Messy and Wonderful and Real

 

Reading Anne Lamott puts me in mind of Marie Howe's poem, 'What The Living Do', dedicated to her brother Johnny who had died of AIDS.

Johnny, the kitchen sink has been clogged for days, some utensil 

probably fell down there. 

And  the  the Drano won't work but smells dangerous, and crusty dishes 

have piled up. waiting for the plumber I still haven't called.This is the everyday 

we spoke of. 

It's winter again: the sky's a deep headstrong blue, and the sunlight pours  

through the open living room windows because the heat's on too high in here, and I 

can't turn it off. 

For weeks now, driving, or dropping a bag of groceries in the street, the 

bag breaking,

I've been thinking: This is what the living do. And yesterday, hurrying 

along those wobbly bricks in the Cambridge sidewalk, spilling my coffee down my 

wrist and sleeve, 

I thought it again and again later, when buying a hairbrush: This is it. 

Parking. Slamming the car door shut in the cold. What you called that 

yearning. 

What you finally gave up. We want the spring to come and the winter to 

pass. We want  whoever to call or not call, a letter, a kiss -- we want more and more and 

then more of it. 

But there are moments, walking, when I catch a glimpse of myself in the 

window glass, say, the window of a corner video store, and  I'm gripped by a cherishing 

so deep 

for my own blowing hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat that I'm 

speechless: 

I am living, I remember you.                                                                                                                    

----

Small Victories is about the messiness of daily life and improbable moments of grace. The reason so many relate to Anne Lamott is because of her very humanness. She doesn't pretend to be better than she is. In fact, when she thinks she's being good or saintly, you can tell, because her tone becomes faintly mocking. At herself. Always, at herself.

I read one or two of these stories in another collection, one I gave up to Yonden Lhatoo, the chief news editor of South China Morning Post, when I met him in Singapore during a course on digital journalism, because he had made a video about hate, and Lamott writes an essay about hate.

I loved all her stories though. Reading her books, her stories, her essays, is easy. There are moments of transcendence in them. But she doesn't serve up any bullshit. She tells it as it is, at least, as how she sees it, and I think what I love best about her is how she tries her best and stumbles towards wisdom. 

I relate to her in world where everyone is well-dressed, well-groomed, no hair out of place, clothes always ironed (OK my clothes have become more ironed ever since Rose started working for me and ironing them). And watching Korean shows, it irks me how well put-together everyone seems. 

A little messiness is human. It may not be picture perfect, but it's real.

And that's what I love about Lamott. After all these years. At 60, she's still real.