A Wrinkle in Time... Pt. II

2008

The house was quiet tonight. Most of the gang had gone out for some bubble tea, but I had to work tomorrow morning and wanted some extra rest. Plus, I had a date on Friday. I really liked this new girl. Of all the ones I’d dated the past few years, I’d never been more excited than I was now. It had only been a week, but perhaps it would turn into something serious. It’d been a long time since I’d felt this way.

A crack of thunder reverberated through the old house and for a moment, dizziness overwhelmed me. I stumbled towards the front door.

Outside, the sky looked like a sea of shifting blackness. I slumped down on the porch and rubbed my forehead. Something was happening, but whether it was just a headache or the pressure from school getting to me, I wasn’t sure.

Rain started to fall. Not hard, but in gentle sweeps that belied the fierce crackling of thunder. In the distance, two bolts of lightning lit up the sky. When they did, I spotted a stranger at the end of my driveway. He was about average height and thick through the shoulders. His black hoodie hid his face. 

CONTINUE TO READ HERE

New Things

Rain slanted across my windshield as I pulled into Bayview Village. I parked at the edge of the lot. A narrow patch of grass and trees separated my car from the road.

“Well, that’s it for that contract,” I muttered.

I opened the window and lit a cigar. A cigar meant celebration, but I didn’t know if this success I’d enjoyed with this particular contract was something I wanted to celebrate. I didn’t know what to feel.

I’d spent most of my career in and out of schools. The nomadic nature of special needs work – of being brought in to help during crisis and being moved out when the crisis was over – made my job a transient one. I was used to moving on to whatever came next, but this one had been unlike anything I’d ever experienced.

I’d been lucky. Everyone, from the administration to the staff to the students, had been wonderfully accepting and respectful and empathetic for the entire contract. And today, my last day, they’d given me a card. Thanked me for what I’d done. And while I appreciated the gratitude, so rare in its own right, it was the empathy that made it so different.

It was the empathy that had changed everything.

My cell buzzed.

Dee.

I smiled when I read her text and stared back out the window. The leaves had just started to change color, and they danced in the rain, unmoved by the autumn chill.

I answered Dee’s text and sighed. I’d felt it all day. Felt the weight of my last year and the emotions strung along behind them. I felt them tugging at me, threatening to tip me over.

There would be other contracts. Other work. Other schools.

But this one…

My cell buzzed again.

I bit my lips. Trying to explain what it had been like and how this one contract had changed my life seemed impossible. And while Dee got it – she always got it – she hadn’t been there.

No one had.

Six Months Earlier

Sun glimmered red on the horizon as I pulled into the school lot. The trees in the school yard were just starting to get their leaves.  

“New day, new life,” I muttered, repeating a mantra that I’d started using in an attempt to move on from the explosion that had rocked my personal life. The mantra had yet to help.

I used it anyway.

I checked my laptop bag on the front seat. Everything was there. Whatever had happened in my personal life, however much the implosion of my marriage had drained me, I was determined to not let it affect my work. Over the past month I’d started to creep out of the emotional and physical debris – the inevitable result of my wife’s sudden departure – and was determined to start over.

“Just don’t bring it into your work,” I said softly.

I talked more to myself than I ever had, but considering the circumstances, was fairly certain that I hadn’t lost my mind.

Not yet, anyway.

The day went better than expected. The principal was welcoming. So was the rest of the staff. Even better, I did not think about my failed relationship the entire day. The particular case I’d been brought in to work on was too involved, too nuanced, and required my full attention. It wasn’t until I was heading home did I sink into my seat and reflect on the shattered remains of my personal life.

I hadn’t slept much since I’d suddenly become single, but that night I slept better. The days slowly piled into each other. Work was going as well as I’d hoped, and my relationships with the staff had tightened. They were – for me – an unusual bunch, in that they listened more than they spoke. I had determined to keep my private life separate, but time and space and the sheer rawness of my emotions conspired against me.

One day, it finally slipped out.

“Are you married, Stephen?”

“Um, no. My wife left me two months ago.”

Both Heather and Layla, the teacher and CYW I’d been paired with, stared at me. Silence descended on the room. I berated my tongue for its looseness and clamped my mouth shut.

You idiot. What are you doing?

“Oh, Stephen,” Heather said finally. “That’s awful. I’m so sorry.”

I pushed a smile onto my face. “It’s fine. Really.”

I was aghast at my error and swore that I wouldn’t do it again. I managed to keep that vow… for a week.

“I don’t know how you’re doing it,” Heather said the next week, her voice soft with compassion. “I mean, you’re doing a great job, but just to come here and deal with everything… I don’t know how you’re doing it.”

My lips quivered. I didn’t know how I was doing it either. The past two months I’d broken my day into thirty minute segments, all with the hope that time would close the fissure in my heart. I leaned heavily on my friends, who had rallied around me and promised me things would get better.

I was still a mess, however, and as the weeks passed, I shared more often than not. It was strange to come to a new work environment and not only feel welcome and respected in my job, but to find it a place of healing as well. I thanked God for bringing me there. I didn’t deserve the compassion from these almost-strangers, but I was getting it anyway.

By the time the school year ended, my confidence had reached new heights, and the remains of the emotional detonation no longer needed thirty minute intervals. The pain was still there, of course. So too, the hurt and anger and frustration. But the river had been dammed and the waters had begun to settle again.

I was almost myself again.

Almost.

TODAY

I watched the smoke curl up from my cigar and drift out the window. The rain had lightened. A young mother pushed her baby along the sidewalk in front of me. She paused to adjust the covers on the stroller, smiling down at her baby. Tears rimmed my eyes. Emotions played a massive role in our memories. And strong emotions – negative or positive – tagged our past in a way that allowed us to relive it. Learn from it. Bury it. It was a way for humans to hold onto good moments and deal with the ones that hurt the most.

Maybe that’s why my mind felt so jumbled. The school had been a place of healing for me, but it was also a reminder of where I’d been and what I’d gone through. So as much as it had helped me forge a new path, it also allowed line of sight into the most painful time of my life.

I rubbed my eyes. I could feel myself drifting back, remembering what the days had been like, how they’d crawled from one minute to the next, remembering how everywhere I went and everything I did reminded me of her. Reminded me of my failed relationship. Reminded me of my failure.

I still had moments where I berated myself for what had happened, and I still expended effort on “what if” questions, questions that haunted me less, but haunted me still. And yet, time had some done some healing. I could remember the emotions – the pain and hurt and sadness – but I could no longer remember her. Or us. The sun had hidden behind the clouds, and when it had finally emerged, we’d become strangers.

Sometimes I wondered if there’d ever been an “us,” or if that had been a construct. I wondered if every divorced couple asked that question. I wondered if it mattered.

I butted out my cigar. I hadn’t spoken to her in months, so those questions would forever remain unanswered. Maybe it was for the best. Sometimes the clean cut was the only way, even if it was painful. Even if it meant a lot of treatment and care. Even if it meant looking in the mirror and realizing the healing wouldn’t happen unless you had some help.

I thought about Heather and Layla. Thought about the way the rest of the staff had welcomed me. Thought about the principal, who had gone out of her way to praise my work.

My phone buzzed. Dee again.

I read her text and smiled.

My contract had ended, and my time with the best staff I’d ever worked with was over, but it seemed my luck hadn’t changed.

Not yet.

 -Steve

Uncomfortable

YESTERDAY

Sitting on the hard plastic seat was like sitting on concrete. A cold piece of cement wedged into my crotch. Why didn’t they make bikes more comfortable?

“Hey, Steve! You coming?”

I grimaced, but managed to smile as I jerked the handle bars straight. My client, Jerry, wheeled his mountain bike around like he’d been doing it forever.

“You’re slow!” he said.

“I’m coming.”

The group home had a few bikes that the clients were allowed to use, so long as they were accompanied by staff. Today, I was the lucky staff member. I cursed under my breath and began to pedal. It wasn’t even like spin class, and I’d hated spin class. Only the instructor had made it palatable.

The road tilted, and I overcompensated by swinging my handle bars to the right. I missed a parked old Civic by inches.

“Let’s go, Steve!”

I growled and followed my client down one of the back streets. Why was it so hard to pedal? Had I grabbed the only dysfunctional bike the group home owned? Why did people think this was a good idea?

There’d been a time when biking was a lot of fun. Until I’d bought a car. Cars were fun. They had padded seats. They were less complicated. And I never worried about driving into a parked vehicle.

I knew the refrain about riding a bike, about how it got easier and how once you learned how to do it you never forgot.

I could only snort. Yeah. I could do it. But it didn’t make it any less uncomfortable.

“Hurry up, Steve!”

I didn’t respond. My legs were already burning.

SHELTER

“Are you a cop?”

Three black teenagers stood loosely around a weathered table. We were standing outside. The sun was hot. They wore loose fitting clothes, and the one addressing me had a broad smile on his face.

“I’m sorry, what?” I said, struggling with his thick accent.

The teenager squared his shoulders and imitated a robot. “You a cop? You walk stiff. You have beard. Muscular.”

I shook my head. Smiled. “Nope. Not a cop. Youthworker.”

I was at a homeless shelter for young people. I’d been there for a week. I was the only white face in the entire place, staff included. It held forty five young people between the ages of sixteen and twenty four, and while I liked working there and enjoyed getting to know the kids, it was disconcerting to feel so pale.

I’d written often about privilege, talked about what it meant to be white and male and straight and all the advantages it held in our culture, but it was my first experience being such a distinct minority, if only for a short time.

“My name is Stephen,” I said, extending my hand.

He took it, laughed again, and introduced me to his friends. The shelter’s yard was dingy. A few picnic tables. Sparse brown grass. A rusted fence. Staff had laid out supper on a few tables. Huge silver tins with aluminum foil folded back over each one.

It’s impossible to imagine – with any idea about what it’s really like – to be a minority when you’ve never experienced it. I tasted it for a week, barely, in a work environment where I still held power and could leave to a more “regular environment.” So in a way it hardly counts. But it still gave me a glimpse of the challenges these youths faced, of the challenges that people of different cultures faced when they dared leave their country. I’d seen it before. Seen what happened when minorities spoke up and what it meant for them. What it cost them.

But it was a reminder.

And it was uncomfortable.

HOME

Cars stacked in a traffic jam below my balcony. Rush hour. I shook my head, grateful my work ended early. Sitting in a line of cars was stressful. Especially in a place like Toronto, where movement was tied to both efficiency and success. Hell, all you had to do was listen. You could hear it in the massive steel buildings that scraped the sky and the hundreds of thousands of people who packed the subway, their eyes empty and fully charged. If you weren’t getting ahead, if you weren’t full bore for whatever was next, you either lacked ambition or were falling behind.

And nothing was worse than falling behind.

My last month had felt that way. I’d worked nearly to the point of burnout. My place was a mess. I was still living in boxes. I was struggling to keep up with the bills and laundry and other basic tasks. I was grateful for the work, but it had come at a cost. I was still adjusting. Still learning to push the constant noise of the city to the side.

Still uncomfortable.

COMFORT

“Comfort” means different things to different people in different cultures, but we are all searching for it. Something to do with finding equilibrium about our circumstances. With reduced stress. Something more than just coping. It was a place that I, too, was anxious to find. It’d been a while since I’d experienced it.

We all feel that pull away from discomfort. I’m fine at work, when I’m with my kids, and when I can see the difference I’m making in their life. Or when I’m at the gym. Or when I'm at home, where I can call a friend and toss back a beer and relax. I can, and do, purposely avoid things that make me uncomfortable. I’m human. We’re all wired this way.

And yet, for all that the past couple of months hadn’t been "fun," they'd been rewarding. I’d learned new skills, gained confidence in a way I hadn’t imagined, found myself growing stronger as I faced each challenge – even if the challenge was as mundane as working sixteen of seventeen days without breaking down. I’d dealt with the stress, the discomfort, and the exhaustion. Dealt with it and surpassed my limitations.

That never would have happened if I hadn’t been pushed out of my comfort zone.

One of the great lies of society is that we should measure the status of our life by how we feel. If we “feel” good, which we often translate to ‘safe’ and ‘secure’ and ‘comfortable,’ than things are going well. This is true in everything from relationships to living conditions to our work.

And it is a lie.

Progress – spiritual, mental and physical progress – is never achieved when we are fully at ease. Though we try to avoid these situations, humanity is at its best when it is pushed and stretched and forced into new places.

For all my frustration about the summer, I’d been forced to go farther than I could remember, and my life had changed dramatically.

I wasn’t comfortable. I hadn’t liked it.

But I was better for it.

TODAY

I swiveled my handlebars around and coasted down the street, enjoying the cool breeze on my face. Heat swelled from the asphalt.

“Hey, Jerry? You coming?”

“Yeah!” he said, flashing me a grin as he peddled to keep up.

We passed a number of old houses that looked like they’d been around since the Second World War. One of them looked like it had been burned recently, with a blackened porch and smashed windows. It stood in contrast with the one beside it. A blue Honda Civic glistened in the driveway. Orange and red flowers dotted the porch.  

I twisted past a huge pothole. “So where do you want to go today?”

“Let’s go to the beach.”

 “Are you sure?” I asked him. “There’s a big hill to get there.”

“No problem. I can do it. I’ve done it before.”

I laughed. “Yes. Yes, you have.”

Of Weddings, Funerals, and New Beginnings

A piece of paper fluttered in the wind above my balcony as I opened my email. I clicked on my latest letter and read it quickly. I shook my head.

“Do I remember you?” I muttered. “Of course I remember you.”

It had been a difficult week. One of my great heroes had passed away a few days earlier and I’d been asked to speak at his upcoming funeral. The previous Saturday I’d gone to a wedding alone for the first time in over decade.

My life had been dramatically altered six months earlier. It hadn’t been pleasant. I’d spent most of my time surviving and was only now starting to find something akin to peace again.

But as I re-read the email, I felt a quickening. Felt my stomach dance. It was something I hadn’t experienced in a long time.

I took a deep breath, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. She’d asked me if I remembered her. Of course I had. Her email had caused my mind to overload on images. Pictures from a long time ago, when we were both teenagers. Pictures that made me smile. Would she consider meeting me for a coffee? The email hadn’t suggested anything like that, but it wouldn’t hurt to ask. I hesitated only briefly and began to type.

ONE WEEK EARLIER

Dust swirled in the parking lot as I pulled up to the Luna Gardens. It was hot, and sweat rolled down my face. The drive had taken longer than I’d expected, but I’d made it. I leaned over and pulled my suit jacket from the hangar and stepped out of the car. My “little sister,” my dear young friend who I’d known for nearly twenty years, was getting married. As excited as I was for her, it felt strange to move along the stone walkway to the grassy area where they’d set up the chairs and find a seat by myself.

I found one in the back. Couples surrounded me. I looked to the “altar,” where water splayed off the beach cliffs just beyond the minister. Sun glinted from a perfect blue sky. I checked the chair beside me. It was empty.

When the music began to play and the bridesmaids began the long walk to the wooden arch, I felt an ache form between my shoulder blades. I listened as my friend and her groom delivered earnest vows to one another, their love unmistakable. It was in every movement, every shift of their bodies. Tears rimmed my eyes. I’d never seen my little sister so happy.

When the wedding finished, I followed the crowd to the lounge. Dinner would be served in an hour. I chatted with the family, delighted to see them, but not recognizing anyone else, I took a beer into the parking lot to reflect.

As happy as I was for my friend, I found myself filled with emotion. I’d said those same words, those same vows, and yet the chair next to me was empty. I’d had time to process things this past year, but I still did not understand. Why me? Why was I alone? Why had my vows produced an empty chair?

A while later I wandered back into the crowd of strangers. It wasn’t easy, but it was good to be surrounded by happiness. And sitting amidst the revelry of new love, I smiled at the hope and laughter and love around me. These were the good moments, I thought. Life could be cruel, but it could also be incredibly kind.

This was a kind moment.

It wasn’t to last.

FIVE DAYS LATER

I sat in the second row with my parents, clutching my papers nervously. The funeral home buzzed with conversation. One of my great heroes had passed, and his son, a lifelong friend, had asked me to speak. Though I knew the contents of my speech, I was unsure whether I could deliver it without faltering. Mr. Lesco had been such an important figure in my life. A man of towering intellect and even greater compassion, he deserved the best. I’d practiced my delivery numerous times in my apartment. I’d broken down each time.

The faces at the funeral were familiar but not. Old teachers who’d become old. Old friends who’d become middle aged. Old memories that seemed fresher than they were. We were no longer young. I was no longer young. But we were there for a reason. When the MC called my name, I steadied my breathing and strode to the podium.

When it was over, I said good bye to my parents and retreated to my car. I opened the window, the sun hot on my arm. They’d said I’d done a good job. That I’d represented him well. That he would have been proud of me, (the greatest of compliments) his son had assured me.

Tears slid down my cheeks. I’d held strong through my speech and the funeral, but I could no longer contain them. Mr. Lesco was gone, and no words – no matter how pretty or sincere or well delivered – would bring him back.

I watched the wind swirl dust from the parking lot. I understood the cycle of life. Understood that people did not live forever and that death was not the end. Understood the cruelty and kindness of life.

It did not lessen the pain. Perhaps in time it would. But not now. Not tonight.

Mr. Lesco had suffered from chronic arthritis, a crippling and painful disease. Despite that, he had forged a life of love and compassion and empathy. I thought about what that meant. About what that meant to his colleagues and friends. About what that meant to me.

I thought about the email I’d received the other night, the one that had caused my stomach to dance. She had agreed to a coffee. Two decades had passed since I’d last seen her, but I’d felt a pull I hadn’t expected. I rubbed my cheeks. Not tonight. As much as I wanted to see her, I needed to grieve my hero. I pulled out my phone and reluctantly cancelled our meeting.

In the past week, I’d been to a wedding and a funeral. I’d gone to both alone. I knew that I was being taught something, but what it was I had no idea. Was I supposed to simply accept that life worked in cycles? That while things had gone badly for me the past year, others were experiencing different moments of the same cycle?

That seemed trite to me.

Yes, people existed in different stages, but why did we have to deal with such madness anyway? Why couldn’t we just live in a world that didn’t fluctuate so damned much? Why did everything have to be so unpredictable?

Unless, of course, you were in a kind stage. And if I was honest, I’d lived the greater portion of my life in those stages. As one of my old pastors used to say in regards to suffering, “this too will pass.” He was right, because I remembered other times in my life where the pain had felt like forever. It had passed. And even if I remained a bit scarred, hadn’t my old coach and mentor set the ultimate example for me? I put the car into gear, my tires crunching over the gravel at the edge of the parking lot.

…Nelson greeted me at the door when I finally returned home from my parents. I picked him up and rubbed his belly. His purrs reassured me that I was home. That I wasn’t alone. I put him down and strolled out onto the balcony. Traffic roared below me. A gust of wind snapped open my paperback on the small table beside the two deck chairs.

The hours on the road had given me the time I needed to grieve and reflect, enough to turn my thoughts back to the email. I thought about the twist in my stomach when I’d replied, the memories that had returned like they’d happened yesterday.

She’d told me not to worry about cancelling at such short notice. Told me that she understood. That it didn’t matter.

Maybe she was right. Maybe it was just a chance encounter, a throwaway email from an old friend kind enough to say some nice things about my writing. Maybe it was just a missed coffee with someone that had once meant a lot to me.

I smiled and picked up my cell.

Maybe not.