And then, one fateful day, you sit around a table with those strangers. In their hands they hold your words, your story, your creation. And they workshop it. They hug it. They squeeze it. They slap it around a bit. And you sit there, a fake smile plastered on your face so long that your cheeks ache. And you go through…

The Seven Stages of Workshopping

1. Detachment–”I am a professional. I am distant and have no personal attachment to this writing. Nothing said can hurt me.”

2. Hope–”But I hope they like it. I think they’ll like it. Do you like it?”

3. Anger–”You don’t like it? HOW DARE YOU NOT LIKE IT! You have no idea what you’re even talking about.”

4. Ambivalence–”Whatever.”

5. Confusion–”Wait. That’s what you thought that meant? You thought the belching unicorn was a symbol of war? I…I don’t even know what to say.”

6. Shock–”Whaaaaa?” (While this stage is similar to confusion, it is more cold and sweaty.)

7. Exhaustion–”My brain is broken. I need a nap.”

And there you have it. The seven stages of being workshopped. (I mean, sometimes there are additional stages of growth and understanding and improvement. But there aren’t any fun gifs for those.)

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Sincerely,
WHAT WAS THAT NOISE?

—–

Dear Spring in Colorado,
You know, for a while I didn’t think you were coming. I thought maybe you had decided to take the year off. I believed that Winter had possibly funded a long vacation in Paris for you. But I’m so glad you’re here, and that you brought your blue skies and blossoms and sunshine with you. Don’t tell the others, but you’re my favorite.

Your Friend,
The Girl in the Flip Flops

P.S. Could you maybe tell summer to hold off just a little while? I’m in no rush for bathing suit season.

—–

Dear Person in the Red Honda,
I would like to sincerely apologize for the “incident” last weekend. You see. It was a lovely, Spring day. The windows were down. I had my new Patty Griffin CD. And I may have forgotten that the windows were down in my car. And I was possibly singing at the top of my lungs. Top. Of. My. Lungs. I didn’t mean to frighten you, or your small children. I just got a bit caught up in the moment. I will try to remember to put the windows up next time.

Sincerely,
Loud, Off-Key Girl in the Green Saturn

—–

Dear Self,
It seems that you are a bit out of practice in the kitchen. That, combined with your love for cooking shows, has perhaps created a perfect storm of disaster. This week alone you have burned, cut and spilled with abandon. But tonight, when you tried to flip a pancake without a spatula, because it looked “so easy” on TV, you perhaps paid the highest price. Pancake splattered on the floor, and cold cereal for dinner. I hope you’ve learned your lesson.

Sincerely,
Crying Over Spilled Pancakes

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In that sleepy town on the muddy banks of the Mississippi, I felt loneliness and sadness and confusion with blinding clarity. It was as though every  nerve had migrated to the surface of my skin, and even the pressure of the humid air was painful.

Of course, I didn’t really let any of that on to the people I met. At work I was bright and cheerful, bringing in bundt cakes and pies to share–to win everyone ever. At church I smiled and was interesting, jumping immediately into serving in the children’s ministry.

But at home, in that quiet little townhome on Stardust Drive that I shared with two new roommates, I couldn’t always keep my mask from slipping. It was a season of crisis, of deathss and car accidents and sickness, all happening to family and friends in Virginia. The 900 miles between my family and me might as well have been a million. More than once the roommate whose room was next to mine slipped into my dark room and held my hand while I sobbed.

“I’m sorry,” I choked through the tears. She just nodded.

One day that roommate came home and told me she had a surprise for me. She was always up for an adventure, a trip to a darkened, supposedly haunted theatre, a late-night drive looking for the northern lights. Even her car was exciting, a low-slung yellow sporty thing that made me smile in spite of myself.

She grinned as she drove, and I fiddled with the air conditioning vent, hoping I could pull some excitement up past the sadness. She drove through a drive-thru and got us both ice cream. I licked a sticky blot of vanilla off of my wrist as she drove down St. Mary’s Avenue. Where was she taking us? We turned onto Bird street and passed blocks of worn, dingy houses. Mark Twain Elementary was quiet, the lawn patchy and dry. And then she pulled over, rolled down the windows and turned off the car. I looked around.

There was nothing here.

At first I was annoyed. I could still be sitting in my room feeling sorry for myself. But her wide smile told me I was missing something. Finally she pointed out of the window to the green street sign directly in front of the car.

Virginia Street.

“This is as close as I could get to taking you to Virginia,” she said. Her smile softened. Hopeful.

I dipped my face down, could smell the sweet vanilla from the half-melted ice cream in my hands.

This was the nicest thing anybody had ever done for me.

“Thank you,” I said quietly. She smiled, turned on the radio, and we sat in silence and ate our ice cream, a whispery breeze carrying the scene of fresh cut grass through the car.

I left Missouri seven years ago, but I still remember the kindness of that roommate. She saw my brokenness and pain, and instead of shielding herself from it, she walked into it. She took me home the only way she knew how.

I am reminded of her when I see people in my life who are sad and lonely and hiding. I think of her when I must make the choice. Do I turn my back?

Or do I go to Virginia Street with them?

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Six years ago, I stood in a softly carpeted hallway with my hand resting on a cold doorknob. I was trying out a breathing exercise a friend had taught me.

“Breathe in the pretty pink. Breathe out the ugly gray.”

In. Pink. Out. Gray.

The office was all dark wood and leather and framed diplomas. She was all pink lip gloss and blonde hair and pedicured toes. She gestured to a chair, told me to have a seat. I breathed in the pretty pink and blurted out the ugly gray.

“I have daddy issues and I think I’m emotionally stunted.” She raised a perfectly groomed eyebrow and nodded.

It took me years to work up the courage to visit a counselor. As a child I held my feelings tightly, shielded them in my hand with the same carefulness as when I caught fireflies and brought my face an inch from my cupped palms, seeing the flickering light between my fingers. As a teenager I worried so much I made myself physically ill. In college I struggled with spells of sadness that I never called depression–but there were mornings I woke up crying. And then, in a span of five years I lost my stepfather, graduated from college, got a job, moved to Tennessee, got another job, moved to Missouri, got ANOTHER job and moved to Colorado.

When I arrived in Colorado, I felt breathless. And not just from the altitude.

I made friends quickly, but felt raw and exposed. I was endlessly afraid of being replaced. I was overwhelmed and overwhelming. I was damaged goods. So I finally decided I needed a counselor. A rent-a-friend who could solve all of my problems.

I still remember the first time I worked up the courage to tell a friend I was going to counseling. She audibly gasped and said “Oh my gosh, what’s wrong?” The weight of those words covered me, shame settling like ashes on my skin.

Things got worse before they got better. My “issues” bubbled up, and I felt like there was too much wrong with me. I was broken. I couldn’t be fixed. But my counselor, with her shiny lip gloss and red toenails, walked with me, guided me, and celebrated with me. For four years I saw her several times a month. I filled one journal, and then a second, the ink on the page feeling like poison I had leeched from my body, my mind, my spirit.

I still go to my counselor for an occasional “tune-up” (my words, not hers). And while the weight of shame lessened over the years, there is still a part of me that wants to keep that chapter of my life tucked neatly into a corner, out of sight. Even writing this, I’ve had to force myself not to edit out the details–I made myself leave in how long I went, how often, the present tense visits.

But then I remember that scared little girl I once was. The one who kept the ugly gray inside, where it made everything dirty and dusty. The one who was so afraid that she pushed everyone away and then cried over the ensuing loneliness. The one who lived in the dark.

Six years ago, she finally stepped into the light. Blinking and disoriented. But with her face turned upward. The breeze tickling her skin.

Breathing in the pretty pink.

breathe by ~sibayak

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I sat in my car in the church parking lot, twisting the tarnished ring on my finger until it pinched the skin. I looked down the line of cars and counted. Ten cars. Mostly mini-vans. A small group. People would notice me.

Sometimes I get uncomfortable at “women’s events.” They can occasionally feel over-wrought. The sincere emotions of other women can make me itchy. And the more tears they shed, the more I shut down. It’s not them. It’s me. Boy is it me.

But I walked inside, into the dark sanctuary lit by fake flickering candles. I scratched my arms. Cushions for kneeling were scattered in the front of the room. I scratched harder.

The night started with music and I slipped to the side and stood by the windows. They faced west, toward the jagged mountains and softening blue sky. The sun was weakening. I could stare at it, only squinting slightly.

I sat on one of the cushions and lightly touched my fingers to the cool window. The sun slipped lower. The mountains grew darker. The sky morphed into the fuzzy pink color of the dryer lint when a red sock is mixed in with my whites.

That’s pretty, I thought.

I sat there for twenty minutes. Long enough to watch the mountains turn inky black. The sky blazed with orange the color of a campfire.

And in the languid blink of an eye, it was over. The sky went from fresh bruise to dark. No color. Just velvety dark.  I leaned my forehead against the window, cooler now. I shifted on my cushion, lightly scratched my arm.

This isn’t really my thing, I thought.

But maybe it should be.

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(And if you haven’t, watch Part 1. It will make more sense )

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God Says Yes To Me
        –Kaylin Haught

I asked God if it was okay to be melodramatic
and she said yes
I asked her if it was okay to be short
and she said it sure is
I asked her if I could wear nail polish
or not wear nail polish
and she said honey
she calls me that sometimes
she said you can do just exactly
what you want to
Thanks God I said
And is it even okay if I don’t paragraph
my letters
Sweetcakes God said
who knows where she picked htat up
what I’m telling you is
Yes Yes Yes

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I was there for a conference with my friend, excited to be back in one of my favorite cities. I love Boston, love its history and its brownstones and its friendliness. I love Paul Revere’s house with its soft floors that give ever so slightly when you walk across them. I love the salty, briny smell at the harbor. I love its cobblestone streets and the T, slightly dingy and worn, rumbling underground and then sliding back into the sunlight.

My friend and I spent one morning roaming the streets of Boston. We walked across the Longfellow bridge, the wind blustery and making our ears ache. We explored Beacon Hill then stumbled across the Freedom Trail. We crossed another bridge, laughing at how we had no idea where we were. But we didn’t care. We were in Boston. That night as I sat on my bed at our hotel, nursing the blisters on my feet, I looked out at the Charles River and smiled at our view. Boston.

I can only imagine that’s why the bombing at the Boston Marathon shook me so much yesterday. That same friend and I frantically messaged each other back and forth.

We were just there.

We walked down that street.

We took that T.

My God, we were just there.

I felt just on the brink of tears for most of the afternoon, eventually turning off the coverage when I felt battered by too much information. I wondered if anybody I had met at the writer’s conference was affected? How many of those daring journalists covering war were now covering a different war–one fought on the streets just outside their homes, by an enemy too cowardly to reveal itself.

I’m glad I was just in Boston. Glad I had just walked those streets, just felt that Boston breeze on my cold skin. I’m glad I laughed in her restaurants and exclaimed over and over “I love Boston!” And yet I mourn the lives that were lost, the security that was shattered. I hate that someone took a joyful occasion, a race where people push their bodies hard down cobblestone streets, past monuments to heroes, and tainted it with death and fear.

My God, we were just there.

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So you might say, I’m a Shauna Niequist fan. I was excited to get her book in the mail, and excited to read a memoir (yay) about food (yay) and hospitality (yay).

The book is broken down into a series of essays in four parts, and includes recipes, menus and a discussion guide. I will start with saying I think Shaun is a lovely, lovely writer who infuses her writing with care and love. You might say she writes on the word level, as she cooks on the ingredient level (see what I did there?). Which, as a fellow writer I certainly appreciate. I loved sentences like this one: “The light is fading, the sky bleaching from blue to white and then, warming to the softest blush pink, like ballet tights, like a rosewater macaroon.” I could see the things Shauna wrote about, could taste the food she described.

That leads me to another point. Right or wrong, when I read a memoir or a collection of personal essays, I want to like the person I’m reading about. Yes, I want to see their flaws and sometimes I want to disagree with them, but at the end, I want to feel like they are a new friend. Again, this is not how everyone approaches memoir (and a lot probably has to do with the fact that I am a people-pleaser writing my own memoir!) And there were so many times with Bread and Wine that I set the book aside and sighed. “I wish Shauna would invite me to dinner,” I thought. “I wish I could go out to a fun restaurant with her.” In short, I wished Shauna Niequiest would be my new friend. (Shauna, call me!)

But I will say that, as the writer of my own life story, there were some essays that seemed almost out of place. Perhaps that was a chronology issue at times? While I enjoyed the writing even in those essays, I wondered if they belonged in another collection, particularly the few that didn’t have recipes attached to them. I stumbled in places where I was pulled back and forth in time between scenes, and just craved a little smoothing out of the bumps.

I used to throw a lot of parties. I would make heaps of food and cram too many people in my town home and collapse on the couch at the end of the night, drained but happy. The last few years I haven’t been able to do many of those parties, and reading Bread and Wine made me miss that. It made me pull out a notepad and begin planning my own dinner party.

And as I thumbed through the recipes in Bread and Wine I smiled at the thought of cooking some of those foods for my friends.

I wanted to cook a plate of gaia cookies and take them to my friend Krissy as she sits at home loving on her new baby boy.

I wanted to set a hot plate of sweet potato fries in front of Brianne and eat them with her while we sit on my couch and catch up on life now that she lives in a different state.

I wanted to cook up Shauna’s potato salad for Katy and her husband Brett, and sit outside in the sunshine and laugh and drink beer and eat hamburgers smoky from the grill.

And I think that is the beauty of Bread and Wine–the reminder that sharing a meal with those you love is nourishing on so many levels.

I received a review copy of this book but all my opinions are my own

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