UNDER THE MAGNOLIA TREES
Friendship, fear, and the softening of Terrible Things. Plus: this Sunday's writing workshop!
*Scroll down to the end of this essay for info on Sunday’s Paid Subscribers Monthly Writing Workshop. I hope you will consider joining us if you can. Thank you for your support!*
A couple springs ago, I sat under a magnolia tree with my friend, D. He’s a fiddle player living with an undiagnosable illness. I had recently had a unilateral mastectomy. We talked about our Terrible Things the way people who have powered through the unthinkable can – with great humor, the occasional misting of the eyes.
D. told me about a little girl he had watched playing on the floor at church. The girl was trying to stack little plastic horses and she couldn’t get them to stack the way she wanted. He watched her try to make something of it all, until finally she got the horses to stack, sort of wacky, but stacked still. We laughed about how nothing ever goes as planned. How language fails to explain it all. How sometimes it’s just horses, horses, horses, horses…and the softening of Terrible Things, thanks to a friend.
Around that time, I was going down to Manhattan every couple of weeks to see my plastic surgeon. He’d take a ridiculously large syringe full of saline and slowly fill the balloon in my chest, stretching the skin where the new breast would eventually be. To disassociate from the discomfort, I’d sing
under my breath, remembering the little girl D. told me about and “horses, horses, horses, horses.”“Tell me when you’ve had enough,” the surgeon would say, pushing the syringe, and ten seconds later I’d call out, “I’ve had enough!”
I’d thank him, buttoning up my shirt. What a strange intimacy.
After, I’d meet my friend and old bandmate, Tim in the West Village for coffee. We spent a lot of time sitting on benches in Washington Square Park that spring, under the magnolia trees. I told him about D. back upstate, and the little girl with the plastic horses. I tell Tim everything.
The evening before my surgery, we walked up Sixth Avenue with our coffees, as we’ve been doing for over fifteen years. I walked him to a class he was taking on West 10th Street. We passed the ballet studio where I studied as a child. I wanted to tell him how, the first time I peeled the bandages covering the place where my breast used to be, it reminded me of slowly pulling my feet out of my pink pointe shoes, tentatively unwinding the wool, the gauze. I’d wince before I even saw the blood, not sure if I was wincing because it hurt or because I knew it would look so terrible.
But we got to his building before I could say anything. We stood there for a minute, among the blossoms. Spring in New York is one of the best things in the world, especially in the Village. It always smells like fireplaces around five o’clock. I didn’t want to leave Tim. I was scared for my surgery. I would have hopped into his pocket if I could have. Instead, I hugged him.
“There’s a Dorothea Tanning exhibition over in Chelsea,” he said in my ear, “why don’t you go check it out?”
The sun set pink as I headed west towards the gallery. I held my lopsided chest, protecting it from the wind off of the river. I was so grateful to have been given a destination. I loved Dorothea Tanning and her dreamscapes. As I walked against the wind, beneath the magnolia trees, I thought about D., about the little girl at church. How nothing ever goes as planned. How sometimes it’s just horses, horses, horses, horses…and the softening of Terrible Things, thanks to a friend.
A MEDITATION
May I remember the softening.
Feel free to share your thoughts or a snippet of your story in the comments. When did a friend or two make it all feel just a bit more workable?
I love hearing from you. Sending love to all at this continued time of darkness in our world. May we be the light for each other.
xx Alexa
Last month’s Paid Subscriber Writing Workshop was such a treat. I hope you’ll join us on Sunday and say hi. Consider upgrading to a paid subscription to join; you can also refer or gift a friend a subscription. (PS. If funds are an issue, email me alexa@alexawilding.com.)
This Sunday’s workshop will focus on why we don’t write — and how to get writing! We’ll read from Susan Minot and Audre Lorde; we’ll do a short meditation; write from one of my favorite prompts; share, and make some goals for next time. All are welcome. My workshops are safe, inclusive spaces. Just come as you are.
Thank you for being here, however it works for you. :)
Thanks for this theme. My experience of softening of terrible things came last Sunday afternoon when ten of my good friends joined me on zoom call for a healing meditation for my 6 year old grandson Echo who has had a relapse of cancer. He and I are very close and I have been struggling with anxiety and worry since his diagnosis in January. I asked a friend who is a minister if she would lead a healing meditation for Echo and so on Sunday afternoon for 30 minutes we wrapped Echo in love and light. I felt lighter after the experience. He has 8 more months of chemo treatments ahead and we decided as a group to do this once a month. Grateful to have so many wonderful women loving on my grandson.
Alexa- All the horses, softening of the terrible things and those friends. As you wrote, “The people who have talked about our Terrible Things the way people who have powered through the unthinkable can” is perfect timing for me today. I love the photo of the tree you shared. You reminded me of the toy horses I played with for hours on end as a small girl. And the sky, as you walked towards your destination. Deep gratitude for the people and friends who are all walking me home these days. As always, I love listening to your voice as you read. Thank you Alexa