Contemporary+Fiction+Writing

Writing 3

Anatomy 101

“We are young again and learning  the shape of each other.”   ~ //My Sister’s Keeper//   Jodi Picoult “Love is lak de sea. It’s uh movin’ thing,  but still and all, it takes its shape   from de shore it meets, and   it’s different with every shore.”   ~ //Their Eyes Were Watching God//   Zora Neale Hurston When we are young, we learn the parts of our bodies so simply. Some loving adult in our lives, in that delightful, soft voice we all use when speaking to toddlers, says, “Where’s your nose?” And we, in that ever-present yen for the smile that means we are right and smart and good, touch our fingers to its tip. “Your ears?” Swiftly to the lobes. “Your mouth?” Fingertip to lips. Quickly, we learn our anatomy.

While we learn the form of the human body so readily, it takes so much more to learn the contours of the human psyche. We are taught to play nicely, to share, not to hit. We are taught that other little boys and girls won’t want to play with us if we are mean or selfish. Then we discover that the popular boys and girls sometimes //are// mean and selfish, which contradicts everything our parents taught us. How can they be so mean and still have so many friends? We discover that hanging out at the skating rink on Friday nights and passing notes in school isn’t really a romance. We discover that in order to truly learn the shape of those we cherish, we have to //want// to know.

So we become the sea: we ask questions in high tide, intrigued by all we learn, and observe in low tide, carrying the information away to reflect and grasp. With this ebb and flow, we learn the shapes of their shores. We learn our parents are human, with passions and frustrations. We learn our friends sometimes need a shoulder on which to cry and vent or a rockin’ night out on the town. We learn our lovers sometimes need to hear that they’re just not pulling their weight or that he or she is the most beautiful person in the world. We learn the things that make our sisters cry, that make our friends angry, that make our lovers giggle. And we take all this information, store it away, and recall it when we see they need it.

Yet sometimes we learn that no matter how much we learn, their shores are hazardous. Sometimes we learn that regardless of our tides, their shores remain staunch and unmoving. This is when we learn the shape of ourselves. We discover our needs and wants, fears and bravery, strengths and weaknesses. We come to know when we need to be alone and when we need company. We realize what makes us guffaw //and// sob. We discern what is healthy for us and what is toxic. And we take this information, store it away, and rely on it when we encounter the next shore.

We recognize the hazardous shores and save our most powerful tides for those who deserve it: those who are open to what we give and who offer the same in return. These are the friends who you might not see for months, yet when ultimately reunited, pick up just where you left off. These are the siblings who threaten to beat the hell out of the one who broke your heart. These are the lovers who celebrate your triumphs at work and in life //with// you rather than //for// you.

Do you remember those toys we had when we were young to teach us the different shapes? You know, the blue, soccer-ball-like, plastic sphere with all the different openings, the yellow triangles, squares, circles, stars, etc. lying on the floor, begging to be put inside it? We learned that each shape had its proper fit, and that no matter how hard we pushed, no matter what way we turned it, the yellow circle just would not fit in the square opening.

Relationships are like this: sometimes it doesn’t matter what angle or how hard we push; they just do not fit. But when we find the right shape for the opening in our lives, the fit is seamless, exactly where it’s meant to be.

Writing 2 Comparative Grief

When most people hear the term grief, they assume there has been a literal, physical death; and, usually, their compassion valves switch on and they immediately offer condolences and support. What is interesting is how people tend to have considerably less compassion when the death is metaphorical instead.

Think about the times you, or someone you know, came to the end of a long-term, romantic relationship. If you are anything like me, the person you love is your best friend as well, so when that ends, there is a double whammy. I remember hearing some sort of explanation for romantic grief on a television show: the amount of time permissible to grieve is directly proportionate to the length of time one was in said relationship by a third or some such. As if grief works like an algebra equation. Don’t get me wrong, if that is a personal mantra for you and it works for you, brilliant! It is the application to others, and judging them according to that personal mantra, that drives me bananas.

I also find it curious that people, and I am guilty of this myself, tend to put more weight on the dissolution of a marriage than the ending of a long-term relationship. (Clarification: when I think long-term, I think 2 years or more; I am sure that is different for everyone.) While I have never been through a divorce, I have struggled through the ending of an 8 year relationship. No, there were no legal waters to navigate. Yes, I understand that legal matters can become incredibly nasty. However, I still had to face family gatherings alone, to feel the fresh cut of the knife every time an acquaintance would ask about us, to face shared spots alone, to feel the pain anew every time a special song evoked the innumerable memories.

There is also the great unspoken grief: fading or losing friendships. As we grow and change, which I hope is a never-ending process, sometimes the people in our lives no longer fit. I think it is natural for some friendships to fade because commonalities dissipate or belief systems change and are no longer compatible. Sometimes, the feelings are mutually recognized; sometimes, they are not. The surprising fact: it is rare for friends to have “the talk” like those ending a romantic relationship would. I have been both the one to pull away and the one from whom friends have withdrawn. I don’t feel good about either, and as awkward as those “talks” may have been, the closure they would have provided would have been worth it.

Confession: I do not talk much about these things to my friends. I have had both good and bad experiences when I have tried to talk about it. One friend told me it’s on me to figure out how to feel better; another friend just about flicked me in the forehead for not going to her sooner. My reticence comes more from my own self-judgment more so than my fear of others’. I judge myself as being weak or ridiculous for perseverating on hurt and pain. Before some of you start banging your heads on the keyboard, I do see the fallacious logic of this. I mean, come on. Anyone who knows me knows I do my best to listen to people without judging them. Why do I do it to myself? Or even worry for a millisecond about someone judging me?

I had a conversation with a friend last night who is struggling with grief. If one were following the Kubler-Ross model of grief, this friend is experiencing anger, bargaining, and depression all at the same time. Fun times, right? But in speaking with him, I realized something: it is easy to dismiss someone else’s pain because you think it’s not as bad as, say, a literal death, or a terminal disease, or losing one’s home, or global genocides. He and I both spoke of the wonderfully vicious cycle of beating ourselves up for feeling sad and angry when there are much worse things in the world, which everyone knows makes the initial pain and hurt feel so much better, right?

Sometimes, we treat others’ pain as insignificant in comparison to - fill in the blank. That judgment may never be vocalized, but our thoughts influence what we put into the world in even the smallest of ways. I hope, I pray, that I remember that what may feel like a catastrophe to me might seem like a gnat to someone else. I pray that I remember that someone else’s cataclysm might be a walk in the park for me. I pray that in remembering these things, my thoughts and my words offer comfort or inspiration.

Writing 1 The Melody of Tears

Hunger. Discomfort. Frustration. Grief. Joy. Anger. Exhaustion. Empathy. Heartbreak. Hope. Despair. Love. Gratitude.

I have known many tears, each its own distinct aria in the score of my life. We all begin with the infantile overture of hunger or discomfort, solace found, if we are fortunate enough, in the loving arms of parents. From there, our unique experiences form the mood and tone of each movement of the composition.

Joy: my salvation serenade. I had never known one could weep with such gratitude. Tears of rejoicing formed the hymn of a lifetime.

And he hath put a new song in my mouth, even praise unto our God: many shall see it, and fear, and shall trust in the Lord

Grief: an elegy to my pap, former students who have gone on too early, friends who’ve faded from my life. These tears play a mournful tune, but they are evidence of how I am forever changed from those presences in my life and provide a salve to my grief.

Empathy: when my friends ache, when my students hurt, when my family suffers, my heart aches, hurts, and suffers. Our tears compose a chord for a bridge to healing.

Heartbreak: disappointed, left, lied to. Staccato sobs punctuate every wound, every rent in the fabric of my heart.

Hope: sometimes it flickers, a piano in the back of my mind. Sometimes it burns brightly with a timbre that deafens. These tears slide adagio, a soft reprise.

Exhaustion: bone-deep, world-weariness, a dissonance in my soul. Physical languor makes me sleepy; emotional fatigue rings like the cacophony of nails on a blackboard, each tear a release.

Frustration: it wells when I am unable to reach my students, a crescendo that leads to one of two outlets. Since I am a professional, I choose not to give in to the tickertape of colorful language running across my mind’s eye; thus, tears fill my eyes and sometimes spill over.

Love: my mom, my sister, my gram, my nieces, my stepdad, my stepbrother, my cousins, my aunts, my uncles, my friends, my students, my players. Individual notes in a chorus, these tears conduct the constant refrain of my life.

I have known many tears. With the grace of God, I will know many more. I am thankful for the music they bring, the good and the bad. Without them, without the concertos and duets, without the symphony of tears, life is fractured and incomplete.