, reflecting on the end of a lukewarm love affair. Her description of the fizzled romance is very similar to the current pieces of my jigsaw-puzzle heart. Something that looked right on paper, but crumpled when held up against the reality of differing expectation. In the book, Marjorie's friends all show their support by singing the chorus of the Gershwin tune, "Let's Call The Whole Thing Off", the lyrics written in the dialogue. And I am not kidding when I say - at that very moment, Harry Connick, Jr's rendition of that same song filtered through my speakers.  I didn't plan it, yet there it was. Harry's 1989 voice, Marjorie's 1945 memory.  Both echoing Gershwin's 1936 lyrics. And both entering my 2015 living room at the exact same time.

It was a moment of clarity. Of reassurance and affirmation. Yes, life will bring moments of decision in which I have to choose to move forward or let things go. And those decisions might hurt for a myriad of reasons. But I'm not the first to make them, nor will I be the last. And whatever feelings  of frustration, guilt,  sadness or confusion  I feel - well I can better my bottom dollar that those same feelings inspired Gershwin to write, just as they inspired Harry to sing.

We are not alone in our toiling or our triumphs. And thank God for the beautiful music that reminds  us of this connectedness. Otherwise this messy business of living would be a rather quiet one.