Tuesday, March 1, 2011

Writing: A Means of Excavating My True Self

We all have a story—a history interesting enough to write about. I write, not because I feel mine is any more tragic, significant or extraordinary, but because writing has always been a great source of serenity for me. It’s brought solace in the midst of chaos, clarity in the midst of confusion, and hope in the midst of despair. When left with nothing, but tears and fears, I've had the meditative solace writing brings. Those tears became the water I used to poured into my most poignant pieces--stories chiseled from suffering, that made me, me. I am convinced that part of the reason for many heartaches and seemingly tragic events, is the creation of great art—be it music, poetry, visual art. Kurt Coban was convinced too: "Thank you for the tragedy. I need it for my art." Consider the following songs:

Phil Colins' “In the Air Tonight,” Tracy Chapman’s “Fast Car,” Fruko y Sus Tesos’ “El Preso,” Rob Thomas’ “Lonely No More,” Lisa Stansfield’s “All Around the World,” 2Pac’s “Dear Mama.”

Or poems:

Frost’s “The Road Not Taken,” Lord Byron’s “When We Two Parted,” Miguel Algarin's "HIV," Sylvia Plath's "Daddy."

Would these--could these works have been created without sorrow? Absolutely not.
Recognizing that often, from great suffering comes great art, I also recognize that during those transformative moments, we are made, as Paulo Coelho so eloquently put it, “stronger, despite, or because of the scars.” (The Witch of Portobello).

Recently, I lost what to others may seem like a lot. I gave up my 2 bedroom apartment & all of my furniture to begin a new life with who I thought was to be my future husband. I uprooted my 13 year old, introduced a man into her life (something I vowed never to do unless I was to walk down the aisle)--& it failed. Luckily, I did not get around to selling my car. God knew I needed it to get my daughter to and from school. After leaving home at the age of 20, I found myself living back with Mom. Shock to my system I tell ya. Always independent, I began working as soon as I was legally able, 14, but I am comforted with the knowledge that this is only temporary and life will often throw us unexpected curve balls, to move us forward.

Oddly enough, I'm not bitter. Instead, I recognize that sometimes, we must lose everything to focus on that which is truly important. I was losing MYSELF. I wasn’t writing. I had subconsciously sacrificed that dream, for another—a family. Funny thing though--before he came alone, marriage was not a desire. I had resigned myself to a happy life of singledom, consisting of poetry events, softball, travel, exposing my young lady to the writing world, and HER world: dance, art--making new memories in our beloved Prospect Park; regular heart to hearts with my dear friends, over wine. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy being in a relationship. I love taking turns making beautiful dinners, eating as a family, sharing the holidays together. However, the perfectionist in me, that struggles with being the perfect wife, mother, homemaker, financially independent woman, writer, friend, felt that perfection in all areas was not possible, at least not all at the same time. I was okay with that. I made a conscious decision to focus on writing and raising my daughter. And JUST when I made up my mind, BOOM—he came along, and all of that rational thinking, went out the window. But that’s how it is with love. You surrender to it, and I did. I should have known it wasn’t going to work, when before I moved in, he asked, “Are you going to continue with your poetry events after you move in?” Ohhhhhhh inside, I was devastated that he would even ask such a thing. Ginormous red flag. Why WOULD one ask such a thing? I addressed it. We spoke, and he convinced me that he understood me, and looked forward to a new kind of relationship (I gathered the previous lacked self-esteem, or goals, or something vital to maintaining their identity).


Now, apartmentless, furnitureless, a $13 toll away from my daughter’s school, and living with my often difficult to get along with mother—I will tell you, I have no regrets. I needed this experience to reiterate that which I already knew, but suppressed—shushed with constant activity: I must write.

What a risky endeavor for an undisciplined, procrastinating, perfectionist. Nonetheless, it is such a part of who I am, that I feel it as essential to my being as eating, drinking, sleeping. I'm actually sacrificing sleep right now so that I may continue to write.

Know, that this blog is not intended to be a forum for the details of a break-up, but rather a revelation of my journey and how it’s brought me to this place of acceptance, peace, and renewed ambition. My complacency has been replaced with passion, my bitterness with pity, my disappointment with the awareness that I am bountiful in true, kind & loving friends.

I can write on forever & I intend to, but for now must say good night. Thank you friends, for being curious enough to catch a glimpse of my soul.


                                                                                                 





No comments:

Post a Comment