WordSisters

Category: Personal Growth

  • The Mirror

    What a twelve-year-old learns to survive sometimes becomes the skill she uses decades later at a poker table.

    Lying didn’t come naturally to me. I was twelve when I realized, quite suddenly, that I wouldn’t survive my family’s chaos if I didn’t learn how.

    I stood in front of the assistant principal, heat climbing up my neck and into my face. I could feel the redness spreading across my cheeks. The corners of my mouth twitched. My eyes kept sliding away from his.

    He asked the question again.

    I tried to answer, but the truth was written all over me. My breathing had changed. My hands shifted at my sides. My face burned like a signal light.

    I remember thinking: This is a problem.

    That afternoon, when I got home, I went straight into the bathroom and closed the door behind me. I turned on the light and stood in front of the mirror. I shut the household noise off and stared at my reflection.

    I knew exactly what to do.

    I looked into my own eyes and said the words out loud.

    “I didn’t do it.
    I wasn’t there.
    It wasn’t me.
    I don’t know how that happened.”

    My face flushed immediately. My mouth tightened. My eyes shifted away.

    So I tried again.

    And again.

    I practiced until the red stopped rising in my face. Until my breathing stayed steady. Until I could hold my own gaze without flinching. I practiced until my shoulders relaxed and my voice sounded ordinary.

    I practiced until my body stopped betraying me.

    That was the day I learned that unless someone actually saw me do something, I could lie convincingly.

    When I was nineteen, I had a different realization.

    I was mowing the lawn on a nice summer day. I paused, looked to the sky, and watched the clouds drift.

    And it hit me.

    I was exactly where I had said I would be.

    No excuses.
    No stories.
    No explanations.

    Just the truth.

    There was freedom in that.

    A lightness.

    I remember thinking: This is better. I have no reason to lie anymore. I’m safe.

    I went back to the mirror. I stood there looking at myself and said, quietly at first, “I love me.”

    My eyes slid away from my own reflection.

    So I said it again.

    “I love me.”

    I stayed there repeating it until I could look myself straight in the eyes without my gaze moving off the mirror.

    “I love me.
    I love me.
    I love me.”

    It felt strange. Uncomfortable.

    Slowly the words settled.

    I believed me.

    Today, I still practice with a mirror.

    Before a poker tournament starts, I give myself the same quiet talk.

    “I love me.
    I’ve beaten everyone at this table before.
    I can beat them today.
    Play my cards.
    Trust myself.”

    Poker is about many things—math, probability, timing—but there is another part of it people don’t always talk about.

    Control.

    At the poker table, I can keep my emotions exactly the same whether I’m holding a seven and a two or a pair of aces. My breathing stays steady. My hands rest in the same place. My face doesn’t give anything away.

    No tells.

    Sometimes I think about that twelve-year-old girl standing in the bathroom mirror, practicing how not to show the truth on her face. She didn’t know it then, but she was learning something about herself, about discipline, about control, about surviving difficult moments without falling apart.

    Poker uses those same muscles.

    But it also asks for something more.

    It asks me to stay present.

    Every hand is a surprise. Every card an unknown. Sometimes the deck gives you everything. Sometimes it gives you nothing.

    And when it gives me nothing, that’s okay too.

    I can push my chair back, smile across the table, and say,

    “Nice game, ladies.”

    Because the real victory happened long before the cards were dealt.

    It happened the day I learned to look at myself in the mirror and tell the truth.

  • Write Anyway

    Every birthday I consider what the past year has brought and what I hope the upcoming year will bring. This year as I entered a new decade, my focus was also tempered by the awareness that my time isn’t unlimited, and I want to use it well. What will the coming days and years consist of? Family and friends, health upkeep, travel, fun and for me, writing. 

    At first, asking what role writing will play in my life seems silly. Creative writing isn’t something you have to retire from. I can write as long as the words and ideas come. But the deeper question is—What are my expectations about publication?

    Widely published authors like Stephen King and Joyce Carol Oates can continue publishing as long as they care to. It’s a different matter for the writers I know, who have a modest number of publications. Like it or not, the marketplace may decide for them. Because it’s a personal and potentially painful decision, writers don’t always discuss the dilemma.

    In the past 20 years, I’ve written two book-length memoirs, but I’m not seeking publication for either of them. I learned what I could about writing books, but it wasn’t enough. The real gift is what I discovered about myself through the writing process. I’m proud of myself for doing the work. I’m at peace with the idea the books won’t be out in the big world. 

    Instead, I’m focusing on writing short memoirs, essays and blogs. My talents and skills are better suited to short pieces. Most years I publish one or two. Not a breath-taking record, but enough for me. Knowing my words and ideas find an audience in an anthology, literary journal or blog is plenty. 

    Publication plays a small part in my commitment to writing. I write because it helps me make sense of my world.

    Two quotes sum up my outlook. The first comes from a blog by Amy Grier who was struggling with her writing and the state of the world in November 2020. Her thoughts are still relevant:

    “Writing tethers me to the world in a way nothing else does . . . I don’t know who will be president, what’s happening to my country, even what will happen to me. But I’m going to write anyway. It’s my remedy for despair. It’s how I will survive.”

    The next comes from an interview with Margaret Atwood, who offered a few rules for writers. After making practical writerly suggestions, she also said this:

    “Nobody is making you do this: you chose it, so don’t whine.”

    For as long as it pleases me I will honor my creative nature and write anyway.

  • Seeing Forward and Back

    I’ve cared for enough older women in my family to see the frailties I may have in the coming years. I’ve learned to be patient with their slower pace. I accept the extra steps they take to stay in charge of their lives—switching glasses and putting them away carefully and doublechecking locks. I already do that. I’m accustomed to the effort invested in maintaining dignity—looking where I’m walking, dressing comfortably, but well. So far, I’ve managed to avoid the flat bedhead spot so many older women seem unaware of!

    Some days I feel exactly how old I am. My hip twinges a little. Or I can’t think of a word and it comes back five minutes later. I have a wealth of experiences and insights but the wisdom to know I should refrain from giving too much unasked-for advice. At this stage of life, my outlook is measured. Realistic.

    Other days I feel like I’m fifty. Nothing aches. I’m energetic, ready to tackle big projects, and confident they’ll turn out well. The future is off in the distance and looks bright. I’m optimistic.

    My thirties are also vivid—relived through the lives of my daughters-in-law. Revived by their pregnancies and new motherhood. I remember how fascinating my changing body was and how much it mattered to have a few maternity clothes I really liked. 

    1989

    I haven’t forgotten the fog and overwhelm of life with a newborn. How every little thing worries you. I also know you can grow bored by the long repetitive days, no matter how much you love your child. How ready you can be to use your brain for something besides calculating the hours since the last feeding. But the sweetness of cuddling a sleeping baby tempers that restlessness.

    When my son hands me his baby, our past, present, and future converge.