In Medias Res
Light breaking through trees
I wrote the introduction to this blog several years ago. I had been freelancing with Kentucky Monthly for over a year, and they just kept letting me write about the cool and interesting Kentucky people and events that I discovered. And then, like little Mary Lennox in Francis Hogdson Burnett’s classic novel, The Secret Garden, I found the courage to ask for my own bit of earth: A Kentuckian in Paris.
When Editor-in-Chief Steve Vest said, "yes," I thought I had finally made it.
Then, quite honestly, I didn’t know what to say. Here, I had this dream blog. Yet, I was a writer without a clue. How did that happen?
I’d been writing stories for quite some time, since way back in sixth grade at North Middletown Elementary School when Mrs. Barby Hurter gave us a creative writing assignment.
My entire life up until that point in sixth grade had been family, church, farm, books, horses and books about horses. It was only fitting that the very first story I wrote had an equine main character. It was titled: "The Horse with the Flaxen Mane and Tail."
I worked so hard on that story. I was both author and illustrator. I carefully clothed my pages in blue construction paper, punched holes in the left side and stitched the binding with off-white yarn.
When Mrs. Hurter returned our masterpieces to us, she said, “Kristy, I think you’re a writer.”
Magic words.
I grabbed pens and pencils and crayons and markers and journals and loose-leaf papers and napkins and the edges of envelopes, and I ran with the magic words. I wrote as I ran.
I soaked up stories. I learned how to listen. I learned how to spot the good ones. I hitched up the skirts of my courage and leaned into freelancing.
Basically, I figured out how to get cozy with pop-up figures.
Most of life is like that. It’s a long-ish adventure training course where we move through various scenes and scenarios, silhouettes popping up from unexpected places. As we move through this course, we must decide if the figure is friend or foe and make an appropriate determination of our response. In a matter of minutes, we gather those W questions (who, what, when, where, why and how), and we do something with the answers.
Each of us, every single day, deals with a pop-up figure of some sort. Some are memorable and seem more like divine intervention than coincidence. Some are not so very memorable, or are the kinds of figures you wish you’d never met. No matter the shape or the impact of the figure, we all have them.
What do we do with them?
A few years back, I received a text on a Wednesday at 9:30 a.m. The text said, “Would you be interested in talking to my Rotary Club about your blog? Let me know what you think!”
Immediately, I wanted to say yes. And I wanted to say no. Who the heck did I think I was? Not good enough to speak in front of the Rotary. What if I flop? What if I don’t?
It took me 15 minutes to slog through the interior dialogue and answer her.
“I think that makes me nervous already. I haven’t written much on my blog, so I don’t know how interesting it would be.”
She wrote: “I understand. Maybe next year.”
The breadth and width of the time between that moment and "next year" passed before me. So much could happen in a year. I kicked my inner self for being a big scaredy cat, said a ginormous prayer for wisdom and direction, listened for a resounding NO, and didn’t hear one, so I started typing.
“But I could speak on life and what happens in the middle of it, and how it often interrupts itself and doubles its own joy and makes us weary and how, even in the midst of this crazy, amazing, hard life, we keep on keeping on. And how life is about focus … not on ourselves, but perhaps on others. And how, even when we don’t see the good in this immediate-results world, we just keep going anyway. Kind of like what the rotary does.”
I was breathless from typing. I pushed send and considered throwing up.
“Sounds great! See you then!” she wrote.
And it all worked out somehow.
This Wednesday-at-9:30 a.m. text was from a woman whom I had never met in person. She was simply a pop-up figure. I had once asked for her story, and she shared it.
She let down a bucket into her well of life and pulled up the sweetest draught of story. I gulped it down, savored the coolness of it against my parched throat, and took refreshment.
I scooped up all those lovely words and put a few of them here and there on a page.
I dropped a bucket into my own well and drew up empathy and sympathy and compassion and experience. I pulled out another dipper full of respect and honesty and integrity and courage—these, the gifts of my parents and my grandparents.
I poured a little from my pitcher of intelligence and knowledge and wisdom—these, the gifts from teachers and editors and readers.
I combined it all and let a clear stream of it trickle into a very special cup, fashioned and gifted to me by God, who I believe is the maker and giver of all good things.
I drank from this cup and poured out all the rest for thirsty souls who needed this particular elixir at this particular time.
Some refused what I offered. Some drank from the story and it tasted sweet to their lips and gave them energy and hope. Some passed on a sip to their friends and relatives and neighbors.
All it was, was a simple story of hope, which started with one woman’s experience of the absence of hope, followed by the presence of hope.
And I got to write about it.
These experiences happen all around us, every day.
They just pop up from time to time.
There is a technical term for it: In Medias Res.
In Medias Res is an 18th-century Latin term which means: In the midst of things.
I especially like in medias res moments. Lately, I’ve found that I see them better. Perhaps that is my age. Perhaps it’s something else, like a true focus on others. The stories come more easily, the introductions softer and clearer. We have more in common than we have of the things that separate us. Sometimes, even in the midst of things, we just need a good story that reminds our hearts of the joy in common ground.
Your Turn: In 100 words or less, write a true, memorable story of a pop-up figure who made a difference in your life. Share your story in the comments below.