What’s October without a scary story or two? At the least, we should do something we’re afraid of. Not to conquer it, mind you, but to see if there’s something else than fear that’s lurking around waiting to surprise us.
You know what I did that’s scary? Every morning in September and the first two weeks into October, I walked across the golf course at 5:30 to work at the pool as the Covid point of contact. I know the position sounds intimidating, but I’m talking about the walk – in the dark – to the pool. I am sure there are bears on the golf course. I know there are skunks. And that’s just what’s real. Don’t even get me started on what I can nightmare up. It was 100 steps of pure terror.
A few weeks ago though, the pool manager adjusted the timer on a security light in the parking lot and I could see where I was going and look out for bears and also Freddy Krueger almost all the way from my backyard to the pool.
And no kidding, the word of the day that very day was “translucent.” What I did when I got to the pool each morning was copy down a word and its definition and any other information that I find interesting about it. I do not think this was one of my responsibilities as Covid point of contact, but you know me, always going above and beyond the call of duty. That solid C-/D+ GPA didn’t earn itself back in school, and anyway I prefer this definition for translucent: “Free from disguise or falseness.” It comes from the Latin word, “lucere” which means, “to shine.”
So when the pool manager came bouncing in that day in all his morning-self glory (seriously, I thought I was a morning person), and asked, “How ’bout all that light?” there was no disguise in my voice when I told him, “I LOVE the light! Thank you!” And we both laughed because it was a little ridiculous, I suppose, to be giddy about a little light that showed up in the dark.
I think though, that this kind of light – the light that frees us from falseness and disguise – has the power to make us curious. And bold. Because after we finished celebrating all the light we could see (I’m sorry, I had to do it, thus proving I will never be the plenary at the Festival of Faith and Writing), he said this:
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but do you work, or are you just a mom?”
There is no right way to take a question like that, but the light made me curious and bold, too. Here’s what I’m talking about fear wanting to be paid attention to. Maybe fear’s disguise is its sting and its strike. Maybe it doesn’t know what else to do to leave a mark, so that you take a look at what else is there.
The truth is, it’s much easier for me to be afraid of bears and skunks, it’s much easier to believe a gruesome, terrifying nightmare, than it is to face the reality that my work – the calling I believe I have been taking small steps in the dark toward for the bulk of my life – might never amount to much, financially speaking. The truth is, I work. Every day I sit down and pour everything I am, everything I have into notebooks and over half of it might never see the light of day. The truth is I battle doubt every day, and it’s the only way I know how to learn to trust myself. The truth is writing breaks my heart and mends it all at the same time and I don’t always know the difference.
“I’m an author,” is what I told him.
And then we moved on to other things to talk about because there’s not much more to say after that, unless of course, you’re a writer, too. It’s hard to talk about things we don’t know too much about, like writing. And motherhood. Or deer hunting. Or swim coaching. Turns out though, two different people can find joy in a little light and it helps us be free of disguise – to shine – for a little while, anyway.
The sun had never quite risen at the end of my shift, but it had paled the sky, and so I didn’t need the security light on my way home. I took those 100 steps slower than I did on my way to the pool. I liked to linger. I loved the view of the golf course, and of the kitchen light on in my house.
I was careful though, not to make imprints on the green of the 9th hole, and I was careful not to step on any fallen leaves from the walnut tree – so many of them in the shape of hearts.
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