On the strange tower & week 34 of 52
The comedy of errors that is my attempt to live this year as though it were my last & an invite
YOU are invited to join me (updated) Feb 1, 2025. I’m offering a Writing and Meditation Live at 9 a.m. ET / 2 p.m. GMT / 6 a.m. PT. RSVP or show up @ Insight Timer. Oh, and if you’ve been practicing the Creative Flourishing meditations, #4 (the final day) might not have found your inbox, but it is here. Okay, story time …
Have you ever had an idea that sounds amazing in your head?
The intentions are solid, the plan is doable, and a few weeks in advance, everything feels right. Then the day comes …
Well, my husband and I drove 11 hours from Ohio to Western Massachusetts to surprise my father shortly after Christmas. I decided to take this lengthy drive since we hadn’t connected at Thanksgiving like usual, and I couldn’t wait.
The pop-in visit was made possible by some co-conspiring with my stepmom. But a week before I planned to go, my kitchen flooded. A few days later, I felt my allergies coming on. Despite it all, this trip was compelling me forward because it was the kind of thing I would not ordinarily do. It was a whim, a bit silly, and undeniably what I’d do if I had 18 weeks to live.
When I arrived with my husband and two dogs, my father was thrilled. He kept saying how shocked he was. I felt good, but I was also starting to feel bad in all new ways. My allergies had morphed into a full-blown cold complete with a stuffed nose and increasing pressure in my cheeks; my body ached and my dogs needed exercise. My dad offered to take me to a park where he said there was a strange old tower and a much shorter walk than we’d ordinarily take.
Strange and cool places are par for the course with my father. He has a knack for finding interesting spots to photograph or sketch (an artist as long as I’ve known him, my dad). I was eager to see it. My delight wilted, however, when we got to the “strange old tower,” my father had talked about. It was a concrete—yes, tower, covered in graffiti and rather difficult to get to with crumbling steps leading the way to a small door at the base of the tower where old liquor bottles were piled up.
My entire body ached. My nose was now leaking faster than my kitchen. I leaned against a derogatory piece of concrete, worried I might get my father sick, as he and my husband walked around the tower and took a few minutes to take pictures.
When my dad came back around, he was beaming. I told him I wasn’t impressed by the place but I enjoyed the walk. I also apologized for showing up sick. I needed to go back to take a nap. He nodded and led me and the pups home. Just before my nap, my youngest dog, Potato, vomited her “pup cup” under his kitchen table.
After a short rest, I woke to a ding on my phone with a series of images. I was feeling better—good enough to get dinner—and my father had sent me a few artsy pictures of the tower that isolated the graffitied line “creativity is the gateway to wisdom” (see below) and made the run-down lookout site appear beautiful. “There’s more to Scott Tower than what you see at first glance,” he wrote.
When I was growing up, my father, an artist, always looked for beauty in places that seemed devoid of it. He told me on that trip how incredible it was that I’d come to visit and, sure, I got sick and things didn’t turn out perfect, but he’d never been so delightfully surprised. Despite my hacking and general grossness, he’d seen the effort I put in and my intention as something beautiful.
He’d seen and appreciated that intent over the external circumstances that hit us. It was a good lesson for a woman of action. Effort and positive intention alone can touch a person in a way that no fancy dinner or hike in the woods would’ve made better. All these details added to the memory of the story. I’m glad to have had this short time with my father.
AYTL: Create an offering of gratitude for someone who does not expect it, and do it even if—especially if—you’re not sure things will go perfectly.
Writing prompt: Write about duality. What is the difference between intent, stated intent, and action? Interpret in any genre.
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Thanks for sharing, Jen!
This photo reminds me of a passage from my story "Donna Swift":
"Carl stood up and walked behind the podium, to stand in front of the photograph of the urban landscape. It was haunting, beautifully composed, the light and shadows playing on the half-decayed signs and on the stained and graffitied walls, evoking a desperate, yet utterly human mood. It was the kind of photograph he wished he had taken, and hoped that he might take someday. It took his breath away."
What a trip, what a gift! These intentions of yours lead to magic, Jen.