Exploring Creativity
The stretchy stirrup pants are beyond their original navy blue. They have faded and no longer fit. They’re too worn to donate. I keep them tucked in the back of a drawer because they hold in their fabric the autumn of 1985: the house on the lake, my youth, the promise of the life I wanted to live.
This is the 28th story in the Objects as Waypoints Writing Project series.
There is one spot on this entire earth I hold most dear in my heart. It’s a place that was created when a huge boulder rolled from a mountain eons ago, landed in the Coal River about 20+ feet away from the steep bank, and created a flow around at the Lower Falls in St. Albans, West Virginia.
Its position created a shallow creek-like area hidden from the road above by the towering trees. It also served as a barrier from the deadly current on its other side.
During the years of my youth, the rock was host to hundreds of picnics, campfires, and solitary visits. It bore witness to the never ending hunt for crawdads, rock skimming contests, and foolish moments when I tested the limits of my luck by stepping close to the drop off. I would get lost for hours staring into the murky green depths of the swirling water.
At 37 years old, I shared the fond memories of my time spent at the rock with the man I was dating. He listened when I told him stories about how I rode first my pony, then later my horses, down the bank to the stream.
He heard how the rock was my solace, my friend, my respite.
He said he wanted to be those things to me in June of 2000, in his suit, on bended knee in the gravel, beside the Coal River, an opened jewelry box in hand. The roar of the falls nearly non-existent as I heard him ask me to spend the rest of our lives together.
This is the 27th story in the Objects as Waypoints Writing Project series.
For 20 years, I’ve kept one of those touristy OBX license plates hanging on the wall near my workspace. It’s a reminder of a vacation my husband and I almost didn’t take in 2002.
The day before departure, my doctor called and said I may or may not have Hodgkin’s disease and it would be several weeks before I could see a specialist or know for sure. We debated whether to go but reasoned if the results were worse-case, then it might be a long time before another getaway could happen.
We tent camped in the Frisco Woods on Hatteras Island, facing the Pamlico Sound, nestled within a sparse tree line near the water. The “what if” conversation we avoided clung to us like the sweat drenched clothes that wouldn’t dry in the July heat.
One night, we woke when our tent felt like it was about to take flight. Rain pummeled the nylon walls. For hours, the wind howled and snapped the tie lines between the tent and the trees. The radio was static and there was no cell signal.
We held hands in the dark and together weathered both Tropical Storm Arthur and the inner cyclone of our greatest fear. It was here I learned of a place of peace within I never knew existed.
This is the 26th story in the Objects as Waypoint Writing Project series.
In 1992, when my daughters were 8 and 2, we camped at Cave Run Lake in Kentucky. At the visitor center I found a book titled “Walk When the Moon is Full,” where the author describes 13 moonlight walks with her children and their nature observations. I fell in love with the idea and started the practice that summer.
The book spoke to a 28-year-old sleep deprived mother who was short on imagination.
I don’t know why I didn’t document the expeditions. Life got in the way. Priorities shifted. Years passed, the girls grew up and moved away, and the book got lost in the shuffle.
Enter my curious young granddaughter, Ellie.
I located a copy of the now out-of-print book to share with her and began the practice once again in 2021.
The book spoke to a 57-year-old grandmother and writer, eager to recreate the magic of full moon walks and record the adventures.
This past year we’ve walked together eight times when the moon is full and I’ve written stories about each one. I even illustrated a few.
This morning I looked up the author, Frances Hamerstrom and see she passed away in 1998. I googled the illustrator, Robert Katona and see he’s a wildlife artist of world renown. He’s also an expert falconer and the first artist in North America to paint falconry art. He is the innovator of the acrylic flow painting technique and created a form of art called Techism. I am in awe of his talent and work.
Today the book spoke to a 58-year-old artist always open for inspiration from those who have come before me.
This is the 25th story in the Objects as Waypoints Writing Project series.
Early October, 2014
I have little time left to live, if you want to call my existence living. Months spent on two waiting lists. Two false alarms. One liver wasn’t viable and I don’t remember the reason for the second rejection.
Frequent visits to the clinic are mandatory to determine rank on the waiting list based on many factors, like lab results from blood work. Every trip sucks life from my unsteady body.
I am ready to stop it all. The endless needle pokes, blood transfusions, tests, and waiting in limbo.
In the restroom I look in the mirror at my jaundiced skin, balding head, and bloodshot eyes and say to myself, “This must be how it ends, this is it,” to the stranger who stares back.
I will never get the call. There will never be a match. My hope is gone.
I splash water on my face and when I open my eyes; I see it. A rock where no rock should be, right there on the sink. It’s painted bright blue with white lettering.
Don’t ever give up.
Even though my brain is foggy, I grasp the magnitude of this magic. The timing is impeccable. Somewhere deep within my unreliable body, a dam explodes and every cell floods with warmth. A tingle of hope goosebumps my flesh.
I stash the newfound treasure in my jacket pocket and walk with a lighter step back to the waiting room.
I do not know who placed this rock in a restroom at the University of Kentucky Transplant Center. But I’ve kept it in honor of a stranger’s kindness and how it nudged me toward the path to keep living. A simple but powerful reminder that good things will happen. And they did. I received a liver transplant a few weeks later on October 22nd.
A few years after my surgery, I read about Megan Murphy, founder of The Kindness Rocks Project™️ and joined in the practice of creating messages on rocks and placing them in the community for others to find. It’s a small way to give back for the kindness I found in one of my darkest hours.
One message at just the right moment can change someone’s entire day, outlook, life.
Yes, it can.
This is the 24th story in the Objects as Waypoints Writing Project series.
To learn more about organ donation or become a donor, visit Donate Life.