Vulnerability Is Worth It (she says through gritted teeth)
I will confess something that is perhaps strange.
My mom is little, but she has ideas that extend far beyond her size. One of those ideas is the absolute, this-is-not-a-debate practice of writing and sending thank you notes. And, as I was homeschooled, this did, of course, kill two birds with one stone. (Seriously, homeschool families are like, SHE JUST WENT TO THE BATHROOM! THAT COUNTS AS HEALTH AND BIOLOGY TODAY! PUT IT IN THE PORTFOLIO!) First, this prevented her mother from calling her, wanting to know if her granddaughter was still a proprietor of manners, or did that go out with all the bras my mom burned in the sixties? And second, this at least partly took care of language arts: a thank you letter could fulfill an entire lesson plan, proving to the Department of Education in the great state of Pennsylvania that I was, indeed, learning things.
On Christmas Day, we got to open gifts. The day after, we were blissfully unaware of the day of the week and even the time of day. But by the third day, we were all sitting at the dining room table, writing out thank you letters to various grandparents and aunts and uncles. If we still didn’t know the day, we quickly found out, because we knew how to write letters. The date went at the top right.
While quietly writing (I was a fourth child of five; I did almost everything quietly), I paused, stuck on the word “as.” Suddenly, my brain couldn’t recall exactly how to spell it. Was it really that short? Just two letters? I quickly fixed it by adding an “s.” Now the first line of my letter to Mimi had the word ‘ass’ in it. You guys, I have been a writer for as long as I can remember (personal journals, blogs, substack, and now one thick book!). And I have also tried not to be boring for as long as I can remember. I think I nailed both with that particular letter.
Anyway, I get to write some thank you letters again. I will try my very best to fit the word “ass” into at least one of them, but this is somewhat harder now that I both know what the word means, and know how to spell the word “as.” Also my job as a worship director might come into play. Although, I recently met a man in church who was cussing up a storm, as my mom would say. He paused, remembering where he was, and boldly declared that, like some kind of a papal dispensation to say the F word, the Lord has released him to cuss. I suppose this only applies to certain situations, though. Like an acute stubbing of a toe, a DMV that suddenly doesn’t accept the only marriage license you’ve ever used for all government documents to prove you are the same person as stated on your birth certificate (meanwhile your husband floats out on a cloud of patriarchal fairy dust, as he never had to change his name, but still gets to enjoy the blessings of marriage, as well as a brand new, shiny Real ID. Bless), while in church (why not), and of course, all thank you letters to grandmothers.
Here is the thing about being tasked with writing thank you notes. It means we are indebted. It means we are a tired little plant who has been tended to with care. Watered, and given all the things a horticulturalist would know to list if this were a horticulturalist’s substack. (And lest you think this is a horticulturalist’s substack, let me be frank: it is not. Perhaps someday, but today is not that day.)
See, my friend insisted on hosting a book launch party for me. And I was like, Ok, if you really want to. Then she wrangled more friends to do spectacular things like arrange a beautiful table of charcuterie (at the party, I heard someone say, “I didn’t realize there was going to be such wonderful food here,” and they were right. It really was wonderful and none of us realized it would be quite that lovely. What a gift to overhear somebody’s delighted surprise. So often we catch people in other kinds of surprise, but not when my friends’ are hosting. Then, only delight follows). Another friend arranged cascading flowers that looked like something you’d see in a magazine (or a substack authored by a horticulturalist). Someone printed out quotes from my book and scattered them around the venue. Someone else whose actual whole job is to film stuff came and filmed this event for free.
But let me back up. This event was happening on a Saturday, and by Thursday night I was convinced nobody was coming except maybe the hosts and definitely my husband, I guess, and I was thinking maybe it’d be better to let everyone off the hook. Declare a day off to the world. HERE ARE A FEW HOURS YOU GET BACK! DO WITH THEM WHAT YOU WILL!
But my husband said, “No, we are doing it,” and my friend said, “This is supposed to be fun, not fill you with existential dread?” And I said, “I hope I don’t sound ungrateful, I just feel deeply vulnerable and it turns out that is not a great feeling.”
But then Saturday came. And people came! There were some key people I thought would be there and weren’t. But more than this, there were a lot of people I didn’t think would come and they did. They proved me wrong. And it was a beautiful night. I didn’t feel horrible at all. I smiled a lot and it wasn’t fake. I got to read a new essay to a listening crowd (In college, I’d read all my essays to my parents before turning them in (my papers, not my parents. Thankfully, I’ve never had to turn my parents in). They’d sit on the couch, smiling and listening while I stood in front of them, beaming, with paper in hand (that basically sums up my entire homeschooling career minus the co-ops we did with other homeschooling families, which involved classes in which I was completely silent because, ew, people beyond my family and I was terribly shy). Imagine me reading an essay to my parents, but now surround my parents with other people, because thankfully, and much to my surprise, more than just my parents attended the book launch. And no, I didn’t go to any parties in college. I was too busy reading essays out loud to my parents.
At the launch, I got to answer questions about the book I just published. I got to talk about Luca, my son who is here and not here. People paid attention—and is there a greater currency in this world than attention? Isn’t this what the entire online universe is trying to hijack and sell for profit at all times? Isn’t this what we should be intentionally protecting and navigating? And when people just show up and give it to you—well, what an honor it is to hold their attention, even if just for an hour.
Do things that garner thank you notes. And yes, do them so that you will get thank you notes. I’m kidding. But we can’t buy genuine thank you notes from Hallmark or Amazon or even Etsy. It has to come spontaneously from a person with whom we’ve shared some kind of positive interaction. So, while usually throwing money at a situation can help, this one is all on us. We have to do kind stuff. I know it’s hard, but when you open up your mailbox and see a NON-bill that comes from a human who, with free will, decided to take the time to find a pen that works, write a date on the top right corner of some kind of paper or card stock, and then write out, like, at least five cohesive thoughts both to you and about you—you will know it will have been worth it.
Also, write thank you notes. You don’t have to cuss in them like I did in some of my best work to my grandmother. (But if you do, you don’t even have to give me the credit; I’ll let you bask in your own glory for that.) I’ve read that simply going through good experiences doesn’t necessarily stick in our psyche and help build new connections in our brain (like the connections that tell us being vulnerable is worth it! And letting friends help us celebrate is worth it, too!). We have to take time to process these good things by actually meditating on them. By turning them around in our minds. Writing a thank you letter goes hand in hand with having to think about whatever has motivated the letter in the first place. It will help our brains file it away, create a better, more grateful, formation within.
Here is where I will confess something that is perhaps strange. Writing and publishing a book about the death of my son felt less vulnerable than having a book launch party in my local community. I guess because when you write a book, it’s just “out there.” Whether or not your people buy it or read it isn’t in your face. You can pretend they have, or just decide they aren’t the type to read books, it’s not personal, etc. But when there is a party to celebrate you and the recent work you did, then you see who shows up. And conversely, who doesn’t. And I understand that sometimes people really do have plans or are sick and simply can’t make a certain date. But then there are people you thought surely would support you and the excuses they give for why they can’t attend leave you wishing they’d made something up. Something that makes you believe you’re a priority.
But also: the people who do show up are angels. They look at you square in the eyes and tell you of course they wouldn’t miss it, and they prove it: They didn’t miss it. It’s a steely, stable thing to be the kind of person who shows up for others. In grief, absolutely, but also in celebration. And especially when the celebration is all mixed in with grief, as this one was.
It’s a good thing to need to write so many thank you notes. My mom would be proud. My cup overflows. It is, at times, very hard to be human and constantly wrestling with our own demanding feelings. My dogs tend to be very happy. They seem to be happy with whoever shows up, and couldn’t care less about who isn’t here. I am not saying I want to be a dog, necessarily—they also eat dog food and sniff each other’s butts—but perhaps I could learn from them about contentment and just going for it. About focusing on who is here, who is so wonderfully here with me now.
Now my last bit of advice is this: if you do curse in a thank you letter to your grandmother, learn to spell in order to make sure you’re doing it on purpose. Also, okay, one more thing: let your people celebrate you and let those who don’t (for whatever reason—and there may be reasons we don’t see) off the hook.
My book Monochromatic Heart: on grief, love, and still being here is available now.
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