Showing up
I might not speak at my dad’s funeral, she texts. The pastor wants to ensure it’s a religious ceremony. My spine stiffens. I want to text back, I think you should speak. [But I know better not to use the word should.]
Instead my thumbs tap, I hear you and yet I don't want you to regret not saying something. Only you know what is in your heart – what you really want. The answer will come. I hit the up arrow.
It’s 6:18am. I’m in the seat in our living room that calls to me every morning and evening, aptly named the fun chair. I put my Iphone face down on the itty bitty table to my left, take a sip of my black coffee, and pick up my copy of The Five-Minute Journal.
My college-aged son had mentioned this gratitude practice in January and in an effort to feel a little closer to him, I ordered one for myself (and everyone in the family). The simplicity of the first-thing-in-the-morning prompts I am grateful for…and…What would make today great...as well as the end-of-the-day-reflecting on what I learned is illuminating. It reminds me that simple is profound.
I scribble I am enough in the Daily Affirmation section and marvel how enoughness is still knocking at my door. I close the journal, pick the phone back up, and think to myself What am I possibly looking for at 6:23am? as I click on an email from my high school alma mater to learn that Tom Johnson, the counselor you read about in my book, has died.
My heart sinks into my low-to-the-ground chair. I should have sent him a copy of my book, I lament.
Staring at the ottoman, I fantasize about flying back to Pittsburgh and showing up to his celebration of life. Feeling shame welling up inside for not being in touch, I put the phone down, pick up a spiral notebook-turned-journal with my turquoise heart logo, and pen-to-page write: Dear Tom.
I have 6 minutes before I need to skedaddle.
6 minutes is all I ask my story-students to write every morning.
6 minutes miraculously turns my letter to Tom into a poem I name What’s Left. I put my pen down, satisfied with myself but mystified how a truly good man died too early (he was 68).
It’s 6:33am when my pointer finger finds my other email app, Gmail. I see “Document shared with you” and read a client’s close-to-being-done eulogy.
I feel a hint of a smile forming in the corner of the right side of my mouth. She’s found her words. She’s navigated her ambivalence. And she’ll be able to show up and speak with authenticity and confidence. Itty bitty fireworks pop through my chest.
I hear footsteps above. Shoot, Duncan must be up. He’ll be walking downstairs as I'm shuffling out the front door. I love my new dipping practice but won’t be able to sit and have coffee with him.
Shame is about to roll in but then I catch myself. It’s okay, Katherine, you’ll connect with him later.
I see the headlights of my dear friend who is picking me up for our 11 minute commute across the Golden Gate Bridge to Horseshoe Cove. When I jump in the front seat of her Jeep, I rejoice, “Dip! Dip! Hooray!”
At 7:00am we wade into the cold water and I feel the water stinging my skin. As we ooh and ahh at the pink morning sky and what looks like a magic-little-star just touching the tip of the city skyline, the thought I'm so grateful I spoke at my dad's funeral pops into my head--and lands deep in my heart.
It is in these wee early mornings sitting in my cozy chair and treading water in the majestic coves of the Pacific, I get to feel another truth so powerful...and yet so simple:
I’m so grateful that I’ve built a life on showing up for others. [And I’m forgiving myself for the moments when I haven’t.]
And these days, I’m also so grateful to experience the joy -- and freedom -- that comes from learning how to quiet the shoulds and show up for myself, too.
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