I just spent two intensive days at a workshop with six writers. Our host, the wonderful Meghan Daum, is a pull-no-punches writer, whose essay, “Matricide”, is one of the hardest pieces you’ll ever read. And, as she told us this weekend, it was one of the hardest things she’s ever written. But it tells truth.
I don’t know if people who go through tragic, challenging life experiences become writers, or if writers simply have the capacity to exhume those experiences and share them, but I was both overcome and even amused by the litany of issues that the seven of us in the room had experienced and were writing about:
Sexual violence
Traumatic birth experience
Drug abuse
Opioid addiction
Cancer
Famous parent
Famous spouse
Immigration
Parental desertion
Motherloss
Green card marriage
LGBTQ life
Parental abuse and neglect
Abusive relationships
Spouse’s death
Parent’s death
Eating disorders
Infant death
Bipolar disorder
That’s a lot of life. I’m sure if we had spent another day together, we would have unearthed still more.
I traveled back home with a lot to ponder about my own story and how to tell it. I was given the advice to better focus it, to drill down deep and narrow, like an ice fishing hole, into one aspect of my experience and find the nuggets that will light everything on fire – to tell the whole, unvarnished truth.
I am toying with this, as it is painful and scary. I have definitely whitewashed some, if not a lot, of the tale of my husband’s illness and death and my life in the widowhood. There is some ugly stuff still lurking beneath the surface, and I’m not sure how much I’m willing to excavate and disinter for the sake of the story.
But in the meantime, this weekend has reminded me that no matter how terrible and tragic our story has been, there are others whose own stories are equally poignant, difficult, triumphant, damaging. We each live a life filled with both happiness and loss; none of us can avoid it. It's the human condition.
As I was driving home, I stopped to visit a friend who has had her share of loss, including the death of her young adult son and her own recent illness. And just as I was parking in front of her home, I caught an interview with an NPR celebrity – the great Bill Kurtis from "Wait Wait … Don’t Tell Me" – who had lost his wife to breast cancer when they were very young, and whose own adult son had died from his schizophrenia not long ago. And yet, he was so delightful, so upbeat, so very grateful for all the good in his life, including the second love of his life, his partner of 40 years. His resilience was palpable. And it reminded me that I, too, feel grateful – for my life, for my family, for my friends. Pollyanna-ish though it might sound, I now spend time almost every day in a bubble of heart-exploding gratitude.
But mostly, today, I am grateful for my grief. My grief has become my constant partner, sometimes swelling big and full, sometimes feeling small and packed away. Some days it brings tears, some days it just sits quietly, bearing witness. But in whatever form it takes, it always accompanies me, a potent prong for memory, keeping my heart full and open to new love and experiences each day.
I am so sorry for your loss. Lifeinthewidowhood belongs to Tanisha Wallace Porath. She has been using that moniker since her husband died in 2013. Just needed to put that out there. #lifeinthewidowhood
Posted by: Mary Ann Johnson | 07/18/2020 at 02:50 PM