On this second day of taking a cue from my favorite Author’s writing prompt suggestions, I bring you a little poetry jam. Anne Lamott’s prompt today? Write about: “It seemed like a good plan on paper.” This piece wholly turned into something completely different than I had in mind, as so often happens. I hope you enjoy, Dear Reader. From my paper heart to yours.
WRITING PROMPT: “Write about the first time you fell in love.”
– Anne Lamott, (A Writing Room)
By: JANA GREENE
I have a tendency to fall in love instantly. I fell head over heels in love with my husband nearly 18 years ago, but I’ve made lifelong friends that I’ve loved since day one. Dogs, cats, people I mentor – doesn’t matter. If my soul recognizes you, I can love you genuinely right away. I’ve hated that about myself most of my life (it’s illogical, according to this cold, hard world,) but I’m at such peace with it now. If people can hate without even getting to know a person, I can certainly love right out of the gate.
The fist time it happened was in 1983.
His name was Trace, and I met him at the skating rink. I still cannot hear Loverboy’s “Take me to the Top” without recalling the scent of Giorgio for Men and the whisp-whisp-whisp of his parachute pants as he whooshed by me in an eternally moving loop on his “peanut butters.”
Peanut butters – for those not in the know – are what we called those iconic brown rental skates at the rink – the ones that you tried not to think about the foot that was there before yours. Only the very popular, rich kids brought their own skates.
I was born with a painful and injurious connective tissue condition. When I was a kid, my family called it “clumsiness,” but it was actually many of my joints subluxing and dislocating constantly. I remember my ankles were janky that day, so I skated in a slow, steady loop, acting casual. Each time he’d pass me, he would wink at me over his shoulder. I guess because it was the early-eighties and we flirted like we were in a John Hughes film (what other template could we have used? Mr. Hughes defined our generation!)
It turned out, Trace was in the grade about me at the middle school. I was in seventh, he in eighth, and going to high school the following year. An almost-high-school boy liked me! That’s better than having custom roller skates!
And so began my first foray into “love.” And it was love, to some degree. I thought of nothing else but him. That evening, he asked me if I wanted to skate to the couples only skate. Actually, I think I was sitting on a bench festooned with neon colored patterns that glowed in the dark. When they cut the lights down, Journey’s “Open Arms” called us to the floor. I skated backwards and he forwards, but I saw nothing but his eyes. They were yellow-green, like a cat’s – but maybe those of a friendly cat. His hair was long, curly, and very blonde, like Sebastian Bach of the band “Skid Row.” And I was there for it. We became girlfriend/boyfriend that day and would be together off-and-on for the next couple of years – which is an eternity when you’re a teenager.
“I want to marry you,” he’d say, “and have lots of babies.” And I believed that’s what he wanted because his home was so unstable. We both wanted an opportunity to do better. Looking back, it’s a gigantic red flag, but my passionate 14 year old heart would not hear of anything less that marriage and babies. Oh the naivety!
Trace was wounded, in a way. And I worried about him constantly, which is another good indicator that this was different. He was sadness masquerading as a cowboy, in his hat and a pair of shit-kickers. I was sad too, but his love made me warm, and warm sadness is better than the regular kind, because any teenage couple worth their salt is plodding through angst. Me and you against the WORLD, right?
So I fell in love for the first time, with a boy from a broken home who called me his “angel,” and broke up with me because I was so afraid that he was going to expect me to do things after Prom that I canceled it altogether. I was terrified of intimacy; I simply was not ready. And he – being 17 – had “needs” that my Bible-toting, scripture-quoting, uber “good girl” self was not willing to facilitate. (Ugh. Could she not loosen up just a little?)
We had all the wonderful “firsts.” First couple’s skate. First hickey (“I burned my neck with the curling iron, Mom!”) First cheap but thoughtful necklace that turned my skin green. First experience with obsessing over a boy. First concept that I was adored by someone, and I was happy to adore in return. Of course, Trace was my first break-up too. I think break-ups teach us just as much about ourselves as relationships do. Maybe more.
Eventually it fell apart because – like every good John Hughes movie – there was drama. He had a rough childhood, and things were bad at my home too. Trauma-bonding does not make for the best relationship foundation. I moved away from Texas, and I have no idea what became of him. But I hope he is okay, and thriving somewhere with some special lady who is his “angel.”
First loves are practice; an art, not a science. We had all the standard-issue problems that teen couples do. But we also had stolen kisses behind the bleachers, sweet, corny love letters, and phone calls that ended with, “No, YOU hang up first…” “NO, you hang up first.’ “No, YOU” ad-nauseum so we could hear each other fall asleep.
He was such a sweet, troubled soul, and in truth – so was I. But all first loves should be equal parts magic and tragic, I think. It’s our first foray into accepting another human being for who they are, parachute pants, Peanut Butters, and all.
The year of our Lord 2023 can go suck eggs. It can suck eggs, eat my shorts, lick rust, and eat glass. I’m not one for oversimplifying (I can’t stand it when people say “the whole YEAR sucked!” because I’ve learned that the same year that held loss and grief also has it’s moments too. I can’t recall many right now, but they definitely happened. Small victories like medical lab results marginally improving, family birthday parties, lunch with friends.
Well, was it a bad year? It either was or it wasn’t, right?
At the beginning of 2023, one of my acquaintances posted to Facebook this ALL CAPS EXCITEMENT BOMB, and for good reason. “PRAISE GOD, YA’LL! HE IS SOOOO GOOD! IT WASN’T CANCER!” They had a cancer scare, and it turned out to be ‘nothing.’ So I rejoiced alongside my friend, with the cringe-comment, “WOOHOOO! GOD IS GOOD ALL THE TIME!” Hey, I was an evangelical a long time. The catchphrases die hard.
The very next day, I received news that a friend who was like a sister to me was diagnosed with stage four pancreatic cancer. She was given months to live. What the actual HELL, God? God did NOT seem so good anymore, in that moment – less than 24 hours after celebrating my acquaintances’ good news.
I was angry, and it set the tone for the whole year. I wanted to retract my praise for my FB friend’s diagnosis – not because I wasn’t thankful that they’d be okay, but because God knew devastating news was coming and he let me rant about how ‘good’ he is! SO good at healing, knowing good and damn well he was going to take my sisterfriend from us.
I don’t know about you, but I like absolutes – something this world is stingy with.
God is good, or he’s not.
Either “it is finished” by Jesus, or we are all still waiting in spiritual limbo.
Either God heals or he doesn’t.
A funny thing happened on Bitterness Road though. Our close friend group rallied around our sick friend. She herself had beautiful spiritual revelations in the last months of her life. REALLY profound, amazing realizations. We – the ladies in our tribe – learned more about facing death with grace and dignity than we had never known. She too was angry for a time, because of COURSE she was!
But in her terrible struggle, she also introduced us all to a peace that truly passes understanding; a peace not sullied by all the temporal shit we contend with every day. She was going home, and she showed us all how to do it with grace.
I still say 2023 was awful, as a whole. But there were so many glimmers. The high points didn’t look like winning the lottery, or losing weight, or getting a promotion, or any of the other things we think of as manifestations of God’s love for us (that we label as “success.”)
Manifestations of God’s love show up in the grace of going through the very worst life has to offer. And I guess I’d prefer that to a holy love that only manifests as “good” things. That’s a love entirely too shallow.
Today, I choose to believe the lovingness of God far surpasses the crappiness of life.
And on days (years?) when I struggle with thinking of God as pure love, I choose to believe God is only, simply love – no fillers or by-products. We can lean into that love. We MUST lean into it.
That’s my story and I’m sticking to it, because my spirit knows it to be true. So maybe don’t lick rust, 2023 – you taught me a lot. But I welcome 2024 with the expectation that God is good, and the assurance that when life isn’t, he still is. Blessed be, Friends.
Maybe my first blog – my first child in many ways – was preparing me to write more transparently (and ergo, more dangerously.) It would only make sense. I had an agenda with my first blog, “thebeggarsbakery.com,” without meaning to. The goal – even as it was unspoken to myself – was to be a grown-up “Writer” with a capital “w.” I wanted to carry answers to the big questions confidently, armed only with a background of religiosity and unrealistic expectations. I thought maybe I could even have one of those thingies that everyone else found so attainable, but I have never accomplished – an actual career!
What’s it like to have one of THOSE? I’ve had many jobs throughout the years, but none that brought me fulfillment or made me financially successful. I’ve wanted to write for a living since I could hold a crayon, but although I’ve been published in a national magazine (once), I still just write for therapy and funzies. Maybe that will change one day, but now I write from a place of peace, if not resignation. I’m okay with the fact that I may write for an audience of 1,900 (the total readership of my flagship blog after 11 years,) or 50 acquaintances, or a dozen close friends, or just the two – myself, and my endlessly supportive husband (who has read every word I’ve written since August of 2006, and even some archival stuff.) All of these options are okay with me. I don’t need to get it right, I just need to get this moving.
I MUST write like I must breathe (ugh, how dramatic! But it’s breathwork to me. I’ve recently started attending a writing workshop by my favorite author, Anne Lamott, and every little word she writes is magic because she shares her whole heart, not just the shiny pieces. What a time to start a new blog, I thought. I’ve shared a lot of shiny pieces, but I’m ready to share the rest of it.
So, welcome to my headspace. But more succinctly, welcome to my heart-space. I write in spite of the fact that I still don’t have quick answers to the big questions. My words will come at you, stream-of-consciousness-style. Although I am under no obligation to make sense to you, I’ll give it my level best!
My goal is to write a bit each day; that is my challenge to myself. I aim to “write clear and hard about what hurts,” as Ernest Hemmingway opined. Doesn’t matter about what.
Writing hard and clear about what matters is all I can asplire to. I’ve done myself a disservice in the past by writing about only what is hard and what is clear, since so much of this journey is neither (and/or both.)
And it’s all God’s fault. The Creator of the Cosmos wouldn’t stay in the little box-on-wheels the church gifted me, even though I implored him to keep his arms and legs inside the vehicle at all times. You know, for his own safety and mine. He wouldn’t, and so I stuck a finger out the window, just to feel the wind, and now I’m ruined for stale spiritual air heretofore.
Maybe it’s all just practice, ya’ll. Maybe practice is where it’s at anyway. The best things in life are not the things we collect, but what we put into practice in our hearts. Day in, day out, practicing radical love – even when it looks sloppy and we feel unhinged.
So pull up a chair and come alongside me. There will be pearls of wisdom, and absolute drivel, because my headspace is full of both (and more!) Engage with me – I want to know what makes you tick, Dear Reader.
Let’s get this party started, with open minds and hearts. Blessed be, friends. ❤
Words by Jana Greene 