I had to dive into a digital haystack to find a word that had slipped from my grasp, one that someone once convinced me was sorely lacking in English.
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The word is ‘Ikstuarpok.’ It’s an Inuit word; when loosely translated means, “the act of waiting so anxiously for someone to arrive that you go to the window every few moments to see if they’ve arrived yet.” Those lucky enough to have cherished pets probably witness this frequently, as pets aren’t equipped to differentiate between permanent departure and a quick trip elsewhere and back home to safety.
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It also aptly describes the human emotion we feel after a tremendous loss. Despite a certainty that the person we anticipate will never again cross the threshold, we can’t stop ourselves from physically and mentally peering out, hoping against all rational hope that somehow, we are wrong. I’m certain it is very common, as it is usually expressed as the longing to hear someone’s voice for even one more minute or to spend one singular day with someone we grieve.
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We see resemblances in faces at the grocery store, hear a laugh that echoes through time, or catch a snippet of a melody that pushes us into the undeniable memory of the someone who forever eludes us. Harshest still, our treasonous minds lull us into a dream wherein we believe and feel the person who is no longer with us. Waking, we feel the agony of loss as if it were occurring again, the wound once again ripped open. No matter the pain, though, we relish the slight agony of loss, so powerful are our minds at recapturing memories.
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There’s also an English word that has sorrowfully departed our language: ‘overmorrow.’ It’s a word that means “the day after tomorrow.” It has an additional meaning. It evokes the hope and faith of a future in which we no longer feel the urge to look around, to jump up the window, or to see a face that is not there. We know that tomorrow will also hold surprise and wonder and perhaps we will be content to remember with love and fondness anyone no longer with us.
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Overmorrow.
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I wish it were overmorrow for some of my friends and that their windows were already full of sunshine, whether they peer from within or not.
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Category Archives: Personal
A Sample Xmas Story For a Friend
Below is a simple Xmas story I wrote for a friend, to post on his social media page. He had a good scare a few weeks ago. While we don’t see one another often, we once shared a huge overlap in family and concern.
I tried to keep the story simple. I could have worried about how me might interpret it or create imaginary consequences and either made it lukewarm or ineffective. Like life, though, we are going to be misunderstood by so many no matter who careful we are or the words we choose.
Post: “This is a Christmas story. Like all good stories, it wouldn’t have an impact if people we know and love weren’t major cast members to the plot.
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Everyone knows the story of Santa’s letter to Virginia, beseeching her to hold out faith in Santa. It’s one of the most powerful messages known to us as a culture.
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Many of us prance through life, confident in the magical stories of our childhood: Santa’s reward on Christmas morning, the reindeer diligently traveling the world, showering young hearts with the things they most desire, or even of the ritual of surprising Saint Nick with cookies and milk. (Or a shot of whiskey and a plate of potato chips if we really want to make Santa smile with glee…)
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However, there is a dark side to the season. No moment is more sombrous than that in which an adult realizes that his or her family and friends no longer believe in the miracle of Christmas and all that Santa brings to us..
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Several years ago, I had the unfortunate experience of seeing such a somber occasion. I watched in horror as Mark Adams looked around the room at the faces of those he loved, growing increasingly certain that they no longer believed in Santa Claus. It’s a moment which often knocks without invitation in my mind, usually as the season approaches, even as my anticipation of the yuletide days encroach on the calendar.
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Despite my reluctance, I decided to take a photo of his distress. I did so as a remembrance to vow never to deliberately or inadvertently endeavor to lessen another person’s sense of wonder toward the world. That picture is the one accompanying these words. But don’t despair! Christmas stories inevitably come around to a time of surprise and good resolution. Be of cheer, so the saying goes.
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Mark’s belief in Santa didn’t abate on that day, however. As family and friends hugged him and gave him gifts, the spirit of both Santa Claus and Christmas renewed itself. It seems trite to say it, but the spirit of Christmas is best increased by those we treasure.
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Today, Mark is a happy, content fellow and Christmas is his yearly reward. As Mark lies down to slumber on Christmas Eve, he thinks of his own son, Jaxon, wondering if visions of Santa fill his youthful head, too. Of Shawndie, as she balances the weight of family and frivolity. And he smiles, hoping against all hope that those he loves can come to believe and renew their happy abandonment of the pressures of the daily world.
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Magic floats in the air, waiting for each of us to reach for it, embrace it, and spread it to others.
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As we do, might we live happily ever after?” (End of post.)
A Sample Birthday Social Media Post
I wish everyone would take a few moments and do something interesting for their close friends and family on social media. We don’t have to spend hours of our cramped free time to surprise someone – and we don’t have to do it every time someone has a birthday or special occasion.
Below is an example of a typical FB birthday post I did. I took an old, familiar joke and personalized it. I also made a picture and while this particular one isn’t multi-layered, it used a running joke I have with the birthday girl. My friend resembles Helen Mirren, so I tagged her in the photo to further confuse friends and family. I usually don’t stress about getting it perfect, or if there are errors. If the effort and thought don’t shine through, it was going to fall flat anyway.
Post: “Since it is Marilyn Fisher’s birthday, I thought it best to deviate from the expected trite social media post. In order to pay homage to the birthday anniversary of Marilyn, it seemed more appropriate to share a personal anecdote, one that demonstrates her level of personal warmth and humor.
I first met Marilyn a few years when she and Larry resided in Northwest Arkansas.
I had left my car parked on Holcomb Street so that I could walk along the tree-lined sidewalks of Maple Avenue, leading to the hospital in Springdale. It was a beautiful, serene spring late morning and I was admiring the quaint houses, decorative fences and the variety of birds.
About 100 yards along Maple Avenue, I looked up and saw a tall, older gentleman casually walking along the same side of the road as I was. His hands were in his pockets. He was wearing a bowling hat, a bright green shirt that had the name “Larry” printed above the pocket, and I could hear him humming the first verse to the “Ukulele Song,” his feet stomping to the rhythm in his head.
As he approached me, he suddenly stopped in his tracks and turned toward the wooden spruce fence on my side of the road, peering fixedly at it.
I listened intently.
I heard someone softly chanting “Thirteen, thirteen, thirteen, thirteen.”
My curiosity had gotten the best of me, so I cautiously moved past “Larry” and toward the wooden fence along Maple Avenue. I could see a hole in the fence slightly higher than waist level. Again, the soft whisper of “thirteen, thirteen, thirteen, thirteen” could be heard over the trees rustling overhead.
I leaned down as close as I could to the fence, trying to look directly through the hollowed out hole in the fence. The second I peered through the hole, a finger darted through it and poked me right in the eye!
Then, the chanting changes to “fourteen, fourteen, fourteen, fourteen.”
I hear Larry howling with laughter behind me.
That is how I met Marilyn (from beyond the fence) and her husband Larry for the first time.
It’s how I also discovered how Marilyn used her lunch breaks at work, trying to get to “thirty” with their well-choreographed ruse by the sidewalk fence.
She still calls me “Fourteen” to this day.” (End of post.)
In the comments, I added specific details about when the fake picture was taken, the circumstances, etc. Most people have a great sense of humor; even if they do not, they often play along in the ridiculousness of the story and details.
All I ask is to consider telling a personal story or be a little creative. Social media is only as good as what we put into it. If you are nervous about the risk of not being funny, or worse, not being engaging, don’t be. Trying to make personal connections through laughter or sharing is almost never a mistake. If you are nervous about sharing on social media, it might not be the best idea for you to use it except as a connection tool.
A Moment In Time
Early December fiery 5 o’clock sun signaling its defeat and imminent rest for the night.
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Behind, a fire truck pulls forth, signaling the close of a day. A squirrel braves the cooling pavement, dashing wildly.
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Ahead, the festive lights of the square blaze by unseen hand and invisible switch, the season of mirth and merry heralded.
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A jogger, a biker, and ambling walkers approach, their demeanor one of determination and process. None sees that the sun sets for them, too, but perhaps not today.
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Below, the recent widower arrives first; his tired gait a testament to his apt fatigue. A door is held open and he enters, frightened of a possible future absent his own heart.
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A childhood friend, alone, reluctant, marching toward the relentless and yet singular ritual, hands in pockets, shuffling.
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We are all observers, watching even ourselves from our own windows, peering askance at others traveling, peculiar yet familiar, not wishing to look directly at our shared loss.
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A gathering of souls trapped in their bodies, gathered to witness and cherish one of their own. Laughter, hugs, memories and the discomfort of failed words, all tinged with appreciation.
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For a delicate moment, brief as it may be, they swim together in love, toward one another, bonded by an absence that burns.
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A whisper, a tickle in my mind. “Let my life be so,” I ponder, a secret smile touching my lips.
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Let me return to my hazy nap, the world receding, taking its perpetual promise of unknowing with it.
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Hers was a fine life, the fruits of which are still ripening, not soon to fade from memory. Her eyes now averted toward another promise, a good life, a good person, a world of friends and family.
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PS: “Life is never more meaningful than in our shared small steps, nor more appreciated than in times of bittersweet regard.”
The World Slowed For a Moment…
The world turned a little slower for me today. Here is a link to something I wrote quite a while ago. Life crept up behind me and reminded me how true these words are, even today. I hope everyone has the chance to have a Barb in their lives.
My Uncle Looks Like Psy
Psy, the Korean pop superstar, has a couple of incredibly cool songs out (Videos in comments). It hit me: this guy resembles both my mom and an uncle of mine, especially in the “Napal Baji” video. I’m posting a relevant picture of my mom as a reference, because my uncle would kill/murder/bludgeon me if he saw his picture on the internet. (Even if he looks so much like PSY I can’t unsee it.) If my mom were alive to see this, she would first offer a string of curses at me and then say something like, “Lord, what foolishness you get up to!” And 3 years later, ask me to see it over and over.
A Frivolous Post
Unamused: adjective describing my wife yesterday. My stepson and his soon-to-be-introduced-to-us girlfriend were coming over to dine with us. Unbeknownst to my wife, I had strategically and prankishly placed a pair of my clean underwear on top of the front door wreath. Sort of like an ice-breaker? In my defense, in some small way it was a logical thing to do, as people generally fail to notice dust on the furniture or unswept floors when confronted with intimate apparel on the main house door. It is sort of like when I put on a kettle of sauerkraut before visitors come over; by doing this, I can mask all the other weird house smells and simultaneously invoke the rule that visitors can’t openly be contemptuous of one’s food choices, no matter how putrid the stench might be. Shockingly, my prank failed to earn the equivalent of an Academy Award for Great Ideas.
PS: If you need to reduce your guest’s expectations, another good tip is to announce that you’ve made cake and ice cream for dessert. After dinner, place a full fruitcake in the middle of the table, accompanied by the herpes of ice cream delicacies, mint chocolate chip ice cream. While I love fruitcake, mint chocolate chip ice cream is diabolical and in either case, it is likely that there is not one person crazy enough on the entire planet who likes both fruitcake and mint chocolate chip ice cream.
(This post brought to you by Good HouseCreeping.)
This picture is unrelated: after eating at the delicious Panda Express in Springdale yesterday (5 stars of deliciousness, by the way), I drove the loop behind the retail center near I-49, assuming it would indeed loop. Instead, the road simply ended in a foliage-infested roadway. It was far more interesting than my description might make it seem.
This is either a picture of an impending drug deal, or one of my sister-in-law and wife arriving for some delicious Mexican food several days ago. I’ll let you choose.
I wanted to post this example of the type of weirdness that seems to surround me, even while “working.”
Dawn made me buy my own “time-out” bench. The increasingly cold weather hasn’t swayed her one iota in making me use it two or three times daily.
Taken at our last house. The cat is sleeping like a failed gymnast because he’s tired, not because of Dawn’s foot proximity. FYI.
A Small Follow-Up To The Plane Crash Story…
“People say they want to know the truth, but what they really want to know is that they already know the truth.” Max Klein, “Fearless”
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After I posted again last week ( CLICK H-E-R-E ) about the pilot who crashed on my residence in 1991, I got some interesting responses. A friend and contemporary who I connect with only on facebook reached out and shared part of a personal story and perspective related to ‘my’ crash.
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My friend had met the deceased pilot in passing, after having spent time with other pilots around the United States when younger. It was a big part of their life. So, the friend got to experience part of the impact on me from both an insider’s and outsider’s perspective. It is truly a small world. It’s a story I was unaware of and would have never known had my friend not reached out to share a slice of perspective from the other side. I was grateful to know that my small story had connected to another person in a meaningful way.
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Writing is often like throwing stones into the dark. I know that people are reading it who don’t comment and that most content doesn’t connect. But I don’t throw the stones for the reaction.
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The concentric circles of coincidence and how connected we all are still surprises me, even after living through thousands of insights. https://xteri.me/2015/06/19/sonder-and-sonderous/
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Even after I posted the airplane story again, I had a few people who still thought it might not be true or that it was just a clever story. I’m no Ben Carson on this one. It’s too strange to be untrue. Like so many other things, it is both a small part of my life and a big impact into who I am today.
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“You told me I was going to be safe with you.” (Carla) “You’re safe. You’re safe because we died already.” (Max) “Fearless”
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“Fearless” is a movie from 1993, starring Jeff Bridges. (It’s also a novel by Rafael Yglesias.) Jeff’s character is a normal person until he survives a horrific plane crash. Surviving the crash changes him dramatically. I’ve watched the movie 5-6 times and each time I do, it revives the macabre laughter in me that awakened even further after being on the ground under a crashing plane.
Best Selfie Ever?
Post from social media:
“Weird. It is almost like no one recognizes me. But I got a lot of waves and laughter as I walked
to my car.”
Before leaving work, I had an inspiration. I grabbed a large brown paper bag, ripped it across and then ripped two eye holes, stuffing my glasses on as an anchor. I left work and walked to my car, along a very busy road. People were gawking, laughing, waving, and pointing. It was great fun.
Some people say I have never looked better in my entire life. And my laugh lines and wrinkles are virtually gone. I may be on to a new type of product!
I wish life were always so carefree. For just a few cents and a little willingness to come across as stupid, I got a great dose of fun out of an otherwise mundane activity.
A Saturday Twilight
(I wrote this in a flurry, without much regard for observed rules of writing. The moment described still lingers.)
I sometimes wonder.
Out and about in the twilight on a Saturday night, visiting a store I hadn’t been to in years. My quest was a simple one: to find a pecan pie, after having been denied in more than one stopping place. Sometimes, a dreadful, anticipatory feeling washes over me and I am certain that nothing good will come of the moment or that I have made a grave error in exiting the bed that morning. This was no different. The air felt heavy and optimism had made its escape. This place I chose had long since abandoned any pretense or expectation that good times would return.
Entering, the first person I met was sitting in an electric cart using a payphone. She haggardly looked up and I took a long moment to say “Hi.” She seemed ashamed to have made eye contact or that I had wished her a good evening. She was ageless, an example of a long, hard unrelenting life, one which had scarred her in every conceivable manner. I recognized another person in the scarce frailty of her eyes. The illusion that she was another person’s potential future pounced at the back of my mind and clawed there. It unnerved me. I almost turned to walk hastily back outside, with the intent to lie to my wife and drive away.
As I walked around the store, I couldn’t shake the sensation that I was adrift in a vast tomb, one which had been forgotten. No vibrancy touched its contents and the inhabitants seemed driven by no particular purpose. Surreal would be the best adjective to come to mind. I wasn’t sure if I was hallucinating.
I found the pie I had wanted in an interminable section of upright freezers and headed toward the empty register. As I neared, a solitary man followed by two murmuring younger women materialized in front of me to be attended to. All I wanted was to LEAVE and get out of the shroud of cold oddity I was feeling.
The ageless payphone lady shuffled past the sole open register and she mumbled toward the cashier. He didn’t pay her much direct attention, as if the routine of such a presence was normal. Nevertheless, he had deciphered every word she had said. I watched the woman’s eyes arc across all of us while avoiding further eye contact. I could feel her defeated pain as she limped the length of the wide, desolate store. It might as well have been midnight in that place. She picked up the phone at the deserted customer service desk and dialed out. I could tell by her body language that she was getting even worse news. I turned back to focus on getting out of there.
It occurred to me that just a very short walk or drive away, there were other stores filled with liveliness and the bright presence of both disposable money and no connection to the mausoleum of neglected commerce I had chosen. Springdale, like so many other places, is a handful of economic darts thrown lazily around an epicenter. The overlapping boundaries of affluence fight a silent war there.
I paid and made my way toward the exit. Magically, despite the distance and her anguished gait, I knew instinctively she was somehow behind me. If someone had told me that time had frozen to allow her to speed up behind me, I would have believed it.
She shuffled out behind me, her pained limp evident, the uncertainty of each step dragging against the pavement. I hesitated getting into the car, wanting to glimpse her face again and see if the glimmer of recognition would repeat. Her back stayed toward me and she headed away into the dusk. She was leaving, but both she and the flat aura of the store wouldn’t dissipate.
I got in the car to see my wife, concerned. My entire world was as different from that of the ageless lady as could be imagined.
I was both grateful and slightly broken from knowing it.
It was slightly short of indescribable to be a grown man with a strange, unmotivated sense of dread. It almost bested me.
I sometimes wonder.
P.S. Parenthetically Speaking 