This is part of series of summer letters written to my sisters, my mother and two grandmothers. Writing got tough for me. I was tempted to give up, but these women kept me typing. So I decided to type to them for a time.
Dear Sisters, Mother and Grands,
Words came slowly this week. I plucked each weed with labor and not a lot of direction— haunted by a hunch that is good for a writer to write and to keep up the habit. So here I am. This letter is late because I am both lazy and busy. I slay both my excuses with the point of my pen now and give myself this sitting to finish what I’ve promised— a letter this week.
….
Fences make great neighbors I hear.
Last week a cardboard sign hammered into our alley read, “Welcome! Right this way!” with a fat friendly, hand drawn arrow pointing to me, to our home. Now that sign is folded, stuffed deep into in the blue recycling bin.
A month ago an idea floated in my ear and got stuck. I couldn’t get rid of it—the idea of a popsicle party in our backyard. Images of skipping school children and laughing parents spilling into our unfenced backyard filled my head. I got to work— asking teachers if I could send invitations home, gluing popsicle sticks to the homemade invites and sweeping the back porch. While I worked the vision grew… I saw friendships forming under crepe paper banners, kids remembering the good ol’ days jumping on the Piersall trampoline and a future as the neighborhood “Popsicle Party Lady”— my delighted high continued until the hour before the event.
Survival instincts kicked in.
I suddenly remembered, I’m an introvert and prefer quiet one-on-one conversations in dark corners. My husband walked through the door with a grin as big as Alaska. “You excited?!” I shot daggers at his cheery cheeks. WHY did I invite anyone to my house??!! My craziness is confirmed by my first guest’s remarks. “You’re so brave to do this.” Brave? I wanted to cry. And I forgot to wipe down the toilet.
Over the course of an hour, fifty guests tiptoed into onto our freshly mowed patch and slurped down popsicles. The adults stood in awkward friendly circles, catching some names and dropping others. The kids swirl at dizzying speeds with soccer balls, laughter, and red sticky hands. The trampoline stayed maxed out with 10 kids at a time. It was everything I dreamed and yet minute by minute, drip by drip, my stamina leaked into the soil.
What is it that I want? Do I want neighbors or fences? Alone time or gatherings? Can I both love and hate the same thing?
I am conflicted.
There is something in me that can’t help but gather people. Host. Connect. Plan. No one pushes me into this role, I willingly slip into the shoes… just as soon as I have recovered from my last event. What pushes me to do something that so completely exhausts me? That does not energize me? That causes me to Google “Cheap Fencing Options?”
I search the next few days— for quiet, a red reset button— but in vain. There is no vacuum of quiet, yoga pose, perforated planner that can get me the peace I’m after.
So what is it that I need— fences or neighbors, to invite myself to tea or the neighbors for chicken tortilla soup?
Since that busy popsicle day the answer comes in little whispers here and there—
n e i t h e r
b o t h
The answer, clear as mud, is still somehow a comfort.
My need runs deeper than relationships, deeper still than self-care.
One thing is necessary.
—was the answer the Son of God gave kind, but stressed Martha. Martha who invited God in flesh into her unfenced backyard, and was stressed to high heaven about making his holy salad.
He gives her an answer, clear as mud, to grab hold of the good portion, that won’t be taken from her. That one necessary thing.
So I’ll grab galoshes next time I’m at Walmart, there’s a lot more divine mud to muck through.
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