Firsts

What they say, and why you should pursue them

Foxglove Friend, 18x15 watercolor

Hi. Well, I did it again. And I’m not talking about drinking too much wine with my girlfriends, though that would certainly be a fun thing to do. No, I skipped the February issue of pARTake this past third Sunday. Anyway, since there are many of you newer readers (and if that’s you, welcome!), I’m sharing a previously published and revised issue about firsts. Why this particular letter and why now? A few weeks ago, I started another draft of my memoir (I like to joke that this is the fifty-bazillionth start-over), and two chapters are titled The First Time I Had Sex and The First Time I Said No. Well, dear readers, I won’t be publishing any of those chapters on pARTake (you’ll have to wait for the book), but writing about those firsts reminded me that I wrote about “Firsts” here on pARTake in late 2024.

I hope you find something in this letter that resonates with you because I believe we’re all more alike than different. Take good care of yourselves and your loved ones, your neighbors, and the strangers you see on the street and online. We live in unprecedented, chaotic times. Please remember to breathe and be kind. You never know what someone else is going through.

Do me a favor: tap the heart, drop a comment, or hit reply in your inbox to reply privately. It’s a pleasure and honor to bring you these words, and I look forward to hearing from you.

M xo

Firsts are essential to growth and well-being; they’re also relational. The firsts you make in life, whether intentional or not, shape and energize you, but the number of firsts you make can dwindle as you age. There’s comfort in sameness. I get it. I fall easily into a routine until I realize I’m bored or frustrated, usually because I haven’t challenged myself by doing something for the first time.

Doing new things for the first time, regardless of age, can feel awkward, even scary. Throw insecurity, complacency, stubbornness, avoidance, or something else into the mixing bowl, and we can find ourselves whipping up the same pancake batter and pouring the same brand of maple syrup over the top of the stack until our tastebuds are dull. But doing something for the first time can be exhilarating as we age, and I would argue we should aspire to more first-time experiences because the more we do them, the richer and more rewarding our lives become. Firsts are essential for many reasons, but not all are created equal, chosen, or good things.

The one thing I had going for me as a young girl was that I had established myself as someone willing to do just about anything for the first time.

I led a group of my peers, senior and junior classmates, with the guidance of the social studies teacher, a man whose name I can’t remember, on a whitewater rafting trip down the Youghiogheny River. While I can’t recall my teacher’s name, a man who significantly impacted me then, I’ll never forget his Abe Lincoln look, southern drawl, and faith-based teaching. Nor will I forget his trust in me as the President of the Whitewater Rafting Club, even though I’d never water rafted, canoed, boated, or been president of any club. Until that point in my not-so-illustrious life in high school, I’d been cutting classes to smoke weed in the alley behind the school. I had been threatened with expulsion. Abe guided me down the river, literally and metaphorically, to a better place.

The first week of chemotherapy went fine-ish — my fine blond hair turned coarse and curly, and I was fatigued, but that was the extent of the side effects, which were deceiving. However, then I had nothing to gauge it from since this was my first cancer diagnosis at fifty-eight years old. Halfway through the treatment, I sat cradled in my husband’s arms on a rented hospital bed in our primary bedroom, sobbing, swaddled in blankets even though it was blistering hot outside, bald, malnourished, considering palliative hospice, and for the first time, thinking of the real possibility that I might die.

The soil is dry, hard, and rocky. I scrap and dig and sort. I’m sure I don’t have the proper tools for this task because if I did, surely we’d have lawns that looked like the neighbors on both sides of the house where I grew up—carpets of thick, lush green grass. The one-foot by twenty-foot dirt patch that ran along the length of the cement path in our yard, from the front gate to our backyard, wanted to argue with me; the rocks nicked my fingers, and pebbles embedded themselves in the skin of my knees. Our other postcard-sized yard area, supported by weeds and tufts of grass, was shaded by a massive oak tree from the neighbor’s yard, except for a tiny patch in the far right corner where a rose of Sharon grew against and into the chain-link fence and wild orange tiger lilies thrived. Another fuchsia-colored rose of Sharon bush grew alongside the front gate in my wanna-be garden, and a scrappy red rose bush was in the center. In between, thick weeds and dandelions sprouted despite copious amounts of daily dog urine. I’d pleaded with Mum for flower seeds, hurling hurt through comparison: why can’t we have soft, pretty green grass, too? And she said with a sharp tongue that I’d later understand as humility and wisdom, “The grass isn’t always greener on the other side.” But my twelve-year-old eyes didn’t believe her. The green grass was as real as my thin, curly, auburn hair that tickled my sunburned shoulders. The first flowers I planted in that patch were marigolds at mum’s suggestion. I didn’t care for the pungent smell but loved their resiliency. Since then, I have associated the bright, hardy flowers with Mum, as she withstood most of life’s challenges with grace and integrity. And, of course, she was also right: the grass isn’t always greener.

The first time I learned to tack a sail, I was thirty-four years old and had lived in the Florida Keys for five years, but spent more time traveling around the world to downhill ski than playing in my sandy backyard. The first time I went downhill skiing, I was sixteen. I wore blue jeans, rented boots and skis, and spent the day tumbling down the slushy, icy mountainside at Seven Springs, miserable, wet, depressed, and cold while I waited for the yellow school bus to return our school group to the city. I vowed never to ski again. But then, life happened, and twelve years later, I stood sideways on perfectly groomed runs in Vail for the first time, wearing a posh purple and pink outfit with new matching shiny skis and boots, listening to a kid a few years younger show me how to snow plow. I’d eventually conquer that mountain and over two dozen more worldwide, winning a coveted top ten spot, racing down the hill looking for something that was always beyond my nose instead of looking inside myself for solutions.

I saw the Gulf of Mexico and Atlantic Oceans on my right and left, respectively, at the same time, the proverbial birds-eye view, cruising on a warm draft, tethered to a hang glider, for the first time, wondering what took me so long to find freedom from stress. Hang-gliding was my fiftieth birthday present from my first husband.

The first instrument I played was a piano. That lasted about a week. Then, once I tucked a violin under my chin in fifth grade for the first time, I felt love. I snapped black-and-white images with a film camera on loan from the school, where we developed images in a red room in the eighth grade, and the pungent chemicals assaulted my nose and lungs for the first time. Other firsts: Industrial Design drawing course in high school; a bit part on stage in The Pajama Game senior year; a mime course at the community college; a charcoal class; and a stained-glass workshop. These artistic firsts would mold future me, but I didn’t know it; I was restless and looking for something that, at the time, felt elusive.

My first food essay appeared in Edible Orlando magazine at age forty-nine, and my first cookbook was published at age fifty-five. At sixty-three, I won my first art award in a national watercolor exhibition.

The first time I saw a human die. My dad went from barking an order, “Get me a beer,” to looking like he’d fallen asleep in a matter of minutes while I watched the black and white television screen with aluminum foil antennas and squirmed on the nubby red cloth sofa, afraid to move because I thought he might wake up and yell at me, or worse, take off his belt. Except for a tiny trickle of blood running from the corner of his mouth and his absolute stillness, he looked happy. I was seven years old.

When I decided to teach a beginner watercolor workshop with only three years of painting experience, book a two-hour seminar, and register ten students, I wasn’t sure how things would work out. I understood with absolute certainty that I wasn’t getting any younger. Life is short, and I want to help others explore their passions and learn from the things I wish I had known when I first started painting. Now, for the first time, I know everything leading to this moment prepared me for this and more firsts.

You didn’t think I’d make it to the end of this letter without telling you about my first kiss, did you?

His lips were shaped like a heart, plump and pink like eleven-year-old lips are. My bony bum was sore from sitting on the cement stoop in the elementary school playground, waiting for the right moment. Would he lean to me, blonde corn-silk hair falling across his face, or would I take a quick peck when he turned to talk to me? I licked my lips.

I don’t remember who initiated the first kiss. In my ideal memory, we leaned in together to make magic, the way love is supposed to be in a fairy tale. But like many first loves, ours ended in heartbreak. He chose another girl with budding breasts and long brown hair until he ditched her, too, and then fell in love with my best friend. But I remember the feeling that matters most — wanting and being wanted, one of the most human conditions of all.

What have you done for the first time that changed your life? Are you sitting on the fence about doing something for the first time? Be brave, do it! Then let me know!

Some housekeeping: Your support means more to me than you know. If you like what you see here and want to support me financially, that would be amazing. And it’s pretty easy to do. $5 a month, $35 a year, or be a pARTake Rock Star and get original, custom-framed art. You can buy my salmon cookbook, commission art, or learn more about what I’ve been up to (this last part only requires your time) on my About page. Or reply to this letter to say hi, which is free! Thanks again for reading and for being here.

M and Cooper xo

Cooper is ready to take a leap of faith!

Stay curious, Stay safe. Make an impact.