A lot of what I write is based entirely on my personal (and recent) experiences – original to me, but not original in the sense of human emotion and expression. Since almost nothing is original (not going down that path), a much better, more disciplined writer would blend their thoughts with those that have come before them. By now, I should have quoted at least two other writers on originality.
The accepted format of the personal essay is just that, part personal…. part essay? The essay part is usually insightful musings from other people all put together in a logical procession of thoughts. The intent of the personal essay (maybe occasional outcome is a better phrase), I believe, is to provide information and a-ha moments for the reader. To draw connections between the personal and the history of human experience. Sometimes it’s to say and show, you are not alone – these people have experienced what you are thinking and feeling, and they spent time writing (or singing or painting about it). Maria Popova’s blog Brain Pickings is one of my favorites at doing this. She crafts digestible essays on complex emotional topics. Her tag line is “an inventory of the meaningful life.” This site (Turtlesloth), is not that, or maybe more accurately, is a lighter (less academic), lazier version of some of the same musings.
If you’ve spent any time reading this blog, you’re aware of my preoccupations (the end of my engagement), my hang-ups (very self-critical), my fears (not being heard and also being heard/misunderstood), and maybe even my style (writing and thought). I can be a rambling mess – for which I will immediately criticize myself, and often go back and edit. I am concerned about audience, but mostly in the “what if my mom read this type of way.” Those people I most fear reading my blog – those whose criticism would hurt the most and who I don’t want to hurt (mainly my ex-fiancee, B, friends, future girlfriends, and family) get named by name as a small step towards vulnerability and authenticity – a hiding in plain sight.
By writing, by calling it out, by giving it a name, by putting it all out there, I’m trying to develop a level of artistic fearlessness. The logic (perhaps twisted) is that if I can write about past lovers or experiences knowing that it may hurt or make other people uncomfortable (the past lover, the friend, the family member, or a future partner), I would also have to be accepting of their past, their version of the story, and the discomfort it causes me? Accept your own discomfort and you can accept other’s – otherwise I’d be a hypocrite.
I’ve mentioned that early in my relationship with B I had come across pictures of her and her late husband on her blog. I had read her poetry. It made me a little uncomfortable – which is both natural and complex. I didn’t want her not to have a past, that would be absurd. Her past is what made her the beautiful person she is… Yet, my insecurities, my desire to be the most loved, or last, in a series made me wonder how I measure up. Made me wonder what did they do to make her leave (if she left), how do I not just survive, but occupy the greatest part of her heart. Civilizations always build on the ruins of the one before. Love shouldn’t be about conquest or displacement, and yet we build temples and statues and artistic monuments to it, often on the bones of those who came before.
I don’t know why we do this to ourselves. Why in that moment, I can’t just say, she’s with me and in love with me now. Our ego is a bitch, and I try really hard to not let it creep in. This is where practicing meditation might help – you acknowledge the thought, but set it aside.
And I don’t want to overstate my discomfort. It was infrequent, and sometimes it was balanced out by acceptance – I had wanted to travel to Italy to help scatter her husband’s ashes (one of his wishes), I had wanted to plant a tree in our yard and scatter some of his ashes there – a symbolic acknowledgment that he is present in our home. But further, that discomfort wasn’t just about B’s past…. I was uncomfortable with my own past. I regretted referring to one woman as the one that got away, and I once wrote a poem for another woman – something I hadn’t done for anyone before. It was the first time I had written in a very long time. She thought it was beautiful and told me nobody had ever done something like that for her. When I started writing again – this time inspired by B, that poem haunted me. I was ashamed of it. I had wished that I had only written poetry for B. The right person can make you wish you had met sooner and experienced all of life with them. There’s an understanding that we all have past relationships, but we protect our current relationships through a form of denial…. My feelings for B had far surpassed anything I felt for anyone else…. So why feel shame? And maybe shame isn’t the right word. A better description might be I love giving all of myself now, I wish I could have given some of my past self as well…
This was a two-way street for B and I. She often told me how her marriage was not a good one. She told both me and our counselor that had her husband not gotten sick, they would have gotten divorced. Yet I know she loved him. I know she thought about him and looked for ways to honor him. Denial and acceptance all at the same time. I can remember one conversation – I think we were in the car, but don’t remember where we were going. She began to wonder out loud, what if she had met me first. What if it was the two of us that had tried to have children, what might it look like for us to have raised kids.
The funny thing about erasing the past, is that it takes years of not remembering. I can remember another conversation B and I had (clearly, my memories of our relationship are still very active). We were sitting in my back yard and we were talking about my ex. I think B had asked me if I had any good memories of my marriage, and my response was that I really didn’t have memories of it (good or bad). My ex and I had been distant for so long, that whatever good times we might have had didn’t exist in my mind. There’s something that I think we all do, which is find ways to revisit our stories and reinforce our memories. For good and healthy relationships, that revisiting is through telling stories to others and saying to each other, “remember when,” and spending time thinking about the other person. The more often you do it, the more ingrained they become. After 7 years of not revisiting any memories with my ex, and then 2 or 3 years of making new memories with other people, our marriage was pretty much wiped away. This made B sad. She said I would forget her too – she didn’t want to be forgotten – perhaps she was projecting. She was always concerned about her legacy, either through having a child or her writing… and I was always promising that it will absolutely live on in me (and probing if that counted for anything). My poem “A Place to Dream” is an attempt at describing that battle – would my love for her ever be enough? Why isn’t being loved by family and friends a suitable legacy? I suspect it will take years of not thinking about her and years of building new experiences for her not to live on inside me. I haven’t even begun that process.
And now I’ve gotten sidetracked with those stories…
Part of my intent in this personal essay was to tie those jealousies, that shame, the desire to revise or rewrite to the practice of writing (or artistic expression). I think at the artist’s core is the desire to create and share – sharing is a very important part of it. In fact, I’m not sure it’s limited to just artists. I think there’s a human drive to create and share. Creation could be in the form of experiences and memories, or art, or friendships, or family bonds…. Denied that opportunity to create and share and connect, we shrivel up and die. Is this another form of love languages? How do you like to create and share? Is your pursuit a solitary one? Is your sharing intimate or for the masses? Are these things mutually exclusive? Can we give all of ourselves to more than one thing? Should we?
As someone trying to write, there are certain topics I might be afraid to fully approach because it might hurt the person I care most about – do I buckle under that strain, do I avoid the creative outlet, do I simply feel torn between the two? How can we find peace with these internal conflicts? These are things I need to continue to think about. For now, free of such constraints, I’ll write and try to be as raw and authentic and honest (with you and myself) as I can be.