Forty: A preface

May30

I have some ideas, some thoughts I’d like to share, some stories I’d like to tell. I have some inklings and some convictions, some anecdotes and some parables, some bluntly factual reports and some metaphorical fictions.

They’re in me. I feel them brewing.

Ever since I was five or six I’ve wanted to be a writer. I still have stories from those days, mostly about cats and unicorns, with an overabundance of commas and adverbs. I’ve kept up my writing in various ways over the last thirty five years, through journaling, writing poems and short stories, several brief attempts to formulate novels and, most recently, blogging. I sent stories to literary journals in my late twenties, had a writing partner for a while in my early thirties. Yet I remember thinking, as early as college, that as much as I wanted to write, I didn’t have my stories yet — my life experience to draw on. I kept writing anyway. But I had this strong feeling that it wasn’t until I was forty that I was going to be able to write anything real. That feeling has stayed with me.

Three weeks ago I turned forty. And I feel it. It’s time.

For a while now I’ve been thinking about what Anne Lamott said in Bird by Bird:

You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should have behaved better.

There are other people in my stories. Some haven’t behaved that well, and their bad behavior is part of my story. But, still, this doesn’t feel quite right to me. *I* haven’t behaved well in other people’s stories. And other people have blogs (and theoretical book deals) too. So I’ve been worried, not wanting to be unjust or to write to validate myself at another’s expense.

But then Glennon Melton posted this the other day:

When internet writers ask me for advice- one of the first things I tell them is: ”If you can avoid defending yourself for being human, you might have enough energy to keep writing. Don’t defend yourself, and don’t get your needs confused. You don’t need to be right- you just need to write.

So, I am going to write, knowing that I may not be right about everything, but knowing, too, that I have to write. “A bird doesn’t sing because it has an answer,” said Maya Angelou. “It sings because it has a song.”

I have a chronicle, a myth, a fable; I have a memoir and an apologue. I have a saga, a romance, a spiel; I have a scoop and a cliffhanger. I have a song.

Something there is that doesn’t love a wall

May1

The Last View Home by Allen Butler Talcott

People often quote Robert Frost as saying, “Good fences make good neighbors.” In fact, though the old adage is in his poem, Frost puts in in the mouth of his neighbor farmer, quoting the old saying as gospel. Frost’s point, and the point of the poem, is: Why? What are we walling out or walling in? He wants to ask his neighbor:

Why do they make good neighbors? Isn’t it
Where there are cows? But here there are no cows.

Frost points out his neighbor’s farm has pine trees, and his apple trees:

My apple trees will never get across
And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him.

Pretty cheeky, especially for a New Englander! The stoic farmer just repeats the adage and goes on repairing the wall. In fact, that is what they are both there to do, repair the stone wall that has been broken up over the winter, raising the other question of the poem: By whom? Something there is that doesn’t love a wall, says Frost

That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it,
And spills the upper boulders in the sun;
And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.

I thought about this poem a lot this winter, as the 60+ inches of snow fall in Boston had me out shoveling day after day, creating, by necessity, giant walls of snow along the sidewalk and between parked cars. There was nowhere else to put it all. One day my neighbor came out, angry, to clarify the property line between our two houses and tell me all the things, in his opinion, I was doing wrong in my shoveling. I was not happy at being yelled at, already tired from so much shoveling, nursing a shoulder injury from it that is bothering me, still, in May.

And I’d been doing more than my fair share of the work for the five of us who lived in the two units in my house, and trying to do it generously and not resentfully. I’d actually been praying with each shovelful, thinking of my housemates and downstairs neighbors, praying to love and serve them, hoping they’d be blessed when they came home from a long, maybe rough day and found a parking spot dug out for them. Praying to be loving and not grudging. So I was not in the mood to be taken to task. Not at all. I was working hard to be okay with not being recognized and affirmed, but actually being scolded? No. Too much.

So I yelled back. Not yelled, really, but stood up for myself. Vented my frustration. Asked my neighbor to give me suggestions about where the heck to put all the snow if he didn’t want me to put it in x, y and z places. He was going to just yell at me and walk away, but I drew him back, asking questions, arguing but trying to listen as well.

I thought about the poem again in March, as the walls of snow began to melt, and my muscles, tensed against the long, cold, dark winter began to relax. Something there is that does not love a wall. I thought about my neighbor, and the intentional Christian community I’d lived in for seven years, and about cows and trees and boundaries. There’s so much I don’t understand about community, so much I experienced in reality that doesn’t go along with what I still believe strongly in theory. But here’s what I do know:

Sometimes your neighbors have pine trees, and you have an apple orchard, and you have to ask yourself, Why am I building a wall here? Or, why are they? Do we need one? Can we leave the crumbled part of the wall that Something broke down, leaving room enough for two to walk abreast? Can we walk through it together?

And sometimes you or your neighbors have cows, and it is very, very important to build up your walls and fences. You do not have to allow your neighbor’s cows to trample your crops. They do not have to allow yours to trample theirs. Boundaries are okay. They are important. In that case, good fences do make good neighbors. But, as Cloud and Townsend point out, good fences also have gates in them, so you can let yourself out and let others in.

So, I will continue to build and repair the walls on my property line; continue to learn to respect my neighbor’s boundaries. But I will also continue to question, and to listen to the swelling ground and the crumbling stone walls, the Something that breaks down our man-made boundaries and spills the boulders into the sun.

Messy and BeautyFULL — A guest post by Dawn

Apr15

Hello, I’m Dawn. I’m not really a writer and I don’t have a blog, but I’m messy and I’m beautiful. I have a story to tell and so Jessica, my beautiful friend, offered to let me guest blog. I am what some call “religious” so please know this one will be heavy on the “God talk”. Thank you so much Jessica! I am truly honored, and terrified. Deep breath here goes….

My son doesn’t know we are poor. He has no idea he is homeless or anything about the national poverty line. He doesn’t lay awake at night worried that the bills might not get paid.

The Wal-Mart cashier knows. She rolled her eyes at me and told me to just not panic. My son hopped beside me humming a happy tune trying to be patient and wait for the lady to put his new Hotwheels in a bag.

“Don’t panic” she said. She tapped her fingers on the scanner. “Do you want me to just stop?” she pushed. “No.” I tell her. “Let me think a moment” I beg. I’m trying to figure out what I really need and what I can put back and get later. I’m trying to do math in my head and that is never good. I think I’d rather put most of the food back and leave. I’d rather pretend I forgot my wallet and say “I’m gonna run out to my car,” but then not come back.

“Look, Mom! That red car is cool!” my three year old beamed. I can’t leave. I can’t tell him we will get the cars another time. He doesn’t know. He has no idea I don’t have a job and I don’t have anything in reserve. Don’t panic?

I look at the tiny bit of groceries laid out on the conveyer belt and mumble, “I’m sorry.” I don’t even know who I’m apologizing to anymore. The lady sighs huffily and flips the light over her station to blink. She is calling a manager to void my transaction. The manager comes over and the checkout clerk hisses in her ear, “She doesn’t have enough for this.”

The manager is much nicer. She smiles sympathetically at me but there is nothing she can do. I am worried and embarrassed. My unemployment benefits that were supposed to be on this card weren’t there. They were supposed to be, but they weren’t.

Now for the hard part. I bend down to speak softly to my son. He is standing still now, watching with wide eyes as the cashier and the manager carefully unpack the food and put it off to the side. “Honey, momma can’t get the cars this time.” I murmur in his little ear. “Oh,” he replies and nothing more. I take him by the hand and lead him to the car. As I put him in his carseat he looks at me and asks, “What happened, Mommy? Why did the ladies take my cars?” I don’t remember what I told him. Whatever it was satisfied him and within moments he was back to swinging his legs and singing loudly to himself. Whatever it was I said worked for him, but it didn’t satisfy me. And that wasn’t the only time this had happened.

This was life. A single mother, I was in the process of finishing school when I lost my job due to an “economic roll back.” I didn’t have too much longer until I finished my degree, but every day was starting to seem more and more like an eternity. While I didn’t have much, my son never knew. He simply trusted that he’d eat when he was hungry, play toys when he was bored, and wear clothes because he had to. What I couldn’t do, I learned to turn over to God.

I remember driving to take him to preschool one day. He was talking happily about something, and not in the least concerned with anything. I prayed as I drove, “God, my baby needs a coat. I don’t have the money to get one so here is what I’m going to do. I’m going to trust. It is not my job to know how You’re going to do it. It is simply my job to trust that you will provide.”

We got to preschool and I carried my little in. I set him down and off he went to play with friends. The teacher stopped me then, and said she needed to give me something. She brought me two large garbage bags and set them down on the table in front of me. “I hope that you are not offended,” she began, “but the other teachers and I could see that you are trying so hard. We wanted to help. We sorta put the word out that you needed some winter things for your little one.” Offended? I was dumbstruck. “Can you tell me,” I managed to gasp, “if there’s winter coat in there?” The teacher looked almost guilty and nodded. “There are two. You don’t have to be embarrassed. They are hand me downs….” she began. I didn’t let her finish. I was half laughing / half sobbing and I hugged her hard. I think I may have scared her at first, until I told her what I had just been praying on the way to school. Yup, this was Life.

It has been four years since this happened. I still cry when I remember those times. I’ve finished school, gotten a professional license, and found a job since then. But, even with the hard work and positive changes, my son and I still live with my parents because even with the job, I can’t swing the car payment, groceries, *and* rent. I still have a hard time juggling bills.

Going to Wal-Mart still fills me with a special sort of dread, like the ghost of embarrassment, and a flicker of panic whenever I slide my card. Is it just me or do the machines take an excruciatingly long time to “approve”?

In fact, just today I went to Wal-Mart to get a few things. Like years ago, my son was hopping beside me trying to be patient while the lady put his new Hotwheels in a bag. And yet again somehow I didn’t have enough on my prepaid debit card and the ATM was out of order too. That feeling of dread spread all over me again. I opened my wallet and was desperately counting cash, all the while thinking about what I would have to put back. “Take your time,.” sighed the cashier.

This time was different. This time my eye fell on a blue plastic Wal-Mart card. It had been a gift from some Monkees back on Valentine’s Day. Today I didn’t have to put anything back. This time was also different because I told my son. I told him that so many times momma can’t buy the toys, fancy games, and clothes, but this time he could take his cars home because of the way that God had blessed us. God blessed us through the love and generosity of the Monkees, 154,000+ people he didn’t know. His eyes were wide this time as he watched the lady carefully pack the food and cars into our bags. Today, he climbed into the car with me and asked, “Why did all those other mommies and people know you needed a card, mommy?” and I replied, “Because, I am a mess. My life is a mess, but that’s okay. I am beautiful, and my life is beauty- full.”

This essay is part of the Messy, Beautiful Warrior Project — To learn more and join us, CLICK HERE. And to learn about the New York Times Bestselling Memoir Carry On Warrior: The Power of Embracing Your Messy, Beautiful Life, just released in paperback, CLICK HERE.

Accept, Let Go — My Messy Beautiful

Apr15

“As psychoanalyst Erik Erikson once noted, there are only two choices: Integration and acceptance of our whole life-story, or despair.” ~From Ruthless Trust by Brennan Manning

I’ve been doing a new exercise lately, when difficult memories surface. I take a deep breath, and the in-breath represents full acceptance of myself and everyone in my past, my life story and theirs. Then I breathe out, and that represents letting go of the pain and trauma that I experienced, forgiving myself and others. Breathe in — acknowledge and accept; breathe out — let go.

In the spirit of accepting myself and acknowledging my whole life story, yesterday when I was posting some pictures from ten years ago I included a somewhat unflattering picture of myself — worthwhile because of my two adorable cousins.

Poland, 2004 — Me with Hannah and Alex

I wanted to avoid the temptation to edit out parts of my life that I don’t like — like the fact that I was significantly overweight for most of my late twenties and early thirties. That was a part of me, and I can’t breathe out and forgive myself unless I breathe in and acknowledge it. I did so many fun things during that time, and it’s impossible to post pictures of them without showing that aspect of myself as well.

Ten years later, I’m thirty nine years old — about to turn forty. And I’m almost sixty pound lighter, and have been for several years. Significantly, I didn’t lose the weight by finding the perfect diet or exercise regime. I lost it by letting go of self-recrimination and shame. I lost it by forgiving myself each time I over-ate. I lost it by letting go of my identity as someone who was fatally flawed. After thirty-plus years of dieting, binge eating, and starving myself, I told myself that I wouldn’t diet anymore, that I would only have three rules for myself from now on:

1. Eat when you’re hungry.

2. Stop eating when you’re full.

3. Forgive yourself when you don’t.

Of course, this wasn’t just about weight. Weight was just a symptom and a red herring — a distraction from the deeper fears I couldn’t even face. I realized this when the pounds started coming off , and instead of being happy about it I fell into a deep depression. I realized that the feeling that there was something wrong with me, that I had a fatal flaw that would keep me from ever being loved, from ever being truly happy, went much deeper than my feelings about my weight. The weight was actually a protection for that deeper fear, and when it started coming off I was terrified that I would see — and others would see — the thing that was actually wrong with me. I don’t know what I thought it was. But I was terrified of it.

The story of the depression, the chronic migraines that abruptly worsened at that time, my experience of a dark night of the soul, and my slow but steady emergence and healing is too long to tell here. I’ve written about it elsewhere in this blog. But here, for the Monkees, and for my Messy Beautiful, I wanted to share one of the most important things I have learned:

You have done the very best you can, every step of the way. You have made mistakes, but you are forgiven. Accept yourself and your past, forgive yourself, and let it go. When you have learned to forgive yourself, it will be possible to forgive others for the times they have hurt you. Breathe in — it’s okay. Everything that has happened to you is part of your story — there’s nothing you need to deny or forget. It has all led here, and here is where you are supposed to be right now. Breathe out — Let it go. You are not defined by your pain or your mistakes, or the way others have hurt you. You can let go of all of it and live fully in the moment, and accept fully what this day and this moment have to offer you.

Here is another way of putting it:

“Define yourself radically as one beloved by God. This is the true self. Every other identity is illusion.” ~Brennan Manning

And another:

“Be confident — you are God’s beloved child. Be humble — so is everyone else.” ~Glennon Melton

Love,

Jessica

2013 — I couldn’t find a less blurry shot for my “after” picture, but I like this one! Both messy and beautiful!

2013

{this moment}

Apr11

by J age 2 3/4

A Friday ritual.

A single photo – no words – capturing a moment from the week. A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want to pause, savor and remember. Inspired by SouleMama and Daniela. If you’re inspired to do the same, leave a link to your ‘moment’ in the comments for all to find and see.

Yes, I will hold your hand for a dollar

Apr10

I love this essay by Tina Fey. Great advice for comedy and for life.

Tina Fey’s Rules of Improvisation That Will Change Your Life and Reduce Belly Fat*

The first rule of improvisation is AGREE. Always agree and SAY YES. When you’re improvising, this means you are required to agree with whatever your partner has created. So if we’re improvising and I say, “Freeze, I have a gun,” and you say, “That’s not a gun. It’s your finger. You’re pointing your finger at me,” our improvised scene has ground to a halt. But if I say, “Freeze, I have a gun!” and you say, “The gun I gave you for Christmas! You bastard!” then we have started a scene because we have AGREED that my finger is in fact a Christmas gun.

Now, obviously in real life you’re not always going to agree with everything everyone says. But the Rule of Agreement reminds you to “respect what your partner has created” and to at least start from an open-minded place. Start with a YES and see where that takes you.

As an improviser, I always find it jarring when I meet someone in real life whose first answer is no. “No, we can’t do that.” “No, that’s not in the budget.” “No, I will not hold your hand for a dollar.” What kind of way is that to live?

The second rule of improvisation is not only to say yes, but YES, AND. You are supposed to agree and then add something of your own. If I start a scene with “I can’t believe it’s so hot in here,” and you just say, “Yeah…” we’re kind of at a standstill. But if I say, “I can’t believe it’s so hot in here,” and you say, “What did you expect? We’re in hell.” Or if I say, “I can’t believe it’s so hot in here,” and you say, “Yes, this can’t be good for the wax figures.” Or if I say, “I can’t believe it’s so hot in here,” and you say, “I told you we shouldn’t have crawled into this dog’s mouth,” now we’re getting somewhere.

To me YES, AND means don’t be afraid to contribute. It’s your responsibility to contribute. Always make sure you’re adding something to the discussion. Your initiations are worthwhile.

The next rule is MAKE STATEMENTS. This is a positive way of saying “Don’t ask questions all the time.” If we’re in a scene and I say, “Who are you? Where are we? What are we doing here? What’s in that box?” I’m putting pressure on you to come up with all the answers.

In other words: Whatever the problem, be part of the solution. Don’t just sit around raising questions and pointing out obstacles. We’ve all worked with that person. That person is a drag. It’s usually the same person around the office who says things like “There’s no calories in it if you eat it standing up!” and “I felt menaced when Terry raised her voice.”

MAKE STATEMENTS also applies to us women: Speak in statements instead of apologetic questions. No one wants to go to a doctor who says, “I’m going to be your surgeon? I’m here to talk to you about your procedure? I was first in my class at Johns Hopkins, so?” Make statements, with your actions and your voice.

Instead of saying “Where are we?” make a statement like “Here we are in Spain, Dracula.” Okay, “Here we are in Spain, Dracula” may seem like a terrible start to a scene, but this leads us to the best rule:

THERE ARE NO MISTAKES, only opportunities. If I start a scene as what I think is very clearly a cop riding a bicycle, but you think I am a hamster in a hamster wheel, guess what? Now I’m a hamster in a hamster wheel. I’m not going to stop everything to explain that it was really supposed to be a bike. Who knows? Maybe I’ll end up being a police hamster who’s been put on “hamster wheel” duty because I’m “too much of a loose cannon” in the field. In improv there are no mistakes, only beautiful happy accidents. And many of the world’s greatest discoveries have been by accident. I mean, look at the Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup, or Botox.

*Improv will not reduce belly fat

-From Bossypants

Ten Thousand Places

Category Archives: Peripatetics