Sometime around 5am Nick the cat jumped up on the bed to let me know he needed attention or food or just that it was unacceptable for me to continue sleeping. He’s partially blind, and his claws get caught on everything as he walks. When he comes to wake me up, he stumbles over my legs or my back. He tightrope walks between the edge of the bed and me. He puts his face in mine. He meows. He rubs his head against mine. He settles down, but only for a minute before crisscrossing the bed and me again. If I make a move, he thinks I’m about to get up and he jumps down from the bed. If I don’t get up, he rejoins me. I’m tempted to wake him up. Turnabout is fair play.
I got up with the beast and gave him some food. I re-read my post from last night, edited it, added some paragraphs. It’s raining pretty hard here, and is a little cold, so I’m having my second cup of coffee (which I’m still working on) on the sofa. I’m reading a book of essays and memoirs about poetry. It’s a slow read because I keep stopping to think about the value of writing and reading. The author suggests that good poems surprise you with language and a way of thinking and seeing. For him, they don’t try to wrap the world in mystery, but instead use plain language – a poet shouldn’t try to be difficult. I put the book down and started re-reading some poems by Robert Hass. I was reading a disjointed set of ideas in a poem called “Cuttings.” Each stanza has an italicized title and a few lines after it. One of them reads Sad // Often we are sad animals. / Bored dogs, monkeys getting rained on. That’s it, those two lines – unexpected and somehow familiar and large. I read a bit more, pausing to give space to the images and thoughts that crossed my mind. I closed my eyes for a second – I saw a white car, paint slightly chipped, one of those generic late 80s or early 90s sedans, a Cutlass or a Bonneville. It was driving around the corner incline of a mountain road in the midday shade of forest trees. It’s lights were on. It moved quickly creating its own wind. I jotted this down in my journal. I turned back to the book of poems. I only read a few more lines when I started thinking both about the life of a writer and feeling dishonest about my post from last night.
I grabbed my laptop, and here I am.
In order to write, you have to believe that you see the world differently than other people do; that you can access truths that other people can’t; that you’re willing to go where other people aren’t. One of the questions on the personality quiz I took last night was. “I feel that I am temperamentally different from most people.” I scored myself a 4 out of 5 on this (I’m also a person who avoids extremes). Humility, and observation of human nature, teaches us (me) that we’re all unique in our very un-unique ways. I’m not convinced that I see a tree any differently than someone else sees a tree. Actually, my fear is that if they were to stop and really try to see the tree, they might even see it better than I do – this is the reader’s quest, to discover those minds more original than our own. This is the writer’s paralysis, discovering those minds more original than our own. This is the writer’s insecurity – I’m a fraud and if other people just tried, they could do this too.
Where I felt I was being dishonest in my post from last night was in my consideration of audience and motive and etc. etc. One of the reasons, I’ve been sending poems out for publication is in seeking validation. But it’s not just any old validation. I’ve shared some of my work with friends. I sent a poem off to the woman who had reconnected – her response was “Wow!!! Amazing!!! So beautiful. you have a gift with words.” I usually shrug effusive praise off – I don’t trust it. I shared one with a woman I had connected with on a dating site – we swapped pieces of writing – she said there’s a distinct voice in it “It flows and builds and is so deliciously visual, and well, sensory. I enjoyed every word:)”. It’s nice to hear these things, but for some reason, not sufficient…. and it’s not just of the work, it’s also of the way of life and way of seeing for which I’m seeking validation. This was the life I had wanted to build with my ex-fiancee, B – one in which we found that type of validation and unsolicited appreciation in each other.
This is where it gets complicated. I think in our own minds, we all have this vision of who we are at our core. There are idealized versions of this self (our best self) and the demonized version of this self (our worst self – or the self that we’re critical of). For me, the idealized self is a sensitive, kind, caring person who often puts other people’s needs ahead of his own; a person capable of seeing the beauty in the smallest things; a person who has a zest for life; a person who has a unique way of communicating and connecting with the world. I don’t know how much of that is true, but it’s what I tell myself and what I believe about myself.
In a partner, I think we seek someone who will believe in us as much as we want to believe in ourselves; someone who will tolerate our worst self and also see us the way we see ourselves and adore us for being that person – the ultimate form of validation. Relationship experts say that you need to seek that validation from within – it’s why coming in to a relationship with a healthy self-image is so important. There is a certain sense to that, but I’m skeptical of people who are entirely self-reliant. To me, that almost means never shining the light of someone else’s gaze on your own view of yourself. There seems to be fine line there. Vulnerability in a relationship is stripping yourself down and really showing yourself to another person… not quite seeking acceptance, but of course also hoping you’re accepted. When that acceptance is given freely – just by showing yourself and having the other person say, yes, it lifts you up. With B, I felt like I found someone who saw me the way I want to see myself; a person who appreciated all that I had within me – the present and the potential. I didn’t feel like I had to try to be myself – it just came out – and she was very good at showing that she appreciated me as I was and as I could be. It’s what it means to really connect. Absent that, I wonder how much of my writing is a weird attempt to show her who I am (especially those pieces I didn’t fully know exist) – if not for validation, then in a spiteful “this is what you’re missing” type of way.
Of course, none of it works that way…. but it’s not uncommon to want someone who has rejected you to either take it back, or regret the decision. I had a girlfriend who shared her hopes and dreams for us only after I broke things off. She ended her text “sadly, you’ll never get to experience that.” Many of us have that inner voice (perhaps childish) that wants to say…. you used to think I was awesome, well… I’m even better than that.
Like I said, it’s complicated… because I also know there are other motivations behind my writing. I studied creative writing in college. I started and edited a literary journal. I wrote, and wanted the writer’s life. B brought all of that rushing back to me. I started writing some poems for her back in October of 2018. Some of those poems were after arguments, some were just ways to capture the world to which my eyes were being opened. The writer’s life is, above all else, an observant life. With B, I felt like I was starting to see everything… the way the slush piled in the gullies on the street, the way fresh cut flowers brightened up the kitchen, the way the crowd cheered at the bar as the entire neighborhood watched football together, and the way she moved through the world. I’ve written a few different times that the measure of love is transformation. During and after our relationship, I felt a type of awakening. Early in our relationship (two months in) she told me “And even if it doesn’t work out between us, meeting you has changed my life.” I guess I had hoped that we would always find ways to renew and change each other’s lives.
One of the reasons I’ve thought about taking the blog down is that, I’m starting to believe that my way of seeing is a gift – a gift that I had hoped to give to her over and over again… a gift that ultimately she said she didn’t want. I don’t know if she reads my writing. Now, part of me wants to be protective of this gift. I think for a while I wanted to show her I was capable of more (we all are). I think for a while I wanted to show that the things she loved most are even more present, that somehow I’ve changed. A lot of this blog is about the journey I’ve been on, an attempt to chronicle some of that change – partially to make her believe again, but more than anything to make me believe again.
At some point, I wrote about Emotionally Focused Therapy. It’s a form of couples therapy rooted in deep understanding of each other and finding your way back to seeing all of the things you loved about your partner. I’ve also written about waiting as the primary occupation of the one left behind. Those who wait are not the ones who stopped loving, and typically are not the ones who stopped seeing that original person we fell in love with. And while some of my writing has been influenced by this notion of still trying to be seen or hoping to be rediscovered by B, I think a lot of it has also been about seeing myself more clearly. A lot of it has been about being able to say, with confidence, even if she doesn’t see it, I am exactly the person B first fell in love with (kind, thoughtful, and with a full heart), only more so.