The Art Of Showing Up Novels & Stories

"About all of this. Working so much. Being away. Missing time with her." He drew me in. "You are permitted to pursue a career. to follow your aspirations." However, what if I'm overlooking too much? "What if she doesn't recall me being there when she grows up?" She will recall. You underestimate how much you're there. And you're present when you're there. That's what counts. I wanted to think he was real. The weeks that followed blended together. gatherings. Sessions for planning. The artist calls. Beautifully, the exhibition was coming together. Better than I thought it would be.

“Thank you. I won’t mess up. I mean…I might mess up, but I’ll fix it. Or try to.” That earned a quiet laugh. “We all mess up,” she said. “What matters is that you show up.” Show up. The words settled into me like a promise. I tied the apron around my waist with shaking fingers, hyper-aware of every movement, every glance. The café wasn’t full yet, but it was busy enough that I could feel eyes flicker toward me. Curious. Assessing. New girl, they were thinking. I didn’t mind that part. What I minded was the way some of those looks lingered too long, sharp instead of curious. Like they were trying to see past me, to something else.

--- --- Not intense. --- --- Not overwhelming. --- --- Just… present. --- --- And for a moment— --- He didn’t speak. --- --- Not because he didn’t have something to say. --- --- But because he understood the weight of this moment. --- --- Because when someone shows up like that— --- --- When someone opens themselves without holding back— --- --- You don’t respond carelessly. --- --- You respond intentionally. --- --- “You didn’t have to say it like that,” he said finally. ---

He absorbed that quietly. “I'm not asking for promises.” I continued. “I'm asking not to be pushed away every time it starts to matter.” He looked at me like he wanted to say something bigger. Something definitive. Instead, he said, “I don't know how to promise you safety.” “I'm not asking for safety.” “Then what?” I held his gaze. “Show up.” I said. “Even when it's messy.” His jaw tightened. “I am showing up.” “Not with me.”

I watched her face for reactions, for the small tells that would indicate what she really thought. When she reached the motel painting, she went very still. "This is the strongest piece you have ever created," she said finally. "You think so?" "I know so. The vulnerability here, the honesty—this is what makes great art. Not technical perfection. Not clever composition. This." She gestured at the painting. "This willingness to show people exactly who you are and where you came from." "It feels exposing." "All good art is exposing. That is the point." She turned to face me. "James needs to see these. All of them. Today if possible."

It was about showing up. Again. And again. Even in the dark. Especially in it.

I lay in the dark and I thought about what I knew about being a father. I knew that showing up was the beginning and not the whole. I had learned that from watching Kieran's showing up, which had been consistent and resourced and utterly insufficient because it had been strategic rather than genuine. Showing up was necessary but it was the minimum. I knew that presence was not the same as proximity. I had built Phoenix Rising on that principle, on the understanding that being in a room with someone was not the same as actually being with them, that attention was the real currency and it could not be faked indefinitely.

“You don’t have to show up if you think something is off, Boss, you’re not obligated.” “I know,” I flick a hand, he gets the message, and takes his step back to the side. “But he is in my territory. Not showing up is always bad for business.”

I asked. “Long enough.” “That’s not an answer.” “It’s the one you’re getting.” I exhaled through my nose. “Do you ever not do that?” “Do what?” “Show up like you’ve been standing there the whole time.” He didn’t answer. Which was answer enough. I ran a hand through my hair, frustration creeping in. “This is exactly what I mean.” “What is?” “This,” I gestured around. “The watching. The security. You just appearing whenever you want.”

My gaze scantily swept through the crowd, taking in the expectancy of some, curiosity and disapproval of others majorly because of my strange aopearance. “Thank you all for gracing this event with your beautiful prescence”, I began, keeping a straight face and staring way past the crowd at the empty wall behind them. “These art works displayed are not just beautiful things laying around waiting for you to find them but they are also bits and pieces of who we are because somehow they speak to our hungry souls”.