Discovery Begins with Denial

When I started this blog, I didn’t think there would be such long periods of time in-between one post and another. Yet, I certainly didn’t think I would write everyday either.

I’ve thought about writing a few times since the first of the year, but thought I had promised to start over.

 Starting over, it seemed at the time, involves an entirely new creative process. I thought, how can I start over if I don’t have a new blog title, a new purpose, and actually help people? That is the goal, after all.

 Most writers don’t spend time penning something just because they have a story inside them that is burgeoning and begging to be told. They end up writing that story because they believe it will help someone.

            Six years and a lifetime of experience later, I found myself at the doorstep of a home that once represented everything I had hoped for. Before ringing the bell, or knocking, I looked around at a landscape that had mostly stayed the same.

            Calm, and completely composed, I rang the bell. Then, I turned and looked out at the view, remembering years ago telling a friend, “I can see my parents’ house from here.”

            I continued gazing out into the past, as it were, and wondered how many dreams had come true since I last visited; how many dreams shattered.

            When the door opened, I found myself 19 again, but much more confident. I was visiting a former colleague, who at one point had been the person who initiated a catalyst of change in my professional life. It was her husband who answered the door.  In the few moments we stood there talking, filling years of time with quips about the business and personal goals, this long-awaited reunion felt nothing like what happens in the movies. Perhaps the most significant marker of time passing was in the age of their children, and the great height one of them now stood. Where was that little girl I used to baby-sit, I wondered.

            My friend came downstairs and in a moment, what felt like six years felt like six minutes and a lifetime in the same moment. Unlike some of my closest friendships (and even the ones you know you are supposed to keep up), we didn’t pick up right where we left off, but we did.  

            “It hasn’t been six years,” she exclaimed. I confirmed, with proper memory and data to back it up. “No way!”  

            Denial seems to be the first indication that two people were ever friends to begin with.

            I remember, years earlier, around the time I first met my friend, I was having dinner with my college roommate and her mother. I think it was Mother’s Day weekend of freshman year. That second semester, she and I had every single class – but one, together. I don’t remember what we were eating, or where we went to eat, but I do remember what I was wearing. I remember, because we took a picture that night upon a moment of discovery (or, at least I think we did).

            My college roommate’s mom said, “Oh, you guys are friends.” The two of us looked at each other, shrugged, kind of in shock, and denied it. I remember the awareness of that fact, and not the circumstances surrounding it, like it was yesterday.

            Discovery begins with denial.

            There.

            I’m going to let that stew for a bit.

Help Wanted: New Blog Title, New Layout, New Voice

Now that it's a new year, I think it's time for a new blog, that is, a new blog title. Not for the blog post, but an entirely different blog altogether.

This will stay up as an archive of sorts, and a new one will begin. 

I'm looking at a few different options that involve not only the things that I'm passionate about, but the things that are relevant to other people.

I'm open to ideas.

Putting the Puzzle Pieces of Life Together

In five days it will be one year since I started this blog process. It started out as one kind of journey, and as life changed, it has become another. 

Writing often helps one put the
puzzle pieces of life together.

The other night, while on an airplane traveling to a getaway I wrote a poem. Writing, for me, has always been an idiosyncratic process. It just happens. When I write what reads like a poem or song lyrics to me the words flow in one stream of consciousness. Once, I wrote a two page poem, front and back, while in between classes in college. I had about seven minutes to do it.

Sometimes, with writing, the words just come because the story is already in the author. 

At the top of the page on yellow legal pad paper I wrote, “Written just shy of 11 months from the day since my life changed (not that anyone is counting).” I wanted to put some finality on the shock that comes when a relationship ends; or rather, when my relationship ended. 

If you remember, I started this blog because my boyfriend at the time would call me things that hurt my feelings. The ending of the relationship though, when that happened, it hurt more. Then, there were a lot of other feelings that came out over the course of time. Removed, I finally had a way to address what it felt like in that instant that everything changed. 

Who knows, maybe this will help you or someone you know deal with the pain, heartache, grief, or whatever it is. 

I don't know what you just said.

I'm sorry, I missed it.

Tell me one more time that everything

is not alright.

Cuz I can't think.

I'm lost inside.

I can't find - 

Where am I supposed to go?

You said goodbye, I know

That part I got right.

I'm sorry, but I don't know why?

Tell me one more time that everything

is not alright.

Cuz I can't hear you.

I'm not listening.

I can't find - 

Where am I supposed to go?

You're gone, You're gone.

I'm all alone, all alone.

Just get up and say goodbye. 

It's not for me to leave.

I'm sorry, you've got to go.

I don't know what you just said.

I'm sorry, I missed it.

But that don't matter now -

You're gone, alright, and out of my life.

and now I'm free

Thank God you had to leave.

I am free.

Now that I'm who I'm supposed to be.

And I am fine.

Everything is alright. 

How do you deal with loss? With heartache? What’s your method of dealing with what you know to be good (like the ending of a relationship that should have ended) and also with the sadness that it ended anyway? Do you allow yourself to realize that it’s alright and natural to feel both relief and sadness at the same time? Let me know what you think. If you want... 

Photo Courtesy:  http://uwbwritingcenter.wordpress.com/2010/10/18/confession-i-write-poetry/

Write it Down: What's Your Story?

Keep in mind that the person to write for is yourself. Tell the story that you most desperately want to read.
Susan Isaacs

It started out with Helen Keller, and then it was Lesley Stahl, and sometime later I tripped upon Chelsea Handler.

Each of these women have either autobiographies or biographies about their lives and their purpose. What’s your story? 

I’ve always enjoyed writing; finding and telling a good story. My Dad used to write down my thoughts on the day, or what I would tell him happened. We affectionately called them the “red books,” because they were in fact red daily diary books. They chronicle my early childhood from the perspective of my father, and occasionally as I told him. 

Throughout my life people have told me to “write it down.” Often, I wondered what they wanted me to write down. 

“You should write a novel, it would help people,” one person told me earlier this year.

“You should write a letter, then burn it, or tear it up,” said another not so long ago.

When I write fiction, I read the story back and it almost always reads like my on life. There’s no fiction in the stories I write. The names change and some of the circumstances are different, but I know who the characters are. I know where they’ve been, and I know where they’re going.

At some point that concept became incredibly frightening. 

On this journey to “something fabulous” I’ve found myself sitting right smack down in the middle of my faith. It’s something I haven’t done this earnestly and honestly since high school. Suddenly, I realized one reason why I cannot finish writing “someone else’s story” is because there’s someone else who will. 

As Christian, and in high school, I leaned up against Jeremiah 29:11 (NIV). The Bible says, “For I know the plans I have for you, declares the LORD, plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.”

For the first time in my life, I actually get it! I can’t write something down to make it true, or to make someone or some circumstance come to life. I can, however, write down whether in the form of a letter, this blog, a poem, or a novel, what I’m thankful for, the lessons I’ve learned, the friendships I’m grateful for, and where I hope I’m going. I can write down what hurts and who I need to forgive -- and no one has to see that! I can also write down the incredible fear in trusting that it will all work out. Whatever “it” is.

Religious or not, if you have faith in what you cannot see, it will work out. Know this: It will work out, even if it’s not as you expected, hoped, or so long desired it would. It’s better this way. 

What’s your story? Are you going to write it down?


UPDATED: 11/8/2011

I Need Coffee. Did that Make Sense?

If you’re a regular reader, or sometimes just pass through, I apologize for my weeklong absence. 

I took time away from this journey to work on another journey. This involves some work on your part. Don’t worry, it’s not like homework. It’s very simple. 

If you’ve ever read this blog, why do you read it? What are you looking for? Is there something missing from your life, or is there something you’ve found?

Here’s the thing:

I believe many of us spend our entire lives trying to figure out the secret of life. But, as Faith Hill sings, “The secret of life is nothing at all.” 

There is also a question about “happiness.” That is almost a buzz word these days. What makes you happy? Who makes you happy? Why do they make you happy? 

Can’t we just be happy when we wake up in the morning?

Alright, so here’s the thing. When someone tells you something that you don’t really want to hear but you know to be true, how do you react?

Ok, because once someone told me, “You don’t write well. I can’t understand what you’re saying.”

It drove me nuts because my teachers had all selected me for writing awards growing up. I didn’t understand how my educators could respect my writing but my peers and colleagues could not. 

In college it proved to be a real problem. Fortunately, I had a professor who listened to me in class and recognized my thought process. 

Professor Lisa Smith was her name. I remember because she always sat on the desk at the front of the classroom and I sat in the front row. I mistakenly always wanted to call her Lilith. You know, like Frasier’s wife (ex-wife) from “Cheers” and “Frasier”? 

Anyway, she finally said to me, “Annie, you need to write your papers like you’re writing a letter.”

I said, “What?” I mean, what happened to the bing, bang, bongo format?  I seem to remember learning that in fifth grade. Introduction, three main parts, and then a conclusion. Bing. Bang. Bongo.

“You need to just start writing and don’t stop until you’re done,” Professor Smith said. “Don’t even start a new paragraph. Don’t edit it. Just write it and submit it.” 

I later found out that I wrote, thought, and spoke just like Lorelai Gilmore on “Gilmore Girls.” My thoughts hop-scotched, to me, naturally from one spot to another. If I tried to formalize the thoughts in some sort of restricted and legitimized writing format, it didn’t make sense. Oh, and I also like coffee just as much as she does. 

“What?” I said.  

“Just write it like you were talking, without a filter.”

“Wow,” I think I said, or I thought I said.

Anyway, I was a sophomore, I think, and for the first time in my life, someone with the power to decide my success decided with me, and not against me. She recognized that I had something to say, and to let me say it, even if it meant allowing me to choose my delivery. 

Lesson learned then is a lesson learned now and every day that I think many of us struggle.

Happiness isn’t about changing who we are or becoming who someone else wants us to be, it’s about being able to be exactly who we are, when we want to, and how we want to.  No disguise. No disappointments. 

So, a few years later when a news anchor said, “I don’t understand what this says,” I knew she was wrong.

I said, “let me see that.” I grabbed the script from her hands and I read it aloud.

“Oh,” she said. 

There were no more words.

I finally made sense. 

____

Question: What makes you happy? When do you feel most understood? Have you ever tried to change who you are to make sense to other people? Did it work? Let me know!

We Tell Ourselves Stories...It's All in the Tone

“We tell ourselves stories in order to live,” Joan Didion. Also, the magnificent author, in my opinion, of the book “The Year of Magical Thinking.”

It’s entertaining, a bit, to have been told so much to “stop thinking” and yet have one of my most favorite books have the word “thinking” right there in the title.

I don’t necessarily like to think; I’m just good at it. I was a philosophy minor because, like episodes of “Seinfeld” I have never seen, I could sit and talk for hours about absolutely nothing. 

Everyone is always saying:

Stop thinking.

Live in the now.

Trust your gut.

Do what’s right.

It will pass.

Usually, at this point, I tell you some story about something that happened recently or I recall from the past. Instead, I’ll tell you a story with only half-truths. Because, well, when you tell stories, who knows what’s actually true and what’s not, right? We’re all listeners hearing things with blind faith. We faithfully listen and just have to believe that the three mile walk to school in the snow was true, and then feel guilty when we whine about having to stand on the corner and wait for the bus. 

In June 2005, I sat down to start writing what I thought might be a short story, at best. Fitting my very-thinking personality, I called it “The Philosopher” and the first chapter I called “The Quest.” We tell ourselves stories in order to live, and also, I believe, to make sense of what it is, and how, exactly, we are already living. 

“The Philosopher” opened the blinds on the third floor and looked down at the busy streets below, crowded with children, dirty vehicles and an ever-present sense of urgency.

It was Monday morning.

Just hours earlier, Alma Gant sat alone in a room lit only by candlelight, hunched over at a desk staring at one, single blank sheet of yellow legal paper. Hours went by as the clock ticked precisely in the background, hinting at the truth of the very temporal beings humans are. Driven by that ticking clock, Alma raced to get a word, any word, on that page.

“Words, without words I am nothing. Or am I someone without a thing to say? Without words I have no expression. When you have no expression, you have no reason. No heart. My blank slate disgusts me. The empty page of paper; it may be nothing because it is not alive. Is it even yellow at all? I don’t know. Maybe I didn’t invent colors, but I can invent my words. I can put words on paper. I can, because I am.” 

Returning to the moment, alarms could be heard going off, car horns were honking and children pounded their feet to the pavement in search of education, something new and different from what was behind closed doors at home.

Alma got up, went back to that once dark and poorly lit room, and stared down at that lonely piece of paper. At a glance, there were the words written just hours ago. They would define a lifetime that had yet to be lived.

Tuesday would be different - if not for the different cars passing by - but for the new direction her life would take. 

My eighth grade Language Arts and Social Studies teacher would have us write daily, for at least an hour. She called mine “stream of consciousness” writing. Here I am, nearly twenty years later, and I still sit down and write whatever flows from my mind, through my arms, to my fingers, and to the keys... as these words appear before me. 

Remember, we tell ourselves stories. But, we also can write new ones, too. Looking back at that story I wrote in 2005, I imagined the character almost trapped in a library. But, it could be anything. One change of tone, and that entire story could be comedy. 


Remember that episode of the “Golden Girls” where Blanche has writer’s block? For as deep thinking and analytical as I am, this clip is always playing in the back of my head: