Costa Rica!

House of Cards

Today is Sunday. I'm sitting at gate K15, watching the Bears game. Two weeks in a row now, I've gotten to catch the Bears. And I was worried that I wouldn't get to watch football this season... I believe more every day in a God who knows that I love watching football, who doesn't take from me this simple joy, even though I let it (and so many other joys) get wrapped up in something so transient, so contrary, so lost. Nice move, Lord, though Billy Goat's was better...

Speaking of the Goat, there's a story to be told here. It’s a story which has yet to be recorded. I purposely waited for it to settle, before attempting to record it. It's one of THOSE stories. Let's not slaughter it with buildup, as one dear to me might say...

One November night in 2005, there was a tragic sight to be seen on the streets of the greatest city in the world. The scene is Chicago, IL - near Michigan & Wacker. How could such a spot be the sight of anything less than amazing? It wasn't supposed to be, and it certainly wasn't supposed to be on THAT night. THAT night, it was supposed to be (as it is every other night) - Magic. Reservations had been made at one of Chicago's nicest hotels, and at one of the world's best restaurants. A dozen people were set to gather to celebrate someone they all loved – and no one loved him more than I did. Eric Clayton Goritz always enjoyed his birthday. I dressed at the Hyatt, as pretty as I could, and we walked down the street with a cloud at our feet to Smith & Wolensky on the River. We ate; we drank, and were merry, sparing no expense. We feasted in the way that leaves no physical sense left in want, and we enjoyed each other’s company as those truly enamored by the ones with whom they were surrounded. It was the nicest house of cards you could ever dream of.

But it was indeed a house of cards. Even as the toasts were made, it was not so far beneath the consciousness that it was all bull shit, with a golden veneer. By this time, he’d already left once. We already knew what a liar he was, we knew about the cheating, we knew that he was married to someone else. We knew all the tragedy that surrounded the boy, all the tragedy that surrounded the boy’s father, and the father before him. In fact, from this time forward, there was no further revelation which facilitated the breakup just a few months later. All that was needed for that was already in place at this point in our story – here, on our would-be magical night of celebration.

Magic ends. Every time, though usually not quite as dramatically as on this night. Dinner, dessert, cigars & brandy, drinks and good nights, and the promise of hotel pillows looming, I was ready for the magic to end this night, but another was not. In a moment, the decision was made that I would return to the hotel alone, and this is where the story picks up.

It picks up as I leave the nicest restaurant I’d ever been to – alone, on the River in the greatest city in the world, at 2am, in the rain. Still as pretty as I’d tried to be, only now not quite feeling like I was an hour before. It seemed fitting that I should walk, and forego a cab ride which would be only a few blocks. Yet every step deepened the pathos of this scene. By the time I arrived at the Hyatt, I was wet, bedraggled, and crying. It was a gentle, defeated whimper, hardly detectable in the rain. It seemed heaven cried with me. There was, for all the bad, at least a general agreement within and without. Soon, even that would be obliterated.

As I pushed through the doors, a new element forced its way into my consciousness. There, in the lobby- in full swing - was HARD DRIVE, the onsite club at the Hyatt. Music, drinking, dancing, & all manner of revelry pulsed through the air as I ascended the escalator. Nature abhors a vacuum, and the universe made it known at that moment that the vacuum I’d allowed in me would no longer be tolerated. It seems only a moment later (though it was actually four months), that the whole of the miserable relationship was over.

For the purpose of this story, it is acceptable to fast forward through to two weeks ago. It’s The Boat! The annual assurance that there are good times to be had in this industry, even in such a year of acquisition, change, and overloaded requirements. In the last six months, the blessings of insanity at work have assisted more than any other worldly element to push me through this breakup. Plans are made, hot tops are acquired, and girlfriends head for the boat, but not without a stop at the top of Navy Pier – the ferris wheel. It’s a beautiful beginning to a beautiful night. It’s Magic in Chicago, like it or not. The weather is perfect, the water is calm, the boat is perfect, the moon is full and positively glaring at the lake – a stunning evening – breathtaking – the kind that makes you love life regardless of anything else. No one is ready for such a night to end, and a small group connects, following each other through the city for the sake of extending all that is good about this night.

They want to go to the Hyatt.

I am the driver. I am the one who knows this town. This decision is entirely in my hands. I feel very gracious about my ability to ignore my own tragedies for the greater good, and we head to the Hyatt. After all, it is a hell of a club. It is everything everyone is hoping for tonight. Far be it from me to stand in the way on such a night. Magic ends, and I know this better than most. Should the magic end tonight sooner for me than for the rest, I will enjoy the knowledge that my sacrifice might extend their magic. I’ve had plenty of magic, anyway – especially in this town – and I am no longer so swayed by it as to have any difficulty letting it go. I know it to be the imposter, yet am grateful for its comings and goings in my life at whatever interval, and for whatever duration.

Hard Drive is all that I recall and being there – while at the same time, being in such a different place - was nice. But it’s just nice, nothing more. The boys are on the dance floor, doing that thing where they look like bees trying to pollinate a field of wild flowers. I am content to quietly take back this place. But the same Force which was on me almost a year ago on that escalator – at that time forcing me to let go of something – is at work again, this time having something for me to take hold of, if only for a moment.

After midnight, a young man sits down alone beside the dance floor. I notice him there - dark hair, light eyes. A moment passes, and he’s beside me – not doing the bee thing – but rather introducing himself by name. A genuinely polite gesture, fitting a gentleman, has appeared on this dance floor, and I am stunned. We will call this gentleman Keith, for names are being changed to protect what may or may not be perceived as innocent. He’s from out of town, he’s here for work, he loves his job, and he never been to my glorious city before. Conversation ensues such as I’ve never known on a dance floor before, and all the while this young man is the picture of respect, attention, and flattery combined with an articulate intelligence that would impress me at the Newberry Library, let alone here. How could one NOT agree to introduce him to deep dish pizza the next day? How could one do anything but take his number, and gently kiss him good night? And how would it be possible to avoid calling him the next day, and the next, when the prospect of further enjoying his company in the greatest city on earth was looming so incredibly near?

Arrangements are made, and the magic (as if to mock my disregard) demands to be taken seriously. From the impressive Architectural tour on the Chicago River, up and down the Magnificent Mile, to the pizza, the cheesecake, the courtyard, and (Oh!) the fountains, the scene is now wrought with destiny, weighted down with wonder, and overflowing with … well there’s just no other word, is there? It’s Magic, with a capital M to imply that it has been personified. It has ripped into space and time to prove a point to this girl who was on the brink of becoming stubborn and cold and unbelieving; but that will not happen yet, if ever.

You see, the weekend was spent with reckless abandon, enjoying the unexpected gift of wonderful company. I took him to see Wrigley Field at three in the morning. On Sunday, I came back and we watched football at Billy Goat’s Tavern, and the Bears shut out Green Bay! We went to Montrose Harbor Sunday night, and my kind of town never looked better. Even Lake Michigan seemed electrified to see us. There was so much passed between strangers as to engender hope within this one who was near to remaining hopeless. It cannot be captured here. I can only say that I got my city back. It was given back to me in an instant, in one particular moment.

That moment, interestingly, came around two o’clock in the morning, near Michigan & Wacker, just as the rain began. I was, at that moment, walking toward the Hyatt.

How can one moment so closely resemble another, and at the same time bear such a sharp distinction? Who is this person ambling up this hill, and how – in less than a year’s time – was she rescued from such a place? It is as if this man at her side does not actually exist, but rather is only an angel – a miracle sent for the sole purpose of revealing to her what the frightened child inside still believed: There are still happy stories out there.

Magic ends. It’s what keeps me from idolizing it. “Keith” went “home”, but not without leaving this one with such indelible impressions. They struggle to find their way into words, and only a few experiences in my life have had to do that.

First of all, we know now that magic ends, but it will, by the grace of God, be back. Letting go of Keith was comparatively easy, having had such faith boosted by the whole experience. Perhaps the reader finds it not surprising that Keith turns out to belong quite significantly to another. But even that knowledge doesn’t detract from the shining light that the weekend turned out to offer. So strongly was made this case! The dishonesty of one who turned out to be only mortal cannot compete. Such a timely, relevant & life giving message is no match for the utterly predictable lies of a man. The man can be disregarded, but not this hope.

Secondly, we come to know that the house of cards is not so fearful a thing. Perhaps all of this life is just that, and the time I’ve spent fearing it, trying to guard against it, and trying to change it might have been better spent – might be better spent going forward – under just that realization. Even now what I build feels weak, unfounded, and unsure – even if it “feels” less so every day. On some future day, the girding may again fall away. On that day, will I remember this one, and see it as an opportunity to start again? The house fell down because there was enough wrong with it that it could not stand. Who would want to remain in such a house? Why did I, at that time, mourn & grieve so desperately – instead of rejoicing at having been saved from yet another unworthy place? I am on my way to the worthy place, and all the “homes” I build for myself in the meantime are no more than a tabernacle – a tent compared with the place being prepared for me.

And finally, of Keith… God Bless Keith, Amen! I have no illusions about Keith. I am not in love with Keith. I do not believe Keith is in love with me. I do not think I will ever see Keith again. This time, in this instant, the greatest of “faith, hope, & love” are faith & hope. In Chicago last weekend, something better than falling in love was found. Two people connected in a way that made each of them like themselves better. Keith got to be spontaneous, big city guy, connecting unashamed with a beautiful stranger. I go to be the hopeful fool I am meant to be, that I am so good at being. And I got to show off one of my truest loves, the Second City that is first in my heart & mind. I found in this world someone who brings out in me a person that I prefer to be. Here were two people, happy with themselves, spending the days together, clinging as the moments passed to the opportunity that they stumbled upon. Finding someone who made me fall in love with myself did so far surpass any human love I’d fallen into before.

Faith in a God who cares enough to send football on a Sunday afternoon, and even such things as are better than that…

Hope in a world that is still chock full of happy stories…

And love – love of myself, of my life, of how far I’ve come & how far I can still go…

Who can say which is the greatest of these?

“And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.”

I Corinthians 13:13

Home Sweet Home

Longmire, WA - 2005

My kind of town

Washington D.C. - March 2006