Whenever I take my new puppy, Lani, for a walk, she insists on carrying something in her mouth. It might be a pine cone or a stick, or when all else fails a bit of her leash. What I find fascinating is how her posture perks up, her step turns into a prance, when she is carrying something; when her mouth is empty, she tends to drag behind in search of something, anything, to liven up her day.
She reminds me of Tim O'Brien's story, "The Things They Carried." In it he describes the material artifacts the Viet Nam soldiers carried; some were dictated by necessity, such as can openers, pocket knives, and canteens. Other things were dictated by rank or field specialty (pistol or binoculars), or by mission (mosquito netting, mine detectors). But what mattered most, in this story, were the intangibles they carried. Kiowa carried his grandmother's distrust of the white man. Jimmy Cross "humped" his love for a girl back home. Others carried emotional baggage: shameful memories, guilt, fear.
Although most of us aren't on a literal battlefield, we've all fought battles in our lives and we carry the remnants with us. Sometimes they give us strength and remind us of mistakes we've made in the past; they help us in the future. But O'Brien's character Jimmy Cross thought it was "very sad...the things men carried inside." When it comes to baggage like guilt, worry and regret, I think he's right. But I also wonder whether I can let go of some of these things. I wonder whether letting go would lighten my burden or actually make it heavier. Lani seems to think the act of carrying something is easier than emptiness.
Make a list of the things you're carrying. Circle the ones you know you need and then explain, in writing, why they're a must. Then, go back to the rest and write persuasively why you can let them go, and a plan for how to do just that.
Keep in mind: I'm talking about how to really let these things go. Jimmy Cross tried to let go of the guilt for a soldier's death convincingly by adjusting his external appearance: level chin, eye contact, calm tone of voice. I'm not convinced that was enough. But I think if he'd spent some time writing about his self-blame, he might have had a little more success.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
The Characters of Loss
"You give me the slip between garlic and lilies, as if this is what comes of my unprotected loves..."
This is how Sarah Barber begins her poem about lost love in To a Ring I Lost Planting Bulbs. Whether it's a lost ring, a lost game, or a lost job, loss is about more than just a thing that goes away.
I discovered a few days ago that I'd lost a set of car keys, but I couldn't just shrug this away. I had to spend hours combing through pockets and drawers, peeking under sofas and pillows, and even inspecting the puppy's crate, and then I went on to interrogating everyone but the mailman about whether they'd seen my keys. I had to retrace and then retrace again my steps on the last day I'd seen them, trying to figure out where they might have given me the slip. At day's end, there was no sign of the buggers and I was emotionally and physically drained.
Of course it's not just about the keys. Clearly I can get a new set made. It's about having to admit it's my fault, which means I've lost my reliability. It's about the day-long search that produced gum wrappers and dust bunnies and pine cones tracked in by the dog, which means a lot of lost time. And it's about giving in and giving up, admitting defeat, which means a loss of dignity.
I know it's just a stupid set of car keys, but sometimes even little losses can represent a lot more than it seems at first blush. In Sarah Barber's case, the lost ring revealed failures in love. In my case, there's an irritating little voice criticizing me for doing something stupid. Barber chose to write a poem, but another way to process loss is by writing a scene.
The first step is to identify the emotion, or voice, that surfaces. Maybe it's grief, or embarassment. Maybe it's anxiety or even fear. Give it a name. Describe it. Big and dark? Small but slimy? Does it pester you like a mosquito buzzing around your ear?
Then write a scene with you and this new character. Let the emotion have a role, play a part. Give it something to do. Process the scene as though you were in it, too, interacting. Then, as your scene comes to a close, find a way to eliminate the character from the rest of your story.
In my story, I might decide to call my critical voice Wilma. She might be tall and brassy, with thick lipstick and long nails, gaudy clothes and a husky voice. I might let Wilma hound me for a little while longer about those car keys, but then I think I'd go on a little errand with her. I'd let her ride along with me to get a new set of car keys made, and then, just as I was climbing back in my car, I'd quickly lock the doors. That's right, I wouldn't let Wilma back in. I'd peel out of the parking lot, leaving her in the rain in my rear window, all alone, and in so doing I'd eliminate that critical voice from my life and get past the lost car keys.
This is how Sarah Barber begins her poem about lost love in To a Ring I Lost Planting Bulbs. Whether it's a lost ring, a lost game, or a lost job, loss is about more than just a thing that goes away.
I discovered a few days ago that I'd lost a set of car keys, but I couldn't just shrug this away. I had to spend hours combing through pockets and drawers, peeking under sofas and pillows, and even inspecting the puppy's crate, and then I went on to interrogating everyone but the mailman about whether they'd seen my keys. I had to retrace and then retrace again my steps on the last day I'd seen them, trying to figure out where they might have given me the slip. At day's end, there was no sign of the buggers and I was emotionally and physically drained.
Of course it's not just about the keys. Clearly I can get a new set made. It's about having to admit it's my fault, which means I've lost my reliability. It's about the day-long search that produced gum wrappers and dust bunnies and pine cones tracked in by the dog, which means a lot of lost time. And it's about giving in and giving up, admitting defeat, which means a loss of dignity.
I know it's just a stupid set of car keys, but sometimes even little losses can represent a lot more than it seems at first blush. In Sarah Barber's case, the lost ring revealed failures in love. In my case, there's an irritating little voice criticizing me for doing something stupid. Barber chose to write a poem, but another way to process loss is by writing a scene.
The first step is to identify the emotion, or voice, that surfaces. Maybe it's grief, or embarassment. Maybe it's anxiety or even fear. Give it a name. Describe it. Big and dark? Small but slimy? Does it pester you like a mosquito buzzing around your ear?
Then write a scene with you and this new character. Let the emotion have a role, play a part. Give it something to do. Process the scene as though you were in it, too, interacting. Then, as your scene comes to a close, find a way to eliminate the character from the rest of your story.
In my story, I might decide to call my critical voice Wilma. She might be tall and brassy, with thick lipstick and long nails, gaudy clothes and a husky voice. I might let Wilma hound me for a little while longer about those car keys, but then I think I'd go on a little errand with her. I'd let her ride along with me to get a new set of car keys made, and then, just as I was climbing back in my car, I'd quickly lock the doors. That's right, I wouldn't let Wilma back in. I'd peel out of the parking lot, leaving her in the rain in my rear window, all alone, and in so doing I'd eliminate that critical voice from my life and get past the lost car keys.
Monday, January 4, 2010
When Laughs Turn Into Tears
Robert Louis Stevenson's poem,"I Know Not How, But As I Count" feels especially appropriate at this time of year:
I know not how, but as I count
The beads of former years,
Old laughter catches in my throat
With the very feel of tears.
It is so true! We think back to those days of our youth, or even those days from last year, that brought laughter and happiness into our lives and we feel melancholy that they've passed like old friends gone to heaven. And what if? What if there were a heaven for good times, where experiences bounce beneath rainbows and lounge on cloud pillows, mingling with one another and together creating a completely euphoric utopia?
One experience that comes to mind for me, from this past year, is the weekend I spent in Utah with my husband and middle son. The weather was perfect, with those afternoon periwinkle skies that can be found only in that part of the world, and the scenery was nearly magical, with red sandstone spires and arches and slot canyons. We shared some nice meals and relaxed one afternoon in a lovely B&B overlooking some of the most contented longhorns I'd ever seen.
But best of all was what I heard: the honest words that were spoken, the love confessed for one another. We were open and vulnerable, revealing painful thoughts and fears, yet we were also mutually supportive, caring, all-giving.
I knew then it must have been a dream. And while dreams can be repeated, they're never the same the second time around; like lightening they rarely strike twice in the same way and the same place. And so my memories of that weekend in Utah evoke smiles and laughter but the laughter catches in my throat and the tears stand by, ready to fall, knowing those moments are forever gone.
What memories brought joy into your lives last year that now catch in your throat? As you write about them, be sure to recall the vivid imagery of those special occasions and try, as hard as it seems, to find the words that describe how you felt then, and how you feel now.
For me, I felt the thrill in my heart that you feel when you're in love and that lightheaded feeling in my mind, like a marionette lifted off the stage by its strings, dancing in glee. Now, I feel heavy, as though the strings have been released and the puppeteer has moved on and my wooden body now lies still waiting, hoping, to dance again.
I know not how, but as I count
The beads of former years,
Old laughter catches in my throat
With the very feel of tears.
It is so true! We think back to those days of our youth, or even those days from last year, that brought laughter and happiness into our lives and we feel melancholy that they've passed like old friends gone to heaven. And what if? What if there were a heaven for good times, where experiences bounce beneath rainbows and lounge on cloud pillows, mingling with one another and together creating a completely euphoric utopia?
One experience that comes to mind for me, from this past year, is the weekend I spent in Utah with my husband and middle son. The weather was perfect, with those afternoon periwinkle skies that can be found only in that part of the world, and the scenery was nearly magical, with red sandstone spires and arches and slot canyons. We shared some nice meals and relaxed one afternoon in a lovely B&B overlooking some of the most contented longhorns I'd ever seen.
But best of all was what I heard: the honest words that were spoken, the love confessed for one another. We were open and vulnerable, revealing painful thoughts and fears, yet we were also mutually supportive, caring, all-giving.
I knew then it must have been a dream. And while dreams can be repeated, they're never the same the second time around; like lightening they rarely strike twice in the same way and the same place. And so my memories of that weekend in Utah evoke smiles and laughter but the laughter catches in my throat and the tears stand by, ready to fall, knowing those moments are forever gone.
What memories brought joy into your lives last year that now catch in your throat? As you write about them, be sure to recall the vivid imagery of those special occasions and try, as hard as it seems, to find the words that describe how you felt then, and how you feel now.
For me, I felt the thrill in my heart that you feel when you're in love and that lightheaded feeling in my mind, like a marionette lifted off the stage by its strings, dancing in glee. Now, I feel heavy, as though the strings have been released and the puppeteer has moved on and my wooden body now lies still waiting, hoping, to dance again.
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