the objects

But I survived

I discovered kayaking in the spring of 2019 and spent the summer paddling flat water most weekends with my husband. We enjoyed the sport recreationally, but when I saw the ad for a fun float and race in October, I signed us up.

We showed up at the Big South Fork of the Cumberland River in Kentucky for the 4-mile fun float and race and I’m still surprised to this day; I wasn’t laughed off the boat ramp.

I’m sure there were snickers and whispers. I had brought a 75 lb. monster of a kayak, and it was probably the biggest one among all the sleek boats. I consoled myself I was there for the fun float portion of the race.

My husband was there mainly for moral support in his canoe and when the gun fired to start, I was already in last place. He paddled along the bank nearby while I kept a steady rhythm, keeping my eyes on the yellow plastic inflatable in the bend a mile away. The goal was to paddle around it, come back, then do it again.

I reached the turning point and was ready to call it done. I had paddled over 40 miles that summer, so I thought surely I could do 4 miles, but it was just too much.

I limped back to the start line and told the official it was my finish line and dropped out. We paddled around on the sidelines and cheered the other racers.

Later, we attended the awards ceremony held at the Whistle Stop Cafe. When the 4-mile fun float and race winners were called, they awarded only 1st and 2nd places. Since there were only three people in the race and one dropped out… Had I stayed in and finished, I would have had 3rd place, by default.

But that wasn’t why I entered the race. I had been curious about that world and it scared me to enter, even at a novice level, and I wanted to see if I could do it.

There’s a quote printed on my racing bib, “Don’t live down to expectations. Go out there and do something remarkable.” — Wendy Wasserstein

I keep the numbers pinned to a board as a reminder it’s important to break out of my comfort zone and that sometimes when I do, remarkable things can happen.

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This is the 45th story in the Objects as Waypoints Writing Project series. Stories 43 and 44 are out on submission.

In the late 90s, I was in transition and untethered. Between relationships. New job. It was a trying time, but I was fortunate to have my friend Eliza as an anchor.

We met through work, but our friendship extended beyond that. Marathon phone calls, vacations together, shopping, recipe exchanges.

One summer, our favorite radio hosts John Boy and Billy, from The Big Show, appeared at the Charleston Regatta in WV to host a concert. Eliza asked me to make posters for the event and when I grumbled, “Why me?” She quipped, “Well, you ARE the creative one…”

It became a running personal joke over the years and then in 2000, when it was time to renew my car tags, I adopted the label on a personalized license plate.

It was the same year I wrote a column, developed my first website, painted a mural, and lived up to the nickname the CREATIV1. The DMV has a limit of 8 characters, so I had to get, well, creative.

I only had the license plate on my car for a year, but have had the friendship with Eliza for 23.

Now the license plate hangs on my wall, and I know Eliza is just a phone call away.

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This is the 42nd story in the Objects as Waypoints Writing Project series.

Mine began as a junk room and I gave it a makeover. Over the past six years, it’s changed appearance and usefulness, but remains at its core purpose, a home for creative expression.

Having a dedicated spot to honor and practice creative activities has been a life-changing for-the-better experience.

If you can carve out a go-to space for yourself, I highly recommend it.

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This is the 41st story in the Objects as Waypoints Writing Project series.

The first few years after my liver transplant, the dormant artist within wakened. Everything was a blank canvas, and I painted in makeshift areas; the garage, kitchen, den. Art supplies and half-finished projects crowded our normal living areas.

In May 2016, I learned of an art challenge called ICAD, or Index Card A Day. The idea is to create something on an index card every day for 61 days in June and July. It’s about sparking creativity and developing a regular creative habit.

I read more about it at Daisy Yellow Art and it seemed like a perfect fit to channel my newfound artistic energy, so I bought a pack of 4×6 index cards and some new pens and pencils (art supplies—yay!) and became an ICADian on June 1st.

One reason I felt comfortable taking part was this message on the ICAD website: “This is about sparking creativity. The work you create does not need to be good — or defined / classified by others as art.”

Exactly what I needed to hear. Every year, there’s a list of optional prompts, and I followed them. The very first card I made was a response to “Mix Tape.” As you can see, I took it literally. I used my creative muscle. It felt great.

Over the next six years, I tried new techniques, stretched my comfort zone, and improved my skills. The best part, though? The connections and friends I made in the ICAD community and the support I felt. I was not alone.

The box I keep may be full of 4×6 index cards, but it also contains things unseen. The fragile first steps of a journey, the courage to begin. Proof that when I show up, I can produce a body of work. And that when I am open to creativity, gentle and powerful changes happen within.

So really, it’s a box full of magic.

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This is the 40th story in the Objects as Waypoints Writing Project series.

Mom asks me to take a few days and clean out the mountains of boxes and debris packed high in her three-car garage. She offers, “If you do it now, before I die, it’ll be easier—you won’t be sad.”

She has a point there, although I suspect she simply wants to get her car in there.

During the project, I uncover 27 wristwatches, 6 metal garden sundials, 5 clock radios, and 2 chintzy clocks. None of them found together. As if she bought one, put it away, and it became buried. She couldn’t find it, so she bought another one. Over and over.

In one box I find a fragile hourglass. It’s filled with shimmery, aqua colored sand. No framework protects its delicate structure. I flip it over and watch the sand form a crumbly pyramid in the bottom globe.

I place it in the tub of things I want to keep and think about the concept of time.

If I live to be a hundred, I’m already a little past midlife, my mom, further along. I ask myself how I want to spend the rest of our time together.

If I’m judgmental and critical, it won’t change a thing. I could share with her the list of grievances I’ve accumulated and nurtured over the years. All the missteps and slights I’ve felt. All the times she was less of a mother than I expected her to be.

Then I think of my daughters and all the times I’ve misspoke, made missteps, and messed up. All the times I was less of a mother than what they expected. Ouch.

I wonder how much head space I could free up if I took my negative scorecard and do with it what we are going to do with most of this stuff: donate it.

I consider the possibility my mom is simply human and I see her in a new light. With the piles of stuff gone, I can actually see her, period.

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The hourglass sits by my desk and when I flip it over, it reminds me we don’t have forever. I hear the sand whisper forgiveness, and I pick up the phone and call Mom.

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This is the 39th story in the Objects as Waypoints Writing Project series.