Read the story here.
Yesterday morning I woke up wishing I had been born a Buddhist. I practiced yoga (release!) and went for a run in the woods, trying to let go of a desire that was occupying way too much space in my mind. A week or so earlier, I’d been packing up at work, when my cellphone rang. The students wanted to answer it.
“It’s just the dentist,” I said. (Who else calls during the day?)
“Let us say hi,” they chirped.
Hmmm. That would be kind of funny, but no, I was there so they would get an education! No phones in the classroom! I checked the message later that afternoon, only to start shaking.
“Hello, Lena. This is the Toronto Star calling. You’ve placed in the top three finalists for the Short Story Contest.”
The top prize for this competition is a $3,400 course at The Humber School for Writers and $5,000 cash. But the best part, in my mind, would be the opportunity to share my story (which has been in the works for six years) with a larger audience. No sooner had I imagined it, I wanted the chance to say thank-you to my friends and family for their confidence in me. Buddhists believe if you can separate yourself from desire, you can find contentment, but the separation from this thing I was now coveting badly was hard to do, no matter what kind of mental gymnastics I tried.
Prayer, then.
God, please distract me so I don’t obsess over this contest for the next ten days.
Are you sure? [the voice of God is always in bold.]
No, not really.
Day Three. A phonecall from my son’s school.
“Mrs. Scholman, don’t panic. Everything is okay, but your son has had an accident and you need to come pick him up.”
Thank-you McMaster for the superior care
A stitched up kid and hours on plastic chairs in waiting rooms, followed by days and nights in hospital quickly filled the space my ego threatened to take over. I don’t actually think God made my son fall and end up on the surgical ward to teach me some kind of lesson, because hospitals are expensive and there are kids who need a lot more attention than mine did. Still, I shelved my desire until last night, at the awards reception when the finalists were announced.
The kids had already planned how to spend the prize money and were as nervous as I was. They thought they’d died and gone to heaven when they arrived at a library where Coke was served! (Pop + Books= paradise) I was grateful for free drinks, too, because jitters and booze are always a good idea, right? No matter how many of my dearest friends reassured me that I had won no matter what, well, desire is a tricky thing.
When the Toronto Star announced the third place finalist, Nick Pullen’s “Famous Blue”, my stomach tightened as all the butterflies began mating or vomiting or something. Then, the announcer began to describe the second place story, a “poignant reflection on divorce and moving on”. For a nanosecond I glanced at finalist John Hart, sitting to my right. What are the chances he also wrote a poignant reflection on divorce?
Moments later, I accepted my second place prize as gracefully as my disappointed heart would allow. I couldn’t really look at my family, in case they were upset on my behalf. (They are much more sensible than I am, and were very, very proud.) My writing group and other dear friends were also holding me up, and I felt their love, too.
When John Hart, the first place finalist, accepted his prize, my desire finally began to ebb away. He was so gracious and humble, and spoke the precise words of acknowledgement I had wanted to say. He began to read his story, and his words were beautiful. I began to smile when I realized his story was about grandmothers and apples. This past weekend, my grandmother would have celebrated her 88thbirthday. I am halfway through reading Frederick Backman’s novel “My Grandmother Wants to Tell You She’s Sorry.” John’s story is inspired by the town where I was BORN. Seriously, universe? How could I not laugh?
One of my favourite parts of Ted Loder’s poem, Guerrillas of Grace, came to mind then as it does frequently.
Gentle my envy
into enjoyment
my fear into trust,
my guilt into honesty.
When the applause after John’s reading died down, I opened my eyes (I always close my eyes when authors read) and took a breath, preparing myself for good behaviour, the requisite congratulatory words etc. It shouldn’t be such hard work to be a good sport, but this was deeply personal to me; I needed all my emotional reserves, or so I thought. Another quick exhale and before I could stand up, there before me was this beautiful, precious little girl.
“Congratulations,” she said. “I love your boots.”
Suddenly, the cheerful façade, the good-natured armour I was grasping for, was no longer necessary. She gave me a hug and my jealousy melted away. It’s hard to hold onto jealousy when tiny arms, the arms of a stranger no less, clasp your neck willing you to let it go. By the time I shook her dad’s hand, I truly felt like I was congratulating my own brother for his hard work.
This post is a little embarrassing to write. I don’t generally enjoy being vulnerable online. I find bloggers like Glennon Doyle and Ann Voskamp to be extremely weird and fascinating. Also, usually I edit my posts and avoid sentences that begin with “suddenly”, but what the heck? I’m $2,000 richer today than I was yesterday. If you think this post is lame, I’m just going to buy some new friends anyway.
Thanks for cheering for me. The story, “North of Us”, will be published on Saturday April 27th. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.