I like writing because it sifts meaning from the events of my life that would have otherwise flown past. In that way, it’s like therapy. It always surprised me when a singular, seemingly pedestrian event, would become the one thing I wanted to talk about most with my therapist.
After the first sixty seconds of terror, where I could not remember how I knew her or her name, my conversation last week with Brenda was one such events. Fifty-ish with walnut-brown hair tied through her snapback cap and physically trim in the fashion that one becomes when they lift and stoop around furniture all day, this woman I remotely remembered was complimenting my booth. “You’ve made such progress. I’m happy you’re making it work here. I hoped I hadn’t led you astray when I recommend you lease a booth.”
I’m an idiot, I thought to myself. This is Brenda. The woman who introduced me to the furniture business in Asheville.
I hadn’t seen her in since six months ago when she’d gifted me a vanity in need of restoration. The ballcap had thrown me off. So I tried to recover. “I’m grateful that you told me about this place last year,” I said, catching a clever glimmer in her eyes that understood I’d forgotten who she was, but it faded fast, replaced again by her intentional presence. “I’ve been following your advice though, treating the space as advertising for my services. Just trying to trust the process, even when business is slow.”
She grinned ruefully as she looked down the aisles that surrounded us, seeming to take stock of the collection of vendors that we ourselves were also a part of. “Going on six years now, I’ve had a booth here. And I’ve watched a lot of people come and go. If they have two bad months in a row, they pack up shop. It blows my mind every time because their stuff is usually good. They just needed to stay here longer.”
When I sat down to draft this newsletter, that last sentence popped into my mind. I thought last about that conversation when I had that conversation, a week ago. Guess I needed it now.
So, let us focus on staying humbly in the game and making it to tomorrow. Then, let’s do it again.
To livin’ a life we love,
Ryan Fightmaster, MD
(Thank you to everyone who left a review for 32 Lessons from 8 Years Lost in Medicine. We didn’t get to 50, but we did get to 36, and somehow, when that 36th review hit the Amazon algorithm, my book shot up the charts of “One Hour Self-Help Short Reads” from #691 to #91. I just checked again in the category I’d never heard of until this morning, and I’m at #130. Massive improvement, regardless. Appreciate the help everyone.)
