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.”
(more…)At the beginning of this memoir, I wrote about the nature of my “journey” and the tools I would need. That first part – The Old Country, the story of my life experiences – was one of exploration…going back. Observing. I needed things from that past, as well as my paintings and journals. I described the process as a lab experiment, which included gathering the supplies, then running the experiment. That part was my revisiting the past to see what was there.
The Undiscovered Country is that part of the experimental process that generates the final lab report and gets at “What did I learn” and possibly, “What have I missed?” It involves assessing, analyzing, and questioning. It often requires some extra research to help with drawing my conclusions.
So, the bed full of folders, books, paintings, journals, and research, and the binders holding the entries for the story of my life, is my overwhelming pile of experimental data. Now, somehow, I have to bring order to it, make sense of it all, and see what it tells me.
I think of this part of the Undiscovered Country as a journey through the Underworld. I have to go where I have not yet been and be willing to stay in the discomfort of not knowing what I will find.
In a way, it is an autopsy. All of the data are the “body to be examined.”
To do an autopsy, first you need a logical, ordered, step-by-step procedure. Here, my procedure is mapped on a chart – my mind map. It lists all those topics laid out on the bed that I need to address, the order in which I will tackle each, and extra notes and reminders for the important points along the way.
Another requirement is autopsy tools. My “scalpels and probes” will include:
And the last step requires time: To reflect, to decide, and to write up the results.
The things I write will be that “midrash” – the parts missing from the story itself that add clarity and reveal things not seen before.
So, next up…WHY do it this way?
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…)Before I go on with my story, I need to clarify something.
As I write, I usually speak of my “family,” either in terms of my husband, son, and myself, or my family of origin – my household growing up. And I try to be mindful to be clear who I mean in each specific instance.
But I will also sometimes mention the “family system,” and it occurs to me I never explained what I mean by that. So, before I continue the story, a clarification is in order.
(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…)These current entries are taking more time and thought to write. There were so many things going on simultaneously during those years, complicated and all knotted together. In order to share something meaningful and coherent, I have needed to reflect deeply and not rush the process.
In the last two pieces I wrote, I spoke of my husband and me managing many priorities, and just finishing the marriage-skills classes, as well as my finally ending a friendship that was not working.
To continue with the story thread, I will begin with the onion that is “therapy.”
(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…)
Soul Mosaic 