musings

One phone call from our knees

A song I love by Mat Kearney came on while I was running yesterday, and one line was stuck in my head all day:

I guess we’re all one phone call from our knees.

The song was referring to a phone call bearing bad news. And I thought of the phone ringing in the middle of the night when Matt’s dad got his heart. I thought of while my mother’s best friend and her mother were dying, and about how every time the phone rang I would startle, and pick it up with icy dread in my stomach. To this day when the phone rings after about 8:30 in the evening my heart lurches, and I assume someone is in the hospital.  One call.  One moment.  One fleeting choice.  On our knees.  Or worse.

I thought more broadly of the decisions, choices, and coincidences that shape our lives irrevocably. As Dani Shapiro says in Devotion, “I had tuned left instead of right; had taken (or not taken) the trip, the flight, the challenge, the chance” – each small choice we make takes us to where we are. A job interview taken, a second drink agreed to, a leaning into a kiss rather than away, walking a different way home. If you imagine our lives as a line etched into space, moving backwards and forward, going through forks in the road, there are some spots that would be luminous in the retelling, glowing with the importance that we did not know they had until after the fact.

Some of the big forks in the road announce themselves, with neon lettering and loud honking sirens: who to marry?  where to go to school?  what job to take?  But I believe that many of the choices that actually create our lives, and, perhaps more importantly, who we are, are small, surprisingly imperceptible in the moment.  And then, over years, the ramifications of each choice make themselves known.  Our lives echo with the decisions we make, with the steps we take, forward, back, left right.

It is the phone calls in the night and the emails out of the blue that are on my mind today, the innumerable small snowflakes of life’s decisions that build into the immovable, permanent icebergs of our lives.  I’ve written before about this, more focused on the the internal experience of these shifts, of this gradual contouring of who we are.

” I am thinking about my personal mythology, about the moments of my life that shaped who I am today. Some of them are big, I know, like the births of my children, but many of them are small. In fact I think it is true, this notion of destiny taking shape in silence. Often the true shifts that change our direction irrevocably happen invisibly to others. This is the terrible, wonderful privacy of this life: nobody can know our internal terrain well enough to walk it without guidance.”

It occurs to me now that being brought to our knees need not always be a tragic thing: one could spin Mat’s lyric around to say that one small phone call, one event we may not have controlled, could bring us to a position of communion and worship with this world.  I imagine he meant the more obvious and negative meaning, but I like my interpretation, which just says to me that both good and bad changes are always a single moment away.  The veil of our glorious, ordinary lives can be pierced, for good or for bad, in every second.  Which just brings me back to the same persistent theme that tugs at me every time I sit down to write: what we have is this.  Right now.  And only this.

Struggling against a strong undercurrent

Sometimes when Whit wakes me up in the night, I feel like I am swimming towards his voice through extra thick, viscous water. I often feel a little unsure of the direction his voice is in in the first place, and it is definitely an effort to focus on it and to locate him. That’s how my thoughts feel lately. I feel swamped, like I am struggling against a strong undercurrent to even stay upright. My own inner voice, by which I am trying so earnestly to set my direction, feels thready, weak, and my own fragility feels insurmountable.

Life sometimes feels like I’m wading through murky water barefoot. I never know what will be underfoot next, and often it is a prickly or pointed shell, unknown slimy seaweed, or a spot where the water surprises me with its eddies, threatening my balance. Once in a while I have a sudden, sharp flashback to a sunny day in the spring at Princeton, at freshman year houseparties, when I jumped in the large school fountain with my friends. We were all tipsy and laughing, but there was a moment of concise clarity when I remember feeling the coins that littered the bottom of the shallow pool with my bare feet. For a moment, alone and silent amid the screams and giggling, I was acutely aware of feeling the dreams and wishes of so many strangers under my feet.

The great majority of the time, though, I’m here, and not there, and I am walking on and through much less pleasant things. There are lots of changes on the way for me. I can see their colors glinting from beyond the horizon: already the light of my life is filtered through their unfamiliar prism. While I feel an occasional flare of excitement, I also feel a lot of fear, settling like chilly dust in the bottom of my stomach and of my thoughts, pulling both down with an unavoidable heaviness.

Every step feels like an effort against the water’s weight. I traipse clumsily through my days, trailing my familiar cloak of tiredness and sadness. I am working so hard to be patient for my children, to stay open to the ordinary life that has carried such glittering gems in its hands, but I am not doing a very good job. Even yesterday, when I finally noticed that the world has burst into an exultation of spring, a riotous celebration of new life and potential, I felt it in a muted way, as though I was seeing through the mesh of a screen window, everything slightly obscured and traced with gray.

What I know now that I did not before is that as persistent as the water around my ankles is, as unstable as it makes me feel, I will probably not fall. As distant and faint as the voice calling me forward sounds, through the fog that swirls inside my head, I will probably not lose it altogether. This constellation of influences and feelings, whose coming I cannot predict, makes me unsteady, but it has not yet toppled me. And so forward I go, one foot in front of the other, trying not to startle at the unexpected sharpness of shells and pebbles under my feet, into the wind, head bent forward, trusting, trusting.

(even re-reading this before publishing, I feel aware that I am whining … and feel the need to say of course, of course I recognize my tremendous good fortune, my privilege, my luck, my health and that of my children … yes, yes, yes, and I mean to draw no parallel between the agitation of my mind and the very real perils that many people find themselves in)

Imperfect Birds

I was fortunate to hear Anne Lamott talk and read last night. I went with my dear friend from college, Kathryn (check out her blog!) and we both sat, mesmerized (though a bit distracted by the aggressive curry soup that the guy on my left cracked open) as Anne made the audience laugh, sigh, laugh again, and shake their heads in expressions of oh-yes-me-too. Anne announced that she is a grandmother now, and her joy at this development was palpable. She was quite wise, in fact, as she described that this happened about 10 years earlier than she imagined (Sam was 19 when his son was born). She lamented, mostly joking, that nobody has asked her, but went on to make it very clear that she had wholly embraced her son’s news and this new life.

A couple of her points particularly stuck with me. She spoke about how in the 70s she was never described as having a wide open heart, or of being immensely warm and generous with her spirit. Instead, she felt maligned, even mocked, over and over again, for being so damned sensitive. This generated laughter in the audience and a swell of intense identification in me. I am not at the point where I feel like my extreme sensitivity is a good thing, at all, so I’m still in the chagrined/embarassed/this-is-a-weakness phase that Anne mentioned from her younger years. But she gives me hope.

(An aside: I was talking to someone this week about what I’ve always called my OCD traits of being almost unable to bear strong smells, loud noises, distinctive tastes, or being touched very much, and the person said, “Well, you are a very sensitive person.” Call me a moron, but it had never occured to me that this was linked. I’m emotionally sensitive – porous, I’ve called it – and so are my senses. Duh. Lightbulb.)

Anne Lamott then went on to say that “If you are like me, you will find yourself very lost. And then you will find yourself very found, in fiction.” This made complete sense to me, though I would add that I have also been very found in non-fiction, most notably Anne’s own writing. I am so sensitive that I often feel skin-less, open in a boundary-less way to influence and input, both emotional and otherwise. Easily bruised or overwhelmed by this input, I often seek refuge in the pages of a book. And here is my idol, saying she herself feels the same way; what’s more reassuring than that?

The other thing that Anne said that I’ve been thinking about since is the Rumi quotation from which the book’s title is taken (and she charmingly spaced out on her own book’s title, which made everybody laugh and instantly humanized her). The quotation is:

Each has to enter the nest made by the other imperfect birds. – Rumi

And Anne went on to talk about how all of life is about the nests we make, with family and by ourselves, our nests made up of the twigs and sticks of our life experience, our particular failures and accomplishments and feelings and relationships. She spoke of how when someone you know is encountering true despair or tragedy, you can feel helpless, and all you can offer is your attention, a cup of tea, yourself. All you can offer is the warmth of your nest, for a little while. It always seems so futile, she said, and yet it is always enough. It is always enough.

I have been thinking all day of those dear people whose nests have cradled me when I needed it. Of those friends who call just to check in, who remember important dates and who are there even in the non-important moments (which wind up being, of course, the most important memories of all). Of those who have revealed to me the underpinnings of their nests, in all of their messy, stuck-together, raw and honest grandeur. Thank you.

The things I carry

I wrote last week about the physical things I carry with me, in my bag, and I enjoyed reading many of my favorite bloggers as they too spilled the contents of their bags. For the last couple of days, though, I’ve been thinking about the other things that are always with me, in my head and in my heart. Sometimes these things, abstract as they are, feel as awkward and heavy to carry as any physical bag.

I carry people. My closest friends and family travel alongside me everywhere I go, floating into my mind’s eye at various times. Places, sounds, smells remind me of times shared with those dear and, actually, occasionally, those not. Sometimes an old friend, long lost, will rise to the surface of my thoughts like a piece of something buoyant bobbing up, and I wonder what hidden disturbance dislodged thoughts of that person from their deep resting place in my memory. There are a few close people who are with me all the time, whose voices I hear in my head, whose wisdom and input guide me every day.

I carry words. Snippets of poems from poets old and new (Wordsworth, Keats, Olds, Oliver, Sexton, Rich are some of the most familiar) run through my mind at seemingly random moments. I know, of course, that there is nothing random about why certain words rise to mind at certain times, and I try to pay heed to the messages that they carry. Song lyrics, passages from books, quotes that I know by heart. All of these words accompany me, a private soundtrack, a story narrated by my subconscious.

I carry my demons. These fears meet me every single day, jumping out at me unanticipated from corners I didn’t even know were there. I am learning to bear their visits, to let them wash over me without reacting too much, trusting that they will end. This, the not reacting, is my primary challenge.  My insecurities, often so toxic, show a tenacious stubbornness, clinging to the surface of my identity like barnacles.

I carry my supporters.  Their words go directly to war with those of the demons, and who wins changes daily.  There are a handful of people throughout my life who have seen value and substance inside of me, and this steady belief, when I let myself trust it, sustains me.  Some of these supporters are from long ago, teachers or friends, and some are much newer members of my life, of my tribe; it is impossible for me to express my gratitude for these kind and generous voices, who often form a bulwark that protects me up against the fears and doubts that often threaten to engulf me.

I carry all of these things with me every day, in my soul, in my heart, in my head.  The voices and influences rise and fall depending on the day, the hour, the moment.  Many of them are consistent, expected, anticipated – certain memories are triggered by predictable sights, smells, sounds.  At other times, I am surprised by what or who sweeps to the forefront of my consciousness.  I strive only to remain open to these voices, these people, these memories, these friends, to honor their coming and to receive gratefully to their influence.

My thoughts on the brass ring

I loved Dani Shapiro’s essay called On the Brass Ring, which I read yesterday. Dani’s central point is that, for a writer, the only “brass ring,” the only crowning achievement that means anything, is the continued ability to “go into the darkness” and write. There is no other goal for which to shoot. Her comments, while specific to writing, I think can be generalized more broadly.

This is my favorite passage:

There is no brass ring. The procuring of agents, publishers, book contracts, sales, reviews, grants, awards–all writers can be forgiven for comparing, for believing that such a moment might signify arrival. Except that there is no such thing as arrival. You arrive, and discover that the front door has been moved. You arrive again, and it has been moved again. You realize, at a certain point, that you’d better damn well enjoy the journey, because there is no destination.

This is an eloquent evocation of one of the central lessons I’m learning right now. I’m a reformed brass ring grabber myself, and it was only in my 30s that it began to dawn on me that every time I got somewhere, well, there was somewhere else to go. That elusive sense of – what? accomplishment? achievement? I think I know now that it was peace I was and am seeking – never came.

My father told me once that my greatest skill was doing “just well enough to get to the next hardest thing.” This is the hook on which I hung my identity for 30 years. In fact my direction felt so clear and predetermined (by where the next brass ring was) that I didn’t even think about it. Instead I focused on my velocity. But then, in the last few years, I have simultaneously realized that there was no obvious next thing and that living this way didn’t bring me to any kind of real satisfaction anyway. What was my velocity worth without direction? This speed, which I’d previously thought was such an asset, disintegrated into a vaguely panicky sense of agitation and unease.

It seems such a sad thing that my greatest strength is something so shallow and ultimately meaningless. I hope that I’m finding new and deeper strengths as I’m learning that, as Dani says, there is nowhere to go. There is only here. I realize that persistent focus on the next brass ring both distracts and insulates us from right now. Distracts, because it pulls our focus into the future, and we thus miss the riches of the present. Insulates, because with a brass ring to aim for, we can avoid tuning into our authentic desires and simply numb ourselves to the voice of our heart, whose song can be intense and uncomfortable.

So that is the work of right now, for me: the acceptance that there is no brass ring for life, that there is in fact no destination. This is very difficult, and abandoning the markers by which I both steered and defined myself is terrifying. What if, without those brass rings, I am … nothing? What if I try to listen to that still small voice and … can’t hear anything? But it is also an unavoidable truth that the rings are meaningless, and, perhaps more importantly, that they never helped me get to that still point of peace that I have been seeking for many years. And so I turn my face back to the light, tune my ear to the internal voice, trusting that I will be able to hear it, and try to remind myself: begin again. Be here.