Our back deck really isn’t anything special.
Honestly, it should be torn down and rebuilt. A third of the original railing remains. The stairs keep rotting and breaking in half, no matter how many times we repair it. I made sure to get a tetanus shot this year because of all the rusty nails coming loose from the floorboards. Half is molded from the rain and half is way too close to the electric line for comfort. The whole thing is actually lopsided. It’s safe to say it is nowhere near up to code. At its very least it stands, steady and sound. This was what prompted me to shuffle downstairs towards my husband, with iPad in hand, saying, “I have a request.”
We bought the rust-red porch swing on sale at Lowe’s, overpriced but sturdy and soft. We* put it together in a day, and sat on it that night. Blake asked if I was happy and I said very—even though the view was so, so Raytown. Overgrown bushes. A yard that desperately needed someone with a green thumb. Power lines through the back. Neighbors with yappy dogs and questionable backgrounds.** A rotting privacy fence from a different era. It didn’t matter. I wasn’t in it for the scenery.
I was in it for the sound.
Crickets. Birds. Dust flung from Kevin’s paws when she chased after something. Screen doors opening, and closing. Latin music from the pool party three doors down. Sirens, sometimes. Neighbors laughing, or yelling for kids to come home. Cars shushing down the block. The woodpecker who would just not give up on our roof. An owl in our magnolia tree that was none too pleased at my presence. Cicadas that drowned out everything else. On luckier nights, fireworks from the stadium.
I do love stadium fireworks.
I needed a place to go when I ran out of steam, and time, and words. The neighborhood filled in the gaps. I didn’t have to say anything, and that was probably for the best.
I am in the middle of learning how to be a person again. I’m on month number 5 of recovering from an illness that left me reeling, hanging by a thread and wanting to quit. You wouldn’t know it from looking at me, and that may be the worst of it. I’m hanging in the balance—knowing that this could have been so much worse, contending with leftover terror of not seeing the morning come.
It made for some long nights.
It got to the point where I was afraid of falling asleep while it was dark, so I would start going to bed before sundown. I’d prop myself up on a half dozen pillows, crack open the window and listen to the birds. If I didn’t see the night, it couldn’t get me. And if that didn’t work, I’d go to the swing and rock until I dozed, burrowing under a weighted blanket like a five year old, moving to the couch to sleep sitting up before I drifted off too deeply.
I never said it was sound logic. And it was mournful. I used to be friends with the night. I liked being awake when everyone else was asleep. Dawn was the enemy, with its bright sun and loud noise, interrupting my blinky existence. I felt robbed.
Inevitably, in this new pattern, I would struggle through sleep and finally give up at around 5 or 6 am. The timing was just right to wrap in a blanket and head to the porch, where I settled back onto the swing and listened to a world that woke up slowly. My prayers whittled themselves down to a word, and nothing else. It was too early for words, and that was ok. The neighborhood filled in the gaps.
When the room was spinning and I was too weak to stand…when my face was drained of color and the tremors returned…when I felt like I couldn’t breathe and it was too overwhelming to even watch tv…somehow I could only find God and peace on a back porch. He sang me to sleep with barbecues and cardinals and car horns.
There are some things we go through that are not beautiful or inspiring or salvageable. Sometimes they are only hard. And ugly. And raw. I can’t muster positive imagery to offer from this. I can’t glean a bright eyed post that is motivating and tied up in neat little bows.
Maybe someday.
Until then, I’ll tell you what I told me, rhythmically, repeatedly, even though I couldn’t believe a kernel of them.
Joy is still possible. Even hope.
Be gentle with yourself, yes, even now.
If all you can do is make it, then that’s enough.
You are allowed to grieve what has happened to you.
You are braver than you think—even though you stood in the middle of your kitchen with tears in your eyes, telling your husband that you aren’t brave at all.
Believe your therapist when she tells you you are kicking ass and taking names.
And maybe, in the thick of it, when you can’t figure out why this happened or where the purpose of it is hiding, you turn into someone who greets the morning.
I know I did.
Footnotes:
*Ok, BLAKE put it together. I had…reasons.
**Honestly the guy with the face tattoo is very nice if you get to know him.
