I sat silently at the shore today, alone on a bench with a
book lying unopened beside me. The
leaves on the trees overhead were brilliant in the afternoon sunlight. Gold and
orange, crimson and yellow and brown, all of the comforting colors of autumn.
Across the water on the opposite shore, pine trees were interspersed with
yellow aspens. I tried to breathe it all in. The color, the coolness, the sound
of the Canadian Geese calling to each other as they joined their autumn party noisily
skidding onto the water. A tiny breeze
fluttered the pages of the book I had been ignoring. It was a book about “self-doubt”
that I had purchased in an art gallery earlier today.
I had been hit with a massive case of creative self-doubt
the first week of August. The first week
after I retired from work. Suddenly, I
couldn’t write Emails, I couldn’t write a letter, I couldn’t write a blog. I wasn’t lazy, I wasn’t tired, I wasn’t discouraged,
no, I was swaddled tightly in a blanket
of self-doubt; I doubted that I could write, doubted that I could paint or
draw. Doubted that I ever could or
should again. I tried but it was figuratively and literally painful, no words
would come to my mind and I couldn’t make myself even pick up a watercolor
brush. I had finally arrived at a time
when I actually have time to concentrate on the things I’ve always
wanted to do….and…nothing. A blank,
white page on my computer screen with a blinking cursor that seemed to be
saying “You Can’t” “You Can’t” “You Can’t”. Such a mystery!
I reached over and picked up the book and then laid it down
again as my eye caught site of a man methodically and self-assuredly rowing his
boat through the water. He knew what he was doing; he knew where he was
going. And it was as if I had suddenly pushed
“play” on a video memory from ages past in my mind. I was five.
I was in a rowboat in the middle of the lake with my 8 year old sister.
I had one oar, she had the other.
Frantically we pushed and we pulled and we went around and around and
around in circles. First one direction, then the other, never advancing even an
inch closer to shore. How did this
happen? How did I get in this sad state of affairs? I hadn’t asked for it? Our little arms were aching from rowing and
our feet were sore as our toes were forced to the ends of our keds from
supporting our backs as we rowed and rowed and rowed. My cheeks and the tip of my nose were burning
from the sun when a ski boat suddenly pulled up in front of us. Dad reached from the back of the sleek white
boat and looped a rope through a grommet on the front of our wooden boat with
the outboard motor and the curious name of Su-Dee-Bob hand painted on the bow and
pulled us to the dock. Yes, he put us
there, but he was watching and even though we couldn’t see or hear him, he was
rooting us on and aware of our every move and struggle and ready to help when
we needed it most.
As we were being towed toward the shore, I was not relieved
that we had been saved, I was not upset about being tired or stranded, I
wasn’t even angry at my sister whom I found out later had been hounding and
hounding Dad to let us go out in the boat until he relented and she climbed in
the boat, determined and satisfied with her little arms folded and her chin
held high. I had been blissfully fishing
on the dock hoping I wouldn’t catch anything today so that I wouldn’t have to
clean the poor little thing but I was suddenly being strapped into a life
jacket and unceremoniously plopped into the boat and we were shoved off to
follow the current to the center of the lake. No, I wasn’t angry at my sister and
I wasn’t even feeling embarrassed for our failed attempt. I wasn’t feeling any of those emotions, I was
just MAD. Madder than a bee in a bonnet
as my Grandmother used to say. Simply
and powerfully and honestly mad, mad because
no one had ever taught me how to row a boat. One shouldn’t be in the middle of a lake in a
row boat not knowing how to row!
Here’s a photo of us being
rescued. I’m the blonde with the angry
grimace.
I read recently that Mysteries without solutions are Miseries. But at 5 I had already determined that the
mystery of how to row a boat would not ever be a misery to me again and you
know what?….I learned how to row.
When Dale died. I
didn’t know how to be a widow. I didn’t
know how to be alone. There were so many
things I didn’t know, so many mysteries and unanswered questions. I have been on this journey for 1 and ¾ year
now. It has been hard. It was as if I had once again, through no
desire of my own, been unceremoniously plopped into a row boat that I didn’t
know how to paddle. But like then, I have oars, (my hope and my belief), I have my sister with her compassionate and
unconditional love and I have a loving Father in Heaven who comes to my rescue
on nearly a daily basis. I’ve learned
that losing Dale, although it was the most painful, difficult thing I have ever
experienced has given me understandings and challenges that I would never have
had any other way. Without these
mysteries I am facing, I wouldn’t be learning that I can do much more than I
knew I could do and that I know much less than I thought I knew.
I now know more about life, more about love, more about
friendship and family, more about myself and more about the Savior and our
loving Heavenly Father who gives us trials - some we hound Him for, other’s He gives
us so that we can learn and not to just learn to survive but to thrive. To be
better than we thought we could be, to be stronger than we thought we could be
and to know more than we thought we needed to know.
The setting sun hit my eyes and I realized that the man
rowing the boat was nearly out of site now. I focused my mind on the memory of this
old photo, I’ve seen it enough times that I didn’t need it in front of me to be
able to look deep into my own 5 year old’s eyes and I seemed to hear my young self-tell
my old self; “We’ve solved mysteries before, we can do it again and with
Heavenly Father’s help, everything is possible”. I picked up the book, put it
into my purse and walked home enjoying the crunch of the leaves under my
footsteps not unlike the way a child would.
I stopped only long enough to drop my purse and keys on the kitchen
counter before I flipped on the light by my desk and sat down to my computer
and there it was the blank white page and that accursed blinking cursor. My
hands paused over the keys and….I decided I needed to have dinner….so I did, then
I decided I needed to dust so I did…then I looked for and found the rowing
photo and I connected once again to that brave and angry little girl and now my
fingers are typing and the words are spilling onto the page. It may be a feeble attempt but I am
back. I’ve taken the first step in the
solution of this particular mystery and I’ll keep working at it. Perhaps tomorrow I can draw?
I apologize for the lapse in getting the autobiography
assignments out. Here’s the next
one. Please don’t stop. No one can tell your story the way you can tell
it! And if you do get stuck, look deep
into yourself, you may actually have the solutions to your mystery and when you
also realize that God, our loving Father in Heaven has your rowboat safely in
tow, everything is possible. Let’s do
this!
Writing Assignment #8
A Childhood Experience that Helped to Define Me
For good or bad the experiences we had in our early youth continue to play a huge role in who we are today.
Give a detailed description in first person story form of a childhood experience (before you were 10 years old) that helped define who you are today. This can be anything, good or bad and it really doesn't have to be ONE defining thing, it is your Story so write about more than one if you feel like it. If you had to come to terms with this experience in your later years (or still as a child) share that wisdom. It will help someone down the road!
Write it up, print it out, put it in a binder labeled "My Story".
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