Savvy 8: Call it your life. Call it Charmed

It has no doubt been said that there is power in titles. A house, for example, takes on a stature when it's named. Dreaming that one has returned to "Manderly" has an entirely different ring to it than, say, dreaming of picking the locks at "114 Quinn Street," and not only because Daphne Du Maurier says so. A "Gus Burger" holds a great deal more appeal, or at least intrigue, than a medium rare hamburger upon which a runny fried egg has been perched. Thanks be to the person who found the perfect word to describe a kite, a terrier, a dildo, so that we don't have to. And yet, there is no single word used to describe a whole life. At least not while it's still underway. This morning, I decided to change that. So I have decided to give my life a title like Manderly. I am going to call my life Charmed.

Ours is a Charmed life. This is hard to say when the basement is being torn up and cleared of sewage, when a young man in our small town has been diagnosed terminal, when a friend's brother dies in a country so far away that acknowledging the death is reduced to an ineffectual email, with no hope of a walk or a glass of wine. Charmed is hard to say when friends leave, and they do leave, sometimes before a conversation could take place, before we had a chance to hear how they really are. And the magazine doesn't call to say that my work has been accepted, or even that they want another piece, or a change of focus. And the dog needs more medication and the check engine light is on.

And yet, ours is indeed a charmed life. I know this, because friends came before they left. Because we ate good food and laughed. Because the basement cannot be rebuilt without a vision, and the vision requires a dream, and the dream makes anything seem possible. A child's play space, for example. A Retro hang out place, with shag rugs and funky purple lights from Queen Street. The dream is possible. The place can be made to happen. The Charmed life can be forced into place, and the squirrels nesting in the roof can be forced out of place. See?

Does pain increase charm? I think it must. My dear friends carry their sadness the way that others wear shoes - without consciousness. At first, of course, we all got blisters. At first, the shoes were too bright and high-heeled and tricky to navigate and awkwardly visible and we wished that we could wear something else, but these, alas, were the only ones that fit. They are the shoes that complete us, and in some way protect us from the sidewalk. Our pain, worn this way, softens our skin. Reminds us to be compassionate. Reminds us that we cannot be so different from that Other coming toward us in other shoes. Grief cares nothing for suede, and grief barely notices alligator skin. It moves through everything. (Rather like a charming man at a party, except that he is more welcome).

Our life is charmed because right now, our shoes fit. (We can see the amount of the invoice). This is a period of frustration for us, perhaps. A knowable, quantifiable drag. These days are not full of real grief, the kind that cuts into your heels and makes it hard to walk, hard to breathe, hard to act like you are okay. These woes are the kind we can laugh about. And laughter, of course, works like a charm.

Charm me, life. Wrap my wrist with bangles in the shape of houses and dogs and minivans with bright yellow lights and healthy children and gargoyles from countries that I've yet to visit. Remind me that you are Charmed. And you will be.