September 1, 2012

I bought Cheryl Strayed's Tiny Beautiful Things: Advice on Love and Life from Dear Sugar the day before my bomb went off.

it's been breaking my heart pretty consistently all week, every single page of it seeming to reach out and sock me in the gut or hold my hand.

I read this particular excerpt while I was sitting on the stoop outside my apartment. I sat and read it six times in a row and sobbed. I present it with no additional commentary.

the ordinary miraculous

Dear Sugar,

The general mystery of becoming seems like a key idea in many of your columns. It’s made me want to know more. Will you give us a specific example of how something like this has played out in your life, Sugar?

Thank you.
Big Fan


Dear Big Fan,

The summer I was 18 I was driving down a country road with my mother. This was in the rural county where I grew up and all of the roads were country, the houses spread out over miles, hardly any of them in sight of a neighbor. Driving meant going past an endless stream of trees and fields and wildflowers. On this particular afternoon, my mother and I came upon a yard sale at a big house where a very old woman lived alone, her husband dead, her kids grown and gone.

"Let’s look and see what she has," my mother said as we passed, so I turned the car around and pulled into the old woman’s driveway and the two of us got out.

We were the only people there. Even the old woman whose sale it was didn’t come out of the house, only waving to us from a window. It was August, the last stretch of time that I would I live with my mother. I’d completed my first year of college by then and I’d returned home for the summer because I’d gotten a job in a nearby town. In a few weeks I’d go back to college and I’d never again live in the place I called home, though I didn’t know that then.

There was nothing much of interest at the yard sale, I saw, as I made my way among the junk — old cooking pots and worn-out board games; incomplete sets of dishes in faded, unfashionable colors and appalling polyester pants — but as I turned away, just before I was about to suggest that we should go, something caught my eye.

It was a red velvet dress trimmed with white lace, fit for a toddler.

"Look at this," I said and held it up to my mother, who said oh isn’t that the sweetest thing and I agreed and then set the dress back down.

In a month I’d be 19. In a year I’d be married. In three years I’d be standing in a meadow not far from that old woman’s yard holding the ashes of my mother’s body in my palms. I was pretty certain at that moment that I would never be a mother myself. Children were cute, but ultimately annoying, I thought then. I wanted more out of life.

And yet, ridiculously, inexplicably, on that day the month before I turned 19, as my mother and I poked among the detritus of someone else’s life, I kept returning to that red velvet dress fit for a toddler. I don’t know why. I cannot explain it even still except to say something about it called powerfully to me. I wanted that dress. I tried to talk myself out of wanting it as I smoothed my hands over the velvet. There was a small square of masking tape near its collar that said $1.

"You want that dress?" my mother asked nonchalantly, glancing up from her own perusals.
"Why would I?" I snapped, perturbed with myself more than her.
"For someday," said my mother.
"But I’m not even going to have kids," I argued.
"You can put it in a box," she replied. "Then you’ll have it, no matter what you do."
"I don’t have a dollar," I said with finality.
"I do," my mother said and reached for the dress.

I put it in a box, in a cedar chest that belonged to my mother. I dragged it with me all the way along the scorching trail of my twenties and into my thirties. I had two abortions and then I had two babies. The red dress was a secret only known by me, buried for years among my mother’s best things. When I finally unearthed it and held it again it was like being punched in the face and kissed at the same time, like the volume was being turned way up and also way down. The two things that were true about its existence had an opposite effect and were yet the same single fact:

My mother bought a dress for the granddaughter she’ll never know.
My mother bought a dress for the granddaughter she’ll never know.


How beautiful. How ugly.
How little. How big.
How painful. How sweet.

It’s almost never until later that we can draw a line between this and that. There was no force at work other than my own desire that compelled me to want that dress. Its meaning was made only by my mother’s death and my daughter’s birth. And then it meant a lot. The red dress was the material evidence of my loss, but also of the way my mother’s love had carried me forth beyond her, her life extending years into my own in ways I never could have imagined. It was a becoming that I would not have dreamed was mine the moment that red dress caught my eye.

I don’t think my daughter connects me to my mother any more than my son does. My mother lives as brightly in my boy child as she does in my girl. But seeing my daughter in that red dress on the second Christmas of her life gave me something beyond words. The feeling I got was like that original double whammy I’d had when I first pulled that dress from the box of my mother’s best things, only now it was:

My daughter is wearing a dress that her grandmother bought for her at a yard sale.
My daughter is wearing a dress that her grandmother bought for her at a yard sale.


It’s so simple it breaks my heart. How unspecial that fact is to so many, how ordinary for a child to wear a dress her grandmother bought her, but how very extraordinary it was to me.

I suppose this is what I meant when I wrote what I did, sweet pea, about how it is we cannot possibly know what will manifest in our lives. We live and have experiences and leave people we love and get left by them. People we thought would be with us forever aren’t and people we didn’t know would come into our lives do. Our work here is to keep faith with that, to put it in a box and wait. To trust that someday we will know what it means, so that when the ordinary miraculous is revealed to us we will be there, standing before the baby girl in the pretty dress, grateful for the smallest things.

Yours,
Sugar

4 comments:

  1. I was transfixed by this, and went and bought a copy of this book for a friend who is going through a heartbreaking situation of her own. Because I'm currently going through (yet another) heartbreaking situation of MY own, I lay on my bed and read the book before I gave it to her and cried. Thanks for introducing me to Tiny Beautiful Things. I need to go get my own copy now so I can finish it.

    ReplyDelete
  2. yet another! oh, rachel. <3

    I've reread certain chapters of it about a hundred times now. it came into my life at just the right moment. I'm glad I could pass it on.

    call me if you need hugs/slow painful runs (all I've got at the moment)/anything whatsoever. all my love, girl.

    ReplyDelete
  3. I almost texted you earlier in the week to see if I could join you at the convalescent home for sadness. :) I can't remember where you posted that, but I needed it at the time. I think I'll be alright. Just sad for a while. I'm glad to have friends like you.

    ReplyDelete
  4. you can always join me. I have extra blankets and endless movies. and books. I might have spent a decent part of yesterday intermittently weeping so I really get it. lots of love to you, girl. I'm glad to have friends like you, too. xoxo.

    ReplyDelete