Digging In

by Loretta Nyhan

“Pick a few things you don’t want to let slide, and let the rest sort itself out,” he said gently after one particularly rough day. “When someone leaves this world, everything else gets jostled because of the empty space. You’re gonna land in the wrong spot for a while. Sooner or later, you’ll find where you fit again.”

Death was final, but grief wasn’t; it was a dirty street fighter who rose again and again even when I thought I had successfully knocked it to the ground.

Everything can be learned, you know? Some people learn sooner, others later. Not a big deal if the outcome is the same.”

“I’ve always started small,” I said. “I figured it was time to go big.” “That’s a good attitude, but fair warning—you’re going to have a battle with them. They don’t give up easily, and they’re always convinced they’re right.” I smiled up at him. “I’m learning to deal with people like that.” He smiled back. “And how’s that going?” “Not good,” I said. “But I’m optimistic.”

“Alchemist,” I said as I poured us all some more wine. “That’s what you called yourself. I like that better, turning something boring into something spectacular.”

“You sure about this, Paige?” asked Jackie. The voice of reason. But I wasn’t feeling particularly reasonable. “No,” I answered. “I’m not. But I’m doing it anyway.”

I can’t deny that they do good work, but I can’t shake the feeling that part of them is already on to the next thing. They aren’t in it all the way. Mykia seems committed to what she’s doing because she’s got nothing to lose. In our case, we’re committed because we’ve got everything to lose. Does that make us better at what we do? Hell if I know.”

Maybe freedom had nothing to do with loss. Maybe it had everything to do with joy.

Until death filled me in on a little secret—there was no such thing as a safe life.

We were happy together. We lived in a bubble.

“We can’t control life and death,” I said. “But we can control how we react to them.”

“So you’re saying you’re a different person now,” Colin said, satisfied with his deduction. “I think the fundamentals stay the same, but parts of me are different.” Trey snorted. “Which part of you dug up the backyard?” “The part that wants to build something meaningful.” “That’s the heart,” Mykia said. “You had a heartshift.” “I had a heartbreak,” I admitted.

“It’s the kind that pulls you by the hair. The unexpected jolt. It’s merciless, and it doesn’t allow you to change cell by cell, cushioning the blow with time. It smacks you into a new reality. It forces you to examine things you’d rather leave under a rock.”

“That kind of change is the kind that’s fucking unfair,” he said. “It’s the sucker punch.” “And the only thing you can do when that happens,” I added, reaching out to touch his arm, “is to breathe your way through the pain.” “But it’s hard to breathe sometimes,” Glynnis said. “It’s so hard to breathe.”

“You have to find your paper bag when you feel like you can’t get the air in,” Mykia said. She had an air of authority that had both boys hanging on her every word. “Is that what my mom’s doing?” Trey asked. “Is the garden her paper bag?” “Well,” Mykia said, resuming her dinner, “you are smarter than you look.”

Isn’t it possible that you didn’t change overnight either? That your garden is something you’ve been moving toward for a long time?”

we don’t have time to be sure. It’s better to have something than nothing.” “I’m always trying to have something,” she said miserably, “but I always end up with nothing.” “Not this time,” I assured her, though I wondered if it was a false assurance. “Not this time.”

So your idea fails. What now? Some will worry, some will give up, and some will keep pushing the dying idea until it is a lifeless, floppy mess. None of these will help. What will help is forgetting. Forget the concept of success, at least temporarily. Forget the failure. Forget the stress and the disappointment. Don’t analyze what went wrong. Don’t flog a dead horse. Forget it all so you can be reborn. A clean slate. No ideas ever existed before this very moment.

Free yourself from the pressure of success, and you’ll free yourself of the oppressiveness of failure.

We laughed, but there was no joy in it. Because it came from fear.

it kept bobbing to the surface, leaving an oil-spill residue of anxiety.

He turned to me. “Foolish behavior is not going to bring him back.” “I’m trying to bring me back,” I said, realizing at that moment that it was true. Mr. Eckhardt shook his head sadly. “That person you were? She’s dead, too. The quicker you realize that, the better off you’ll be. I’m just trying to help.” That person—that loving, devoted, oblivious person—was someone I definitely wanted back. She was caught in a quicksand of grief, and I had to figure out how to help her escape. “Your help was not requested,” I said, and Mr. Eckhardt’s eyes widened with surprise at my vehemence. “I don’t need it.”

“I understand what you did,” I said. “Maybe you do,” she said. “But you didn’t use circumstance as an excuse to self-destruct.” “Don’t you think you’re being hard on yourself?” She smiled wryly. “Do you know anyone worth her salt who isn’t hard on herself?”

“You brought him back,” I said. “That was you, not him.” She went quiet for a moment, and then said, “Maybe. And maybe Mr. Eckhardt had no one to bring him back.” A certain sadness fell over me. Sadness for Mr. Eckhardt, but also sadness for myself. Who would bring me back? Trey? No, I couldn’t put that on him—he had to work on finding himself. On exploring what he had to offer. Maybe Colin had a point. “That garden is doing it for you,” Mykia said as if reading my mind. “Even if Mr. Eckhardt is right and every one of those plants dies on the vine, you tried it. You had to find the energy to give it a go. And the passion.”

“Then maybe it’s already brought you back,” Mykia said. “Sometimes the brain takes a while to catch up with the heart.”

“It doesn’t look crazy out there,” he said while attacking the mess of utensils. “It looks like life. You’ll have something to can come end of summer. If you want, I’ll help you. But you don’t need my help.” “I think I’ll need all the help I can get.” “We could all use help, but need? That’s a different thing entirely.”

I don’t believe a “noncreative” workplace exists. When people come together, there is a certain dynamism that results in the energy to spark ideas. Creativity takes many forms. Every company has the potential to be a creative powerhouse. Every single one.

Rhiannon is the one with guts, I thought. She wasn’t afraid to be confrontational.

I’d been making mistakes with embarrassing regularity, and I was still standing.

“I’m warming up to the idea,” I said. “A garden party. Never thought I was the type, but I’m learning I’m all kinds of types.”

“Happy people don’t bury the things that made them happy.” After I’d said it, I realized that, yes, sometimes they did. I did.

“When you give something meaning, it’s worth remembering. We filter out the stuff that doesn’t touch our heart.”

There really was something to living a simpler, more natural life. I always knew that to be true, but the notion never sank deep.

“I like it out here,” was all he said. “Sometimes I feel like the older I get, the more I chase down moments like these.” “Peaceful ones?”

Perhaps I had to let go of those feelings and focus only on what my brain and two hands could do.

How would I get meaning from it if I bought into the notion that shit just happened, and I had to buck up and accept it? Maybe life just unfolded like those ash snakes on the Fourth of July—messy and moving in unpredictable directions, sometimes longer and sometimes snuffing out before things really got started. If that were so, where would I find meaning in something that was so fundamentally unfair? By living as if what I did while I was on the planet did have meaning, even if I secretly feared it was all one big nothing.

Maybe Glynnis was born unlucky. Maybe not. And in the end, how much did it matter? Life would still unfold unpredictably. “You know what, Glynnis? Lucky or unlucky, you do what you can,” I said, wishing I could erase her sad expression. “I wish I could tell you something more profound, but that’s all I’ve got. Just do what you can.”

As a general rule, I liked safe. Or, I used to. But then my safe life betrayed me. Jesse and I built our lives around cultivating security. We took risks far fewer times than other couples our age, and when we did, like canceling one life insurance policy before taking up with another, it not only bit us in the ass, but it chewed and chewed until we couldn’t sit down.

“If there’s anything I’ve learned, it’s that our futures are never assured. You need to do what you love. You’ll be miserable otherwise.” The side of her mouth quirked up. “That’s pretty good advice. Has it worked with Trey?”

Jackie touched my shoulder. “I just need a chance. I’m really good at what I do.” “You don’t need to tell me that. I know.” She pulled a smoke from her purse but didn’t light it. “At this point in my career, I didn’t think I’d still need to prove myself. Did you?” “No,” I admitted. “I thought by now I’d at least have my own office.” “With a window,” Jackie added. “I thought I’d have a window.” “I never thought that was too much to ask.” Jackie lit her cigarette and took a long drag. “It wasn’t. That’s the sad part of it all. These kids want everything and want it now. Byron doesn’t want one window, he wants a floor-to-ceiling panoramic view. Rhiannon doesn’t just want her own office, she wants the whole floor.” “Do you think they’ll get it?” I asked. “Hell if I know,” Jackie said. “The only thing I do know is we aren’t.”

“I’m sorry.” “For what?” “For all of it.” “No need to be. I’m living a life, you know? If people went around apologizing for every bad thing that happened to everyone, we’d be bored out of our fucking skulls.”

“What do you think people should say to someone who’s just lost a loved one? I don’t think there are many options.” Petra thought for a moment. “If you knew the person who died, I think you should share a memory, something you don’t think they’d know about. The wilder the better.” “And if you didn’t know the person who died?” “Then you should ask for a good memory that best describes him or her. Let the grieving person have a moment with that person again.” “Couldn’t that be too painful?” I asked. “It’s all painful. Listening to a hundred people apologize for something they had nothing to do with is excruciating, isn’t it? They can’t reverse anything with their apologies.” I wasn’t sure I agreed with her, but it was a fresh perspective. Petra was rough around the edges, but she had wisdom I suspected was hard-won.

We both lost ourselves to tears, until I heard Petra say, “Well, that fucking plant is going to live if I’ve got anything to do with it. Let your mom baby it a bit. Come on, get a bucket for these tomatoes, and let’s see what we can salvage.” “Who the fuck is she?” Trey said. “Language,” I said automatically. “I’m fucking Tinker Bell,” Petra said. “Stop crying. When life gives you tomatoes, you make tomato sauce.”

“Well, I won’t tell. You didn’t press charges for my thievery, so I’ll conveniently forget you stole government property.” “I think that’s fair,” he said. “Oh, nothing’s fair, Bill, but sometimes things work out all right.”

She wanted to look like her real self, she’d said, adding, “It’s important I establish the right message. If you think I’m good to go just the way I am, then I want them all to see me the way I am in the day-to-day, you know?” “Which is?” I’d asked. “I’m a right hot mess.”

success is increased opportunity. So explore. Take educated risks. Stride confidently into the unknown. But . . . make choices with the long-term health of your organization in mind. Keep a steady pace, and adhere to a stable, ethical framework. There are a few certainties about the business world. Competition will always increase. The future keeps changing. The bar keeps being reset, higher and higher.