Flying Blind: What I Learned at the Airport from a Woman Who Can't See

Sitting at the departure gate for my flight home from New York, I'm trying to convince myself there isn't a hole in my heart. Leaving family and good friends always means there is a hole, but a give into it, I know I will just fall in and may never be able to get myself out.

I hear the pre-boarding call announcement and see a woman getting up, slowly. Her carry-on bag looks larger than most, and I find myself comparing it to my own little backpack and rolling around in a carpet of self-righteousness. The carpet disappears when I see a white cane.

The woman walks toward me, feeling her way with nothing but the cane to guide her. She does not seem to be turning away, and I decide I’d better tell her how close she is to my knees. I try to sound casual and let her know where I am. I am wrestling with whether or not to ask if she needs help, because some people want you to do that, and others do not.

She instantly lets me know what she’s feeling, which is a relief. “Thank you,” she says. “Would you mind helping me get on the plane?”

Of course,” I say, feeling gratitude that she felt comfortable enough to ask for help. Writing this, I don’t want you to think I am still dragging that righteous carpet around. I know this woman would have helped me if I had asked for it. I know that most anyone reading this would as well.

I am sharing this moment because of what it gave me, not because of anything I did for someone else. 

Read more on Medium.

Seeing Family and Old Friends Made me Realize How Much I Miss Them: Because Careers and Friendship Shouldn't Compete

 

I tend to be ravenous about advancing my career. Every year, every opportunity I snatch or miss is always an occasion for obsessing about what I could have done better. And while I love my family and friends, I don’t always show them what they mean to me.

Now, I’m reaching an age where I think much more about who I want to be as much as what I want to do as an artist. Finding myself at dinner last week with friends as I reached my birthday, I had to think for a minute when a friend asked if I had any thoughts on where I’m going.

The first thing I thought about was that it’s been too long since I’ve seen the people I grew up with or who I became friends with during my twenties. The time I spent with everyone shows me how strong you can become when surrounded by people you’ve known for a while. In my usual day-to-day routines, I take walks, write, eat, talk on the phone, do errands, and send emails, but have to work harder to connect with people.

When I’m visiting good friends and family, we’re able to pick up where we left off instantly, and our lives reflect that closeness. I’m lucky to have a husband and even luckier to say we are happy after more than two decades together. Would life be perfect if I were nearer to other relatives and friends? No, because nothing is perfect. But it would be a whole lot closer to the kind of life I’m looking for.

What I discovered during the past two weeks about the people I love: When we are together, we share everything. We are braver, funnier, stronger, more perceptive.

Do they miss me as much as I miss them? I don’t really know. I can say it felt enormously good to be with them and made me second-guess my choice to move to the Midwest many years ago.

Read more on Medium.

Photo: Taken by a friend; property of the author

Summer Social

 

Have you been socializing more this summer than you have for a while? Seeing friends and family used to be the easiest thing in the world for me before the pandemic. I met friends for lunch, dinner, coffee; I went to the theater or a movie with friends or family; and got to parties, now and again, when I was invited.

Then came SARS COVID 2 and all that changed. Winter became a time that I was worried about surges--and I've stayed worried because of an autoimmune disease and immuno-suppressant medicine. But summer is my friend.

Summer, spring and fall offer air to at least make it harder to catch something. So much of the time, I think about how lucky I am to have a decent sized yard and think about how to use it for guests--friends, coworkers, neighbors, you name it.

This summer my husband and I have been seeing friends at our house or visitng other homes nearly every weekend since July began. I would have started sooner but had an uninvited guest that required abdonimal surgery.

We've been to a 90th birthday party (pictured here); a family gathering up north (twice); invited friends for dinner and lunch; and I'm planning to invite another friend over because I've never met her in person and yet have gotten so close just talking on the phone during this pandemic.

Am I a little tired from trying to cram in a year's worth of visits into a few short months? Yes. Would I do anything differently? No. Why? The studies are right when they say that the lack of social time has a worse effect on us than smoking.

And like Game of Thrones always warned us, winter is coming. And the coronavirus will once again rear its ugly head.

So I plan to spend a lot of winter writing, if all goes well. Still writing now, but seeing people I haven't seen in years and it's really lifting my spirts. Making me feel so much more like I want to feel, and not, you know. 

Depressed. Alone. Anxious.

Last summer, a friend I was visiting and hadn't seen for years hugged me. I felt nervous at first, then grateful--and then wondered how I'd gone so long without a hug from a close friend.

So if you're eyeing some outdoor furniture or a kayak or fire pit or outdoor gazebo or any number of things that make it more comfortable to be with friends and family outdoors, I say--

Go for it.

Your friends will thank you. You'll thank you. 

Maybe hug somebody, too.

For My Strangers

 "I write for myself and strangers," said Gertrude Stein, and she's right that she is not writing for friends. Because friends already know us a certain way; some know more than others, and we are not trying to reach them with our writing. In some unexplainable way, perhaps, we are trying to reach ourselves.

In another way, perhaps, strangers are our friends too. They are the people we talk to when writing; imaginary friends who will always understand. When I write my Beat Street books, or plays, or anything else, I am in fact writing to people I can see clearly in my mind's eye; and I know exactly what they look like when I'm talking to them.

For Beat Street books, my goal is to set the the narrator (Ruby) right next to you, chatting away as you walk thought the streets of Greenwich Village in 1958. You are the invisible but essential stranger she's never known, living in the present, but looking in on her and rooting for her to win. 

In the book I'm working on now, I also want to walk down the street with you and if we find a nice café, steer you inside for coffee or wine.  As a reader, you are supporting me in a way that a friend can't, just by taking the time to open my book or sit through my play. I'm reaching out in the dark to see if you'll take my hand, and when you do, it's worth the journey--even if you disagree with what I'm saying.

The only thing I don't get is what you're thinking--and I don't mean reviewing the book, necessarily, though reviews can shed light on what I'm putting out there. What I'd love to know more about is YOU. 

When I read something that resonates, or knocks me out, or makes me stop reading just to react to what I just read, the moment kind of transcends itself. It takes me out of time into something deeper that compels me to look at my own life, and see where it connects to what I'm reading about. 

So. Strangers, but not. I like having you in my life and I'd love to know you better. But not too much, because then we wouldn't be the kind of readers and writers we are to each other.

Anyway, thank you for being my strangers and listening to me rattle on here. Happy reading! And writing, too.

Girl with secret: Katie Tegtmeyer