Give yourself the gift of community.
2020 was my worst year ever. To give you some perspective, in 2019 my dad died, but I do not consider 2019 to be as bad as 2020. In 2006, the high-tech startup I founded failed. In 2000, I miscarried. Why then would 2020, and not one of those other years remain in my mind as the year I most wish I’d skipped.
Let’s start with my miscarriage in January 2000. Yes, it was painful, and discouraging—I was undergoing fertility treatments—but on December 17th my son was born. The trauma of losing a child in the womb dimmed when I held Anthony in my arms.
When my business failed in 2006, I came home to a family that needed me, to neighbors and friends I’d ignored to work on my business. They greeted me with open arms.
When my dad died, I grew closer to my mom. In grief, my family came together.
Each time when tragedy struck, the people around me comforted me, they brought joy into my life. 2020 was altogether different. In 2020, I lost my community.
Yes, I am a liberal, one of those terrible people who consistently votes for representatives and senators that can’t balance a budget to save their lives. I supported wearing masks, but when I put on a mask and walked among a masked people, I sank into depression. I missed the smiles of my neighbors. I suffer from hearing loss and without seeing another’s lips move, I also began to miss and misunderstand the words of others. Conversation became difficult. Because of the terrible speakers on my old computer, Zoom was a nightmare.
I suppose what happened was inevitable. Like a character in a bad novel, the emotions I felt manifested themselves physically. I fell and broke my right leg in two places. Two weeks later, I contracted the shingles. Never having seen the shingles before, I delayed going to the doctor until it was too late for the anti-viral to work. I got the disease in late September. I was finally off the pain medication in mid-January. I left the crutches behind in March.
Finally, have regained some of my former strength, in the summer of 2021, I flew home to Texas to see my family. I even embarked on a road trip traveling by car in a huge lopsided triangle from Dallas to Austin to Houston and back again. Along the way, I saw family and friends—and I talked and talked. Me, the classic introvert, talked. No antidepressant ever lifted a person’s mood faster. The sun shone brighter. I had more energy. Food tasted fantastic. Life, like a cherry blossom, bloomed for me.
Finally, I understood. I needed other people. I needed community.
This year I’ve made a new resolution. Yes, I need to exercise more. Yes, I plan to write another novel. Yes, yes, yes, there are so many things knocking on the door of my mind, calling out, demanding attention. But this year is the year I will give myself a different kind of gift. This year I plan to consciously seek out community.
I will listen quietly to my friends. When they are suffering, I will reach out to them and offer what help I can. When they are celebrating, I will wink and buy a sugary scone to share with them. When we are separated by distance, I will write to them long letters and phone at least once a month. I will plan visits. I will travel to see them.
I will slow down when about my daily chores, taking time to speak to strangers, to greet and smile at them.
I will carry in my pocket at all times two ten-dollar bills, so I will have something to give to those in need whenever I encounter them.
I will become an active member of a group which is seeking to positively impact our environment.
I will seek out a supportive faith community and both listen to them as they speak about their beliefs and dare to talk to them about mine.
I will try to be God’s friend.
Wishing each of you a Christmas brimming over with the laughter of friends and family,
Kidd
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These are my goto gems, the sentences that keep me writing, that whisper, “you can do better.”
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I suppose there were opioids in my IV. I remember eating a three-foot-long, hot-pink centipede. I was a trifle worried. It was Lent. Does centipede count as meat?
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The dragon lay on a bed of cooling lava, the black cracked surface revealing, in thin meandering channels and small pools, the fiery red molten rock beneath. The heinous creature was stretched out on its belly, its four legs extended outward to each side. The dragon’s long snout also lay flat against the harsh, jagged rock, its mouth open, its black tongue extended and uncurled. If not for the horned spikes running down its back, its huge wings, its lethal, razor sharp tail and reeking breath, it might have been a pup flopped on a rug in front of a fire.
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This is the beginning of a story I’m considering for the Bethlehem Writer’s Group new anthology. By the way, did I mention the Bethlehem Writer’s Group’s short story contest is now open for submissions?
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Kidd Wadsworth writes to bring to life our magical, fire-breathing world. She believes we are super heroes. It’s time we put on our capes.
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Dear Kidd, May all of your desire for friends, community, faith and much, much more be given you today and always. Wishing you strength and joy for 2023!
Thank you!