My friend posted this the other day: "There are some people in my life that I will never stop loving and sometimes that hurts like hell." I told him that the only thing I would add to that to make it true for me was this: “And I’m okay with that.” It’s a pain I will take. Because no investment of love is without loss.
I was at a writing program this past spring and there (my life &) my writing was critiqued by several people who had come to respect and who had learned to love me. One of the critiques of (my life &) my writing that I found most difficult to swallow had to do with the fact that it seems as though I lack depth because I rarely take a thought, idea, piece, sentence, etc. to the next level. It seemed from the outside that I refused to be bothered to dig deeper. Not that the thought was shallow to begin with, but rather I was too comfortable where I started and didn't chose to do the work to get somewhere further. Like I would give up on myself. I’ll never forget this because the observation came so sincerely from someone who I fully respect as a writer, a musician, and a friend. I had known of him before I knew him; I was a fan of his music and my heart had once burned with infatuation for this lyrical poet with a mandolin. In those seven weeks, I learned to respect and to love the real him. I was blessed to have been a part of the surroundings and a part of the atmosphere that created his quiet experience. He was unusually silent; I was usually guarded. But when we spoke to each other, we were brilliant. The night he shared this with me, the fact he felt I was holding back, the moon was bright in a clear, black sky. We were gathered with a few friends around an outdoor campfire pit built into the exterior of a chimney. We had pulled rickety chairs and rocking chairs from the meeting hall Timahia and circled what we were all staring into: a bed of mesmerizing, dynamic embers, the orange light and warmth of which undulated like the beautiful Lake Sebago that was almost in reach.
He said, he watches me refuse to commit to the greatness of my potential. I stall before I start. I was taken aback and insulted by this. But now, I know exactly what he meant, because now I watch myself do it too. I may not have overcome that, but what I have learned is this: sometimes, most the times in fact, in the end, the result is worth the struggle. A great conversation or thought or essay or poem is worth all the frustrating attempts at meaning that go into its creation. And that struggle is just part of what we have to do to get there.
I miss Chris and I miss Steph and I miss having people who love me observe my behaviors and gently critique my life through my writing. Because I need that in my life.
I forced this tangent of writing out of myself (out of my heart, not my mind). Because, as I was about to post only the first paragraph (re: no investment of love..), I recognized in myself exactly what Chris was trying to show me. That post would have only hinted cryptically at a complex and defining aspect of who I am today. And if I want to truly acknowledge that significance in my life, I must be willing to explore that complexity in my thought, through my writing, and with my communications with the world.
And I know that is exactly why this blog has been such a disaster.
Because I’m not saying anything.
Because I am afraid to.
