Of Carwashes and Courage

"Bliss, I need a car wash but will that scare you? Last time we were here, do you remember? It kind of scared you. How do you feel about the car wash now? Do you think we could go through?"

 

My niece looked out the window to her left, gazing at the sidewalk but clearly contemplating something much bigger. A ray of sunlight was shining through the window and it turned her hair into ribbons of orange crystals.  

She did not love car washes.

 

But my car was really dirty and I had the opportunity now to get it washed. For a soccer mom like me, when a need and the time to fulfill it come together, that is pure gold. The only question was whether Bliss was going to be okay. 

 

"Is this the one where the soap is rainbow-colored and smells like fruit?" She needed more data. This was a good sign.

 

"I'm pretty sure they still do that, yes." 

 

I find it disturbing that the soap at my neighborhood carwash is so heavily perfumed that the smell comes straight into the car, even though your windows are obviously rolled up. And why fruit, for God's sake? That is not natural.

Bliss looked back at me with one last question. It seemed she had made up her mind but needed to negotiate one final term of the contract. She drew in her breath and asked, 

 

"Will you hold my hand while we're in there?"

 

Suddenly everything around me and everything inside of me felt innocent and pure and clear. 

"Yes, sweetheart, I will hold your hand in there."  

 

That was all she needed. How amazing that this tiny little being knew what her fear was, and she knew what reassurance she needed to face it. 

 

"Okay, let's go," she said. 

 Her fear was not in charge. She was. 

My TEDx Nashville talk airs tonight. 

 

My coach Jeremy and I worked on my talk for months. I invested in this talk like a part-time job. I wanted this. I believed this was part of God's plan for me. I talked about it almost incessantly for a year. People probably got sick of hearing about it. But I didn't stop. I rehearsed it 88 times. My social media feeds blew up more than once. I was quite possibly obsessed.

 

And on September 17, I recorded my talk in an almost-empty auditorium, thanks to COVID. 

 

And tonight, my talk will air. And a lot will change.

 

 

Until now, I could decide who I shared my story with. I could select the people I trusted. I gradually widened that circle, wave by tentative wave. 

After tonight, my story will chart its own course.

 

The wheels for tonight are in motion. The TEDx Nashville crew has a detailed run of show. Zoom links are set up. Ring lights are plugged in. Tickets have been delivered. Calendars are blocked. 

 

This is happening.

 

It's like that moment at the car wash when the track engages with your wheels and you're being pulled into the car wash. And I have a moment of anxiety when I wonder if all my windows are rolled up, and whether unbeknownst to me there is a non-factory-standard accessory on my Buick Encore. 

 

On days of high anxiety, I wonder if this will be the day when the car wash goes haywire and breaks through my windshield. 

 

Rationally, I know this is going to be okay. But the car wash is so loud and so powerful. 

 

The people in my life are surrounding me with gracious love and support. From all directions, expected and unexpected. I am not alone in this experience. I am so loved and so blessed. 

 

My hand is being held very tightly by so many. 

My fear is not in charge. I am.

 

Okay, let's go. 

 

 

Coming Out of the Trauma Closet

 

Remember back in 2019 when I said something had shifted? 

 

Shortly after that God gave me a message. Not an ominous, you-have-to-live-in-a-cave-now kind of message. More like a message that you think you dreamed every night, and every morning when you wake up, it feels a little more true.

 

God said that God was going to start opening doors for me. My job was to walk through each door boldly and bravely, with no regard for what was on the other side. 

 

And indeed, some doors started swinging open.

 

First, a woman named Lauren contacted me and said, "Your name keeps coming up in conversation and people tell me I should meet you. Can we get together for a networking coffee?" 

 

As Lauren and I sat over dinner at Nicky's Coal Fired, somehow the topic of life goals came up and I told her that mine was to give a TED talk.

 

"What would your topic be?" she asked. 

 

And although I had only known her for a few minutes, I began to share THE story with her. The only one I had that was so bold and so vulnerable that it might be worthy of the TED stage. It was hard to tell a stranger this story, but if I couldn't share it with Lauren here at Nicky's Coal Fired, how would I ever hope to share it with thousands of strangers from the stage? 

 

When I finished my story, Lauren's eyes were filled with compassion and tears. "That's your TED talk," she said. 

 

There is something special about Lauren and when she said that, I had a feeling it might be true. I heard the sound of a door beginning to creak open. 

 

Two weeks later, Lauren met Jeremy Snow, Speaker Chair for TEDx Nashville. "You need to meet Melanie Gao," she said. 

 

Two weeks later, I was on the phone with Jeremy. He asked me to share my story with him, and I shared A story. But not THE story. 

 

Because I didn't know him. I wasn't sure I could trust him. I wasn't sure I was really ready to take this plunge. 

 

In short, I chickened out. So I shared a smaller story.

 

Nonetheless, he was intrigued and asked me to write my story so he could share it with his committee. 

 

That Saturday one by one, all our family activities got canceled due to rain. So I sat down in my white chair to write my story for Jeremy. I started to write the one I had shared on the phone. The one that was interesting and somewhat vulnerable but not THE story. 

 

"I said boldly and bravely," I heard God's voice say. 

 

It was still my choice, and I chose obedience. Which is not like me. 

 

I erased everything I had written and instead I wrote THE story for Jeremy. And I closed my eyes and hit "SEND."  

 

And I waited.

 

It took Jeremy two weeks and an eternity to respond. But when he did, it was clear I had written the right story. He asked if I would be interested in presenting at TEDx Nashville Women's Conference in December 2020.

 

The door was swinging wide open. 

 

And then, well, 2020 happened. And I wondered if the door was going to swing shut again. Concerts and conferences were canceled. I thought there was no hope for TEDx Nashville 2020.

 

But the TEDx Nashville crew is an innovative and resilient bunch and they found a way.

 

And so here we go. 

 

 

I am trying hard not to think about what is on the other side of this door. That is not my job. When I do think about it, for a few seconds, I get nervous. Because I am coming out of the trauma closet. And once I'm out, there is no going back in. For me or for my family.

 

 

 

But it is not my job to worry about things like that.

 

My job is to walk boldly and bravely.

 

With no regard for what is on the other side. 

 

 

 

 

These are Things My Family Gathers Around

A Christmas tree.

A baptismal font.

A wide-screen TV when Alabama plays.

These are things my family gathers around.


The dinner table.

A birthday cake.

An open casket.

These are things my family gathers around.



A Zoom screen.

The stovetop.

A vinyl recliner at the cancer clinic.

These are things my family gathers around.


The altar.

A puzzle.

A rocker on the front porch.

These are things my family gathers around.



A campfire.

A picnic table.

 A four-leaf clover.

These are things my family gathers around.



It was Joe and Marie who introduced us to these sacred places. They called us there, each little girl.  Christianne, Melanie, Caroline, Amanda.

Then they called the second wave. Paul, Audrey, Grant, Mandy, Bliss.

One day they will call a third wave.

(But for God's sake not any time soon. None of y'all are even out of college.)


Today I'm feeling grateful to be a part of it all.

A Quarantine Walk

The dishes are done, the leftovers are in the fridge. It is time for our walk.

We step out onto the front porch. Over the words “ X actually” in black on the sidewalk.  I chalked a colorful phrase last week and did not know that the black was going to remain long after the other colors washed away. I can’t scrub it out. 

To be honest, it doesn't look like it would come out if I tried. 

Which I haven't. 

Because it wouldn't come out.

I have unintentionally tagged my neighborhood with a dark “X”, and at first I feel slightly guilty but this is 2020 after all. 

Why pick this one thing to feel guilty about?

Past a hydrangea bush in front of Laura’s house that is getting so big it almost hides the door.  So much rain lately. Why have the landscapers not trimmed the flowers back yet? 

Underneath a gold Toyota Camry suspended six feet in the air, on a metal lift, waiting to be fixed tomorrow. It is suspended motionless in the air above the cracked and oil-stained pavement of the Budget Brakes.

Past the Turnip Truck, which opened during quarantine. It is so new that the sweet, sticky smell of fresh lumber still lingers in the air around it. Audrey stops at the glass window and looks longingly inside, gazing at the shelves of almond flour and organic chick peas and collagen supplements. 

She asks if we can go in and she knows that I will shake my head and say that I am not going to waste my one trip to the grocery store this week on a hipster market. 

Quarantine is not a time to be sentimental.

Over the cockroaches, who scurry to and fro on the sidewalk in front of the gas station. We skip and dance to keep them from running over our feet or into our shoes. We don’t understand why there are so many cockroaches right here, big and fat and shiny. 

I tell stories about dodging flying cockroaches in Alabama when I was a child. Audrey and Grant groan. "Ugh, you tell us that story all the time! You try to make your childhood sound so terrible and Gigi says it wasn't and then she gets mad." 

I do, and she does.  

In the glow of the half light of the restaurants and shops along Charlotte Pike. They are not open and have not been all day and will not be tomorrow. They miss us and they don’t understand. Their storefront eyes are wide open and confused, waiting for us to explain.  

Each day they seem a little less hopeful that we ever will.

To the lawyer’s office on the corner by the park. His name is painted in gold shiny letters on the glass door. Just like they did back in the '40s, probably. We peer through the window and play the game of Spot the Difference.

That pen wasn’t there yesterday. 

He seems to have been there every day. I don’t understand why legal services are an essential service. Maybe they aren’t.

The lamp is on today. 

A door inside the office that leads to a back hallway is ajar.

That remote control for the air conditioner has been moved.

An umbrella has appeared.

And every night I lament that he isn’t watering his plants. One of them in particular is drying out. How can he come to his office every single day and never water this plant? I would water it but the office is locked.

As we walk back home we talk about the day’s news and COVID statistics and we make guesses about the future. We talk about our friends and how they are probably doing.

When we arrive back home it is just 9:30 but I’m ready to go to sleep and dream the vivid dreams of quarantine.

Of a  black X

      An out-of-control hydrangea

                                                        Cars in the air

Cockroaches running in fretful circles 

                       Collagen supplements just out of our reach

          Confused and empty storefronts 

And a plant 

that I cannot water

My Neck Hurts and I Have a Headache

George Floyd was 46 years old.

 

He was 6 feet 6 inches tall. A large, beautiful man.

When he was pinned to the ground,

he said please

and he called 

for his mama.

I am so sorry.

Just Enough Space to Get Out

The funny thing about a peak is that you don’t know you’re on it until it’s already over.

But I believe our collective national fever is hitting a peak.

I hope I’m talking about confirmed cases of COVID-19.

Surely we will not have another week with tens of thousands of new cases reported every single day.

Let’s hope new unemployment claims peaked this week too.


But I’m also talking about stress and anxiety and tension. Those were at a peak this week too.

At least, they were for me.

Were they for you too?


This week I decided that if I took part in a cult, I’d want it to be one of those cults that people talk about for years to come.  Like Heaven’s Gate.  Or Jonestown.  Or the Branch Davidian.

This is where I am.

Not that I want to join a cult. But if I did, I'd want it to be one that knew what they were doing.  One with colorful silks and expensive sneakers.

This is where I am.


This week I thought about the continuums in life.

The news continuum.  At one end of it are people who can’t get enough of it and check it every 15 minutes. 

At the other end are people who have stopped checking the news altogether. 

And then there are people all in between.


Then there’s the emotional continuum.  Some people can’t stop talking about how they feel, and they can’t stop asking others how they feel. 

At the other end are people who don’t feel anything and don’t want to talk about it. 

And then, there are people all in between. 


I am trying hard not to judge people for being where they are on these spectrums.  I try hard to say, “Oh, that’s where you are.  Interesting.” 

Because then it’s easier to look down at my own two trembling feet and observe, “Wow, here’s where I am.  Interesting.” 

I am trying hard not to imagine a marker in the middle of the spectrum that indicates where “normal” is. 

I am trying hard not to measure how far I might be from that marker. 


Yesterday a fly was in my room. I opened the window just enough for it to fly out.

Would the fly leave?

Would a bee fly in?


What does it mean to have just enough space to get out?

Wednesday Nights in May

There's something rare and perfect about a Wednesday night in May.  While Grant practices with his team on the field, I am walking in Heartland Park.  It's late in the evening but it's still light outside.  Because it's summer.

Finally.

Summer.

Again.

Most people would say it's hot but to my body, which has been chilling in an American icebox office for many hours, the ambient air temperature is perfect. 

The breeze slips against my skin like silk.  Soft and smooth and light. 


I pass a family - a mom, dad and three children.  The dad is running next to one child on a tricycle.  One child is on a scooter.  And one child is sitting in a wagon, pulled by the mom.

Five people.

Five modes of transport.

I smile at the first child as she passes me.  She stares back at me menacingly and shouts something to her father over her shoulder.  I think she is shouting about me but I can't hear her because I have my ear buds in.

Also, I don't want to hear what she says.   

A man is pressure washing the cement steps of a fire escape.  Between us is a high fence with razor wire. 

For many months we thought it was a prison.  But it is a public water works building.

The razor wire is not there to keep people in.  It is to keep people out.

The air is cooling and practice will be over soon.  Grant and I will drive back home.  He will put his muddy cleats on my dashboard and I will get mad. 

None of this would have come to pass on a Tuesday night in June.  Or a Friday night in November.  It has to be a Wednesday night in May.

Wednesday nights in May are special.  

They are rare.  

They are perfect.  

It has to be a Wednesday night in May.

Monday at the Moth

On Monday I texted the kids and told them to meet me for dinner at Miss Saigon at 5:30.  "Why are we eating so early?" Grant asked as I joined them in the booth.

The color of the vinyl on the seat of the booth was just slightly different than the back.  The seat is a greenish mustard, while the back is a mustardish green.  It's a nuance I wouldn't have noticed except that the owner pointed it out last time we were there.  It bothered him that he hadn't gotten a perfect match.  The factory that supplied the initial vinyl had discontinued it and he had to settle for the closest color match.  It was just slightly different.

If he hadn't said anything I would have thought it was just the lighting.   But when you look closely you see that something is - very slightly - different.

"I think I'm going to the Moth tonight and I might tell a story."

Audrey nodded.  "I think you should do that."   

After dinner I drove across town to the Basement East by myself and signed up to tell a story.  And about two hours later the host Eddie pulled my name out of the hat and called me up to the stage.  I was the very last story-teller to go up.

It is a weird trek to the stage at The Basement East.  I almost got lost, no joke.  And then, I was standing in front of 200 people and I was about to tell my story.  The spotlights on me were so bright  I couldn't see out into the crowd, except for two guys who were sitting at a high-top table at the right hand edge of the stage.  The microphone was so huge, or so unfortunately positioned, that it hid my face.

Maybe the positioning was fortunate.

It helped, a little, to hide behind it.  

All of the stories that came before me were lighthearted and funny but mine was not going to be.  I breathed in deep and said into the bright light, "My story is kind of heavy.  Are you guys down with that?"

"Bring it!" someone shouted.

I started talking about the night of my own personal Great Inhale.  The one that nearly killed me.  The one that, in some ways, did.

I almost cried.  In front of 200 strangers.  I guess I did cry, but not alone.  Because the Moth, as I have learned, is a special place where no one cries or laughs alone.

Days later when I told my friends about my experience, they asked if I could re-tell the story for them and I think maybe under the right circumstances I could.  In a dark room that smells like beer, with a concrete floor that shakes like plywood when you walk on it.  Under a bright spotlight blinding me from the gentle souls in front of me who welcome a heavy story.

But then again, I'm not sure I could.  I think when I told that story that night at the Moth, it got up on its legs and walked slowly away from me.  Out the back door of the Basement East and off into the open sky.

Maybe stories at the Moth have one brilliant chance at life and when their life has ended they cannot come back.

I think that's how it is.

I feel different after all of this.  Something about me is just slightly different.  I don't think anyone else would notice.  But I do.

If I didn't mention it you probably wouldn't notice. 

But something has most definitely shifted.

My 50th Birthday Gift to Myself

For my 50^th birthday I gave myself a special gift. 

I cut the label off of the curtain in my living room.

It’s been there ever since I hung the curtains.  Backwards.  But it’s a sheer white panel and you really couldn’t tell that I hung it backwards except for that damn label.  When I watched TV I looked at it and wondered how much work it would be to cut it off.

Would the step ladder in the pantry do the trick?  

Or would I need the 6-foot ladder from the garage? 

Can I just wait until Grant grows tall enough to reach up and cut it off…?

Today I decided that it’s time.  I’m not sure why today felt like the right moment.  Maybe it’s related to me turning 50 today.  Maybe it’s not.  It’s possible I’m over-analyzing.

As it turns out, the stepladder in the pantry did the trick.  The whole process took less than 30 seconds.

So my present to myself for the next 50 years is that I won’t have to look at that label anymore and wonder how much work it would take to cut it off.

In exchange however, I will look at the curtain and remember how many hours I spent looking at it before, wondering how much work it would be to cut it off. 

Regret and self-doubt as a replacement for procrastination and inaction. 

This is The Downtown Diner, you knew that was coming. 

You might wonder how any of this is blog-worthy.  And really, it’s not.  I know most people will read it once and then again, and then will ask themselves what the point is.  Then they will shake their heads and close their laptop with a sigh.

But there are a few people out there who will read this and think about me and nod and smile and say, “Yeah, that sounds about right.”  They will think about my quirks and all my posts over the years and how much they love me. 

And you all, you are the best gift I have given myself over the past 50 years.  Thank you for being part of it all with me.  All my procrastination and inaction, all my regret and self-doubt.  My seemingly pointless posts and the live conversational versions of the same.  I love you all. 

Let’s do another 50 years of this.  

What the Rain Came to Say

Drops of rain slide down the window glass.   This Sunday morning is dripping over Nashville like a thin coat of grey paint.

As I walk into the kitchen I remember I left the curry out on the stove last night.  I curse under my breath because now I'll have to throw it out.  But then I see that someone put the curry in tupperware and put it in the fridge last night before they went to bed.

I'm not the only adult in the house anymore.

Tip, tip, tap.  Raindrops tap on the kitchen window.

I make a hashbrown casserole and my 7-year-old niece Bliss plays with the Roomba.  Her parents had a date night last night so I got to have a sleepover with my red-headed elf-niece. 

The Roomba is a source of endless entertainment for her.  What happens if she puts it on the chair?

Feeds it a mint?

Feeds it ten mints?

Locks it in the bathroom?

Puts a pillow on top of it?

Lets it run over my foot?

Tip, tip, tap.

She is ready for the next thing.

"Alexa, play 'I Believe in You' by Dolly Par-ton."  She pronounces Dolly's last name very clearly, otherwise Alexa will play a Michael Buble song, which is not danceable at all.  While Bliss and I dance, Grant stumbles out of his bedroom to ask what time it is.

"9:00!" we say.  Bliss dances jazz hands at him, pointing at his knees.  I dance jazz hands, pointing at his shoulders.

Neither of us can reach his head.

It is too far up there.

Tip, tip, tap.

We picked Grant and Audrey up from the airport last night  - they were in China all week with their dad and grandparents celebrating Chinese New Year.

Tired and pale, Grant goes back to sleep some more.  Jet lag is a fact of life for my children.  This is what they looked like at midnight on Chinese New Year.

I feel pity and admiration for them, all at once.

I admire them because they deal with jet lag so well and always have.  They both took their first flight to Asia when they were tiny babies and even back then, they adjusted to the new time zone so quickly.  Not easily necessarily, but quickly.

I feel sad for them because their dad and I have put them in this position.  If they want to have a relationship with both of us, they have to get on a plane and criss-cross the Pacific.  Over and over again.

I'm sorry about this.

Tip, tip, tap.  The drops of rain land on the glass and they cling to it stubbornly.  It's almost as if they want to stay on the window as long as they can, watching us from the outside.  But soon the weight of their watery bellies pulls them down to the ground in a quiet splash. 

Audrey comes downstairs and hugs me. She yawns and hands me the Hello Kitty makeup she brought for me from China.

Tip, tip, tap.

My children are growing up and one day soon they will leave the house.  By this time next year Audrey will be away at college and three years from now Grant will be too.  All I will have is the occasional sleepover with Bliss and there will even come a day when I don't have that anymore.  Everyone is growing up.  
 
And finally I hear what the raindrops have been trying to tell me all morning long.

Tip, tip, tap.   

You are okay.

You are and you will be.

Cling to the glass.  Watch these moments for as long as you can. 

Tip, tip, tap.  

And amen.