Someone told me recently, I should be happier in my writer's voice. What you're dealing with happens to all of us, he said, and it's not that bad. It could be worse.
Full disclosure: this person read my blog, and there ends the relationship. We talked online once before presenting the comment. He's not a member of my tribe, not an intimate.
His opinion holds weight because he read. And spoke. Because he is human.
And because it troubles me to think I may inauthentically represent this stage of my mom's journey.
While seeking feedback and honest thoughts from an atheist friend, he shared that his current journey's goal parallels mine. Where my vocabulary contains ideas like worthy suffering and divinity, his presents wrestling with the difference between happiness and contentment. He's gone through a bit of a rough patch recently, having been broken up with about six months ago and the loss of a years' long friendship shortly after.
He mourns, but seeks contentment. Happiness, from what I gathered from our conversations, would only distract; and not heal. So he moves towards a worthier goal.
Something a professor told me once struck me while we were talking. As a computer science major, I enrolled in a painting class. To say it was challenging would be an understatement; the only brushes in my hand since elementary class had been for my hair or to apply some decor color to the wall. She was kind, seeing my first works, and said, "your hand will eventually convey what your eyes see. Until then, allow yourself to be fully in the space of growing; as we tend to be kinder to growing things than to ourselves."
What the blog-commenter may have been unaware of matters and may have affected his word choices. The last two trips to see my mom, I haven't talked about much. Because they have been fucking hard.
My force-of-nature mother trembled, leaf-like, at the idea of asking she be moved away from persons who frightened her. Her emotions vacillated like a child's - from feeling abandoned at not remembering the last day I visited - to being happy to see a familiar face within minutes - all within minutes; then the cycle began again. She began sentences and did not finish them.
She tried for about an hour before she became too tired from the effort, and slept again.
My writer's voice does not evoke happiness during this piece of thorny undergrowth; there are reasons.
And those reasons point the way to those places where kindness is shown to growing things. I'm slowly reconnecting with my tribe, with those in whom I find shelter; and I recharged in their presence last night at ArtHouse.
This morning, I took James to the mechanic for a check-up. He asked about my mom. And since he was very aware of last week's happenings (those admitted to and those better left on the side of a dark road in a small town, as well as the non-consensual, off-roading adventure week before), he thanked me for supporting his shop.
And paying for his son's college room & board expenses. I laughed, because he's honest. Most would have charged me enough to pay full tuition.
As I was leaving, another customer entered. They started talking trucks and inspection changes, but as I left, I heard Mechanic Alex say in his exotic spice accent, "she's a strong person. Few would have grace enough to handle her last reason to see me."
As aftercare for James (and because I jonesed a chocolate croissant), we drove to Barnes and Noble; where I met a Vietnamese Catholic priest. He shared the diverse writers' works in his hands: the Dalai Lama, Joseph Prince, Anne Lamott, Pope Francis's latest. We talked about God, about Peter's first assignment change in 18 years. About the chances of two progressives of a spiritual bent meeting in a Southern bookstore.
The conversation grew quickly into something beautiful and wild, not found in the safe places.
My voice holds not happiness. My path wanders although I am not lost. And I pray contentment thrives among the growing things gathered along this good walk through the woods.
Full disclosure: this person read my blog, and there ends the relationship. We talked online once before presenting the comment. He's not a member of my tribe, not an intimate.
His opinion holds weight because he read. And spoke. Because he is human.
And because it troubles me to think I may inauthentically represent this stage of my mom's journey.
While seeking feedback and honest thoughts from an atheist friend, he shared that his current journey's goal parallels mine. Where my vocabulary contains ideas like worthy suffering and divinity, his presents wrestling with the difference between happiness and contentment. He's gone through a bit of a rough patch recently, having been broken up with about six months ago and the loss of a years' long friendship shortly after.
He mourns, but seeks contentment. Happiness, from what I gathered from our conversations, would only distract; and not heal. So he moves towards a worthier goal.
Something a professor told me once struck me while we were talking. As a computer science major, I enrolled in a painting class. To say it was challenging would be an understatement; the only brushes in my hand since elementary class had been for my hair or to apply some decor color to the wall. She was kind, seeing my first works, and said, "your hand will eventually convey what your eyes see. Until then, allow yourself to be fully in the space of growing; as we tend to be kinder to growing things than to ourselves."
What the blog-commenter may have been unaware of matters and may have affected his word choices. The last two trips to see my mom, I haven't talked about much. Because they have been fucking hard.
My force-of-nature mother trembled, leaf-like, at the idea of asking she be moved away from persons who frightened her. Her emotions vacillated like a child's - from feeling abandoned at not remembering the last day I visited - to being happy to see a familiar face within minutes - all within minutes; then the cycle began again. She began sentences and did not finish them.
She tried for about an hour before she became too tired from the effort, and slept again.
My writer's voice does not evoke happiness during this piece of thorny undergrowth; there are reasons.
And those reasons point the way to those places where kindness is shown to growing things. I'm slowly reconnecting with my tribe, with those in whom I find shelter; and I recharged in their presence last night at ArtHouse.
This morning, I took James to the mechanic for a check-up. He asked about my mom. And since he was very aware of last week's happenings (those admitted to and those better left on the side of a dark road in a small town, as well as the non-consensual, off-roading adventure week before), he thanked me for supporting his shop.
And paying for his son's college room & board expenses. I laughed, because he's honest. Most would have charged me enough to pay full tuition.
As I was leaving, another customer entered. They started talking trucks and inspection changes, but as I left, I heard Mechanic Alex say in his exotic spice accent, "she's a strong person. Few would have grace enough to handle her last reason to see me."
As aftercare for James (and because I jonesed a chocolate croissant), we drove to Barnes and Noble; where I met a Vietnamese Catholic priest. He shared the diverse writers' works in his hands: the Dalai Lama, Joseph Prince, Anne Lamott, Pope Francis's latest. We talked about God, about Peter's first assignment change in 18 years. About the chances of two progressives of a spiritual bent meeting in a Southern bookstore.
The conversation grew quickly into something beautiful and wild, not found in the safe places.
My voice holds not happiness. My path wanders although I am not lost. And I pray contentment thrives among the growing things gathered along this good walk through the woods.
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