In the previous post, I described my process to use “order” in this last section of the book to reach all the meaning and insights.
I showed this image of a bed covered with folders and notes, which I described as “all my clues” to who I am, at heart, and who I am becoming. That bed, with all those items, is my “power base” for healing.
But it was my husband who REALLY nailed a symbolism that I totally missed.
(more…)I’ve been quiet the last few days with no new posts. But that doesn’t mean there wasn’t a lot of “incubation” and “percolation” going on. What was born of all that work is a possible path now through this last section of the book-writing.
Yesterday, I listened to a podcast by writer Ryan Holiday. His focus, both in his books and speeches, is on the philosophy of Stoicism. I’ll speak more of that later, but for now, its basic premises involve being aware of your mortality, not wasting precious time, and focusing on what is in your power to control while letting go of things that aren’t. But it was one thing he said in the podcast that nailed where I am at in my writing process right now.
This last phase of my book feels like a chaos. There are so many threads that my life story has raised, and now I need to draw them together into meaningful insights and answers. But looking at the piles of paintings and folders scattered before me in this picture, I just wondered — where do I start? How do I do this well…logically…and give my readers meaning?
NOTE: All photos below are by the author
Holiday, in his podcast, talked about the need to have an orderly workspace. Because if you can organize your workspace and materials, then you are free to dive into the chaos that is the actual work. Order is what makes being in chaos possible. It sounds counterintuitive, but it made total sense to me.
The piles on the bed in my workroom are the chaos I’ve always felt in my life. They are the reason I needed to write, the clues to solve the mystery that is me: How to understand my life, and answer questions like, “How did I survive, why, and what does it all mean?” So I know that my ultimate truths and peace are in those folders. But HOW to access that?
(more…)Yesterday’s post compared this part of the work to performing an autopsy and writing the final report. But while it “can work,” it didn’t feel quite right. While it is a logical metaphor given my science background, it is too “left-brained, cerebral. What is really needed is a much more emotional and soulful one.
Instead, I keep coming back to this part of the book being the Midrash. The “extra part” that adds the soulful pieces that the story couldn’t tell.
It’s funny, but as I was sensing these things, my husband came to me and questioned the autopsy metaphor, too. He correctly pointed out that I am not dead, not by a long shot, nor is my story done. “You are a survivor,” he said, like a person who was in a symbolic “plane crash.” “And out of the rubble, smoke, debris, and bodies, somehow you walked out of that carnage toward the helpers and are still embracing life.”
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In 1984, I was walking every night, trying not to kill myself. I had to start life all over again.
In 2008, I was afraid to get off the couch, and having an emotional breakdown. And again, I was having to start life over.
Both times, I was at the end of my rope, hanging by a thread, not wanting to be dead, but wondering what else there was in life, and if I had any value.
I was consumed by a level of anxiety I’d never experienced before. It was so bad, I was afraid to get out of bed in the morning — dreaded starting another day of pain. But I was too afraid to stay in bed. Yet I couldn’t wait for the day to be over so I could get back in bed, and when I did, I only felt safe on my stomach, propped up on elbows, watching the same video over and over again on a small portable player while Ed watched TV.
Almost every night for months, it was the Pixar movie, “A Bug’s Life.” It was safe, all the ants worked together, and there was nothing scary or provocative. And the best part, the part I wanted to be in, was the big sleeping chamber where all the ants rested, sleeping safely and comfortably in their little hammocks. It was snuggly, all of them there together, safe from any threats. Just the security of being there together with all of their friends. I so wished I could live with them.
(more…)“She would of been a good woman,” The Misfit said, “if it had been somebody there to shoot her every minute of her life.”
Flannery O’Connor, story, “A Good Man is Hard to Find”
It was that same book I was given by one of my elementary school nuns from her college English course. The one that opened my mind to the wide new world of literature. The one I drank up like it was water, and I was dying of thirst.
There was that one story in the book, though, by Flannery O’Connor, called “A Good Man is Hard to Find.” I was both repelled by it because of its violence and unwillingly, but powerfully drawn to it. I could never let it go. All my life, it gnawed at me, but I never knew why.
(more…)As impossible as it may have seemed, we made it. Despite managing marriage, parenthood, jobs, caring for his parents, and fighting mine… despite all the odds, Ed and I stuck with therapy, and it started working.
In looking back at my journal entries and talking with Ed about all the things I’ve written here, we both just shook our heads. Both of us agree that we don’t know how we did it, and that it is flat-out amazing that we made it through those years. But we did. And we are both deeply grateful now.
As our love and marriage grew stronger, it would show up in small ways. It was especially telling on one occasion when we bought a new tree for the front yard of our home. Our son said that because the tree was part of our family, it needed a name. So he promptly called it “Ralph.” I have no idea why.
But then Ed spoke up and added to its name the words, “the passion tree.” Ralph, The Passion Tree. I looked at him, and he just said, “Ralph is a symbol of our growth…a testament to the changes that are happening in both of us, and in our marriage.”
(more…)The mid-90s were hell on wheels in terms of intensity.
Ed and I were doing the marital classes and working to build a new relationship between us. Our son was having trouble at school. There were stresses with bills and jobs. Ed’s parents were getting sicker, which required periodic trips home, and we were also doing regular therapy to focus on our specific issues and my healing from abuse. Oh, and yes, we were waging battles again with my dad about his interactions with the kids in the family. Then, my friend called.
I was about to step into the shower.
My husband stood in the bathroom doorway. “She’s on the phone.”
Every fiber in my body cringed. She’d been my friend. She helped nurture me when I was suicidal. She helped me over the hurdle of sex. But things had not been right for a long time.
(more…)Is it possible to go from an abusive household with no role modeling for healthy relationship skills and have a successful marriage?
I can’t answer for anyone else. I can only say, for us, it was not a given, no matter how much we loved each other.
What do you say about the issues in your early years of marriage, when you are writing about them from 40+ years out? From having navigated struggles and joys, successes, near-death episodes, and all that life can throw at you? When I think of who we were back then compared to now, we were almost more like strangers.
So does it even feel relevant to look back?
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For any successful team to operate, there must be an agreed-upon set of rules and priorities. And Ed and I were a team. So, during this “adult” phase, we had five priorities:
(more…)Sitting at the dining room table, I stared across the room and studied my husband’s face. He was seated at the desk in the living room, speaking on the phone. I watched every expression for a hint as to the “bottom line” of this call. The conversation seemed pleasant. The call was brief.
Hanging up the phone (Yes, this is before cell phones), Ed turned to me and said,
“Well, the job in North Carolina is ours if we want it….Do we want it?”
Never has there been more of a pregnant pause between us…not even the time I called him when I was actually pregnant….
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Soul Mosaic 