the last burnt sienna crayon

So now I have a new companion and a constant friend.

Solitude.

My companion is not yet often an easy one, nor one that I have always wanted or desired to be with, but I am told that the relationship will be worthwhile, that it will be something rewarded if worked at. And if I learn to accept my friend, that I will find richness in the world and the life around me.

Solitude.

Solitude is now to be my companion, not my loneliness, which should be displaced in time. I am told that Solitude is not an absence of friendship, but the very core of the abundance of Things. I think I did accept it once. . . but as I have said, I have forgotten and need to be reminded how.

I have returned to the Old Places (those words, those thoughts that manifesto that I told you about) that I left and forsook so long ago. I returned to to an ideal, an essence, an emotion to look for my Solitude, to see if they could still hold any affinity for me. And I see it; those sparks of life, of love, of creativity, of abundance; I do. . . but only yet for a moment here, or a reverie there.

I am still learning how to be patient.

How is it, that we learn things, yet so easily forget? How is it that something becomes a part of us, how we think, how we grow, what we believe, what we feel, how we live. . . and yet, we forget? Does it happen at the point of some trauma, that we throw out all of that which has gone before? Or is it simply carelessness, the dropping of our manifesto into the crowds and busyness of daily life?

And am I just assuming that it happens to more than just myself? Is this collective “we” accurate, or is it just me who is the forgetful one?

Recently I saw that an old friend had posted a quote, something written by Rilke, and something in me leaped. “You know Rilke!” I said to him, excited to find that my old friend shared some kind of sensibility of mine.

“Yes,” he replied, “You were the one who introduced me to him.”

Oh. I had forgotten. So many years ago. How could I have forgotten? There was a time when I was practically evangelistic about the German language poet/author. I carried a pocket sized copy of Letters to a Young Poet with me everywhere like a tract or a Bible for several years. I discovered his Letters first (where anyone should start with Rilke) and reading them felt like the first time anyone had ever truly understood me. For the first time, someone was telling me what to do, how to live, in a way that seemed strangely comforting, helpful and relevant. (Does it reflect badly on me that that was something I felt that I could gain from a dead Bohemian poet and not from the Church or from my own parents?)

I moved on from his Letters to his other (dense, but beautiful) prose, then his poetry (both certainly a development in the relationship), and even though I have to admit to struggling through the density of reading German in English translation (and in various levels of success of the translations), for the first time I felt that I had encountered another human being who felt things quite like I did, as strongly, as intensely, a bit of an alien in this world, and who struggled through his life because of it.

It felt like being understood.

The encouragement, was that he always said that life was worth it. Difficulties, and particularly the difficulty of solitude (which at the time I felt that I knew so well), were to be sought out instead of avoided. There was something I could accept in that. I heard him say:

“It is good to be solitary, for solitude is difficult; that something is difficult must be a reason the more for us to do it.”

and I took comfort. I was told:

“The purpose of life is to be defeated by greater and greater things”

and I believed him enough to get onto an airplane and leave my country and look for life. In all that confused me about my life I heard:

“Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves. Do not now seek the answers, which cannot be given you because you would not be able to live them. And the point is to live everything. Live the questions”

and I no longer cared for security. In those days, I lived, I mean I really lived. Because someone who felt and failed and hurt like I did told me that it was still worth it.

Any easiness in life was worth risking, for the attempt at something better. Life was worth living at all, because of its wealth and intensity. But I’ve forgotten. My fear and pains smothered that hope and joy, my failures crawled on top of me and wrenched the manifesto out of my hands.

Like Leonard said, “We’ve got to remind them how good it is.” Wouldn’t it be nice, to try to remember again? Difficult. . . but perhaps worth it.

Who am I?

You tell me, because I’m not sure anymore.

I’ve tried to collect together all of the things which I’ve known myself by over the years, but it just doesn’t seem to make a coherent whole. It doesn’t make any sense. And then I try to collect together all of the things that have influenced or even directly caused those things which I have known myself by and I realise that for a large percentage of my life, I have come up with some excuse or other for “not being myself today/this week/month/year/decade/etc”. And if percentage wise I’m spending more time making excuses than actually ‘being myself’, then how can I really claim that the me that I am less of the time is the ‘real’ me?

For a large percentage of the time, I have always felt that my life has taken ‘time outs’ and I, the ‘real me’, was just sitting in waiting for whatever influencing factor that was masking me to go away, or for me to finally achieve the back to the real me’ state.

But I must have been mistaken. Because the mask never comes off. It only seems to change. It changes from day to day and year by year. And saying that makes it sound like it really must just be that ‘changing thing’ that we’re all supposed to do as we go through life anyway, but for some reason it doesn’t quite feel like that. It doesn’t quite feel authentic. It doesn’t feel like a natural evolution.

My striving has always been to be my most authentic and honest self, like some mythical, unblemished, Platonic Form or something, to all and particularly to me. However, whereas I used to think I knew who or what that authentic Form was and what she liked and how she thought and how she acted, I’m just not so sure anymore. When do the blemishes become no longer something to sweep away and make excuse for, but become the thing itself? What if all my blemishes aren’t something added to cover up me, but are actually now me?

If you start with a table and break off one of it’s legs, you can probably fix it back on, with the right glue and nails. No harm done in the end, it’s still a table. But once you start to take a chisel to the table and gouge out some big gaping holes, it starts to become something a bit different. And you no longer wait for it to be fixed back to its ideal state, you have to accept that it is now either a sculpture or junk, and not useful as a table any longer.

And lately I’m starting to feel a bit like that chiseled table, starting to accept that there is no ideal Form for me to become anymore. And I’m wondering how much I get to control what the finished sculpture of me will look like. Or do I simply call it junk, throw it all out and start from scratch? But if that were the case, what do I do with all the stuff left over, from everything that has gone before, the thought patterns, the beliefs, the dis/likes, the behaviours?

I think in the end I just have to keep chiseling. But without my Platonic Form to model myself after, how do I know what my eventual goal is anymore?

It’s perhaps ironic that the subject that I have been chewing over in my head for awhile now (to speak or not to speak/the nature of talking and vulnerability) is beginning to “take voice” at the same time as my decision to give in and make an appointment with the speech therapist.

I lost my ability to speak once in an MS relapse. I mean that I lost the ability to control and use the muscles around my mouth and throat, not my will to. The only person who could understand what I was trying to say was my husband, and that took a little while. The sudden removal of my ability to communicate verbally with others left me a bit shell shocked and terribly frustrated and it left the others i tried to speak to simply stunned, sad and not knowing how to respond to me. I will always now have the possibility of problems with the muscles in this area as there is now scar tissue/inflammation in that area of my brain. (My current decision to refer myself back to the speech therapist is because of the number of times I find myself choking on my food and drink recently. Had a particularly frightening episode last night.)

But that’s not exactly what I’ve been thinking about on the subject of ‘talking’. I’m a pretty chatty girl, and in many ways, I wish I weren’t. I really wish I didn’t feel such a need to express what goes on in my head to people, mostly as I’m convinced that people don’t really want to know (which is perhaps why I blog it instead, if you didn’t want to know, you wouldn’t click! And besides, it keeps me quieter in ‘the real world’, therefore avoiding that whole “did I just offend you? What did I say wrong?” feeling that I’m so good at creating).

I wonder how I would adapt if I lost my ability to speak again, I rely on my words so.

I remember deciding to go to my weekly Bible study one week during that relapse, even though I knew I would not be able to contribute in any useful way. Unfortunately, that evening the study dissolved into argument and bad feeling around a particularly heated discussion on the Pauline teaching on women and I felt completely helpless. I watched my friends saying things that upset each other and upset me terribly and I felt completely helpless, both in my ability to express my thoughts/feelings and to wade my way through the murky waters. I felt out of control of my relationships in the midst of bad feelings, and I didn’t like it one bit!

I rely on my voice to ask questions, to discuss and to understand the people and the world around me. I rely on my voice to try and make other people understand me. Without my voice there would be a barrier between you and me.

Silence generally makes me uncomfortable, visible and vulnerable (although talking makes me feel pretty vulnerable too, so I guess I can’t win). I feel a perpetual need to fill the gaps when the conversation stops. I often feel a great responsibility to carry the conversation, to be interesting or funny or witty (which has been more difficult lately with my aforementioned cognitive issues). And I have an inordinate fear of being misunderstood, so I say as much as I can to explain myself, as I have learned over the years that words and actions that seem completely natural and normal to me, aren’t natural or normal to most everyone else in this New World. So I talk, perhaps more than most, to attempt to explain, excuse and exonerate myself, to prevent such possible misunderstandings (I am still floundering in my “two countries separated by a common language” cultural divide).

And besides all of that, I love conversation. I love connecting with other people and finding out about them and sharing something of myself, and I can just never figure out when that happens to be a welcome thing to others and when it happens to be annoying. I just don’t love being dissolute, obtuse and irksome.

I guess I feel if I’m uncomfortable in the silence, then whoever I am with must be uncomfortable too.

Apparently, that is not true. Apparently, there are people, who find silence a normal and ok thing. I guess I didn’t grow up that way. So I am trying to curb this need to speak. Apparently it’s not always polite, where I live now. I don’t like to annoy people and like Eliza Doolittle taking lessons in how to be “a lady”, perhaps I should try a bit harder not to say so much. Perhaps only speak when I am spoken to??

But on the flip side, and perhaps from a more positive perspective on the subject, isn’t silence between friends an indication of security and to be valued? Yes, I am certain that and a balance between the speaking and the silence is the ideal and to be sought after. This will come, perhaps slowly but surely as I learn to relax into my life more.

However, for now, the thought continues to occur to me that I have not been able to find that balance yet. The thought continues to occur to me that I had better work harder at not saying so much, for I would rather be heard through my silence than ignored through my words; I would rather be conspicuous by my absence than invisible by my ubiquity.

I’ve had a rough afternoon. I’m not going to shout about it here, in fact, I am learning more and more that, especially in regards to issues like these, where I must stand alone in my opinions, but find a way to stand up for them all the same. It is best not to say anything at all. I know it just invites invalidation. But, once again, my definition of what is right, doesn’t match everyone else’s. But I still think it’s right.

I’ve had a rough afternoon, and the love I feel for my daughter has almost never been stronger than it has been recently and my wanting the best for her has almost never been stronger, and my fighting spirit, like that Momma bear protecting her cub, has almost never been stronger. It’s just hard when a mum defines ‘the best’ differently to how everybody else does, when they simply can’t see what I’m talking about.

But then I’ve felt a bit lately like someone who has been trying to cope having lost one of their senses that they usually rely on. I’ve felt a bit lately like I’m not ‘clicking’ with other people quite right. I’ve felt like I’ve lost my social awareness. I’ve felt a bit like an alien again.

I’ve had a rough afternoon, and all I can think of is this song. And reading it, I am crying again. And I haven’t actually done that in awhile now. Until today.

Flowers are Red
by Harry Chapin

The little boy went first day of school
He got some crayons and started to draw
He put colors all over the paper
For colors was what he saw
And the teacher said.. What you doin’ young man
I’m paintin’ flowers he said
She said… It’s not the time for art young man
And anyway flowers are green and red
There’s a time for everything young man
And a way it should be done
You’ve got to show concern for everyone else
For you’re not the only one

And she said…
Flowers are red young man
And green leaves are green
There’s no need to see flowers any other way
Than they way they always have been seen

But the little boy said…
There are so many colors in the rainbow
So many colors in the morning sun
So many colors in the flower and I see every one

Well the teacher said.. You’re sassy
There’s ways that things should be
And you’ll paint flowers the way they are
So repeat after me…..

And she said…
Flowers are red young man
And green leaves are green
There’s no need to see flowers any other way
Than they way they always have been seen

But the little boy said…
There are so many colors in the rainbow
So many colors in the morning sun
So many colors in the flower and I see every one

The teacher put him in a corner
She said.. It’s for your own good..
And you won’t come out ’til you get it right
And are responding like you should
Well finally he got lonely
Frightened thoughts filled his head
And he went up to the teacher
And this is what he said.. and he said

Flowers are red, green leaves are green
There’s no need to see flowers any other way
Than the way they always have been seen

Time went by like it always does
And they moved to another town
And the little boy went to another school
And this is what he found
The teacher there was smilin’
She said…Painting should be fun
And there are so many colors in a flower
So let’s use every one

But that little boy painted flowers
In neat rows of green and red
And when the teacher asked him why
This is what he said.. and he said

Flowers are red, and green leaves are green
There’s no need to see flowers any other way
Than the way they always have been seen.

Sometimes, just sometimes, mind you, I begin to suspect, only slightly, that it might be ok, just ok, you understand, not desirable or right or rewarding, and certainly not auspicious, but just simply ok. . .

. . . to stop trying so hard.

At least for a few minutes, anyway.

Have been reading curiously through an old journal from 1997. What a facinating journey! Have just read:

Monday, January 13, 1997
As I was standing at the pier watching the waves on the rocks, I looked up and saw M and A standing a way off. I know that A saw me, but he said something to M and they both turned and walked the opposite direction. I think I would have turned and walked away too had I been them. The ‘me’ they knew was a strange creature. . . problem is that she is no longer me. So I do not mind having been snubbed by them, for I know they only snubbed the person they thought they saw standing there. . . not me.

How shockingly gracious of me!

I feel your pain.

No, actually, I do.

Let me explain. How many times have you said that? Most often, in my experience it is often said, if not in jest, but with a tinged, edgy sarcasm. But what if it was real? What if someone really meant it? How could someone live with it? How could a person deal with not only their own emotions, but try to deal with everyone else’s as well. We can’t, not really. Our own collection of pains, issues, excitements and worries are just about enough for any one person. It drives us into ourselves, and takes us away from the rest of the world.

When I was studying philosophy at university, we often discussed a problem which I’m sure had a proper philisophical name, but I left that dicipline so long ago that I can’t remember what it’s called. Anyway, the discussion was as to whether or not any particular person can ever truly know another person and what they experience. I seem to remember that the most accepted argument leant towards “no, no one can truly know another person.”

I’m not sure I ever really came to my own personal conclusion, I just know that I’m quite sensitive, and sensitive to what other people are going through. I realised recently that when my friends and family hurt, or are frustrated, or are annoyed, or are disappointed, or are nervous that I am hurt or frustrated or annoyed or disappointed or nervous. (yes, sometimes it works with positive emotions too, but not as often. )

My therapist would say “Do you think that in some way that actually helps them?” and of course the answer is “no, of course not.” But for some reason it’s not something so easily rationalised out of. Basicly, when other people hurt, I hurt. And I think, essentially, it was the way I was brought up. We should bear one another’s burdens. Somewhere along the line that got translated into “we should experience one another’s burdens instead of them,” as if that were possible and all of my vicarious hurting for everyone else will somehow lift someone else out, save the world, stop all the wars and seal up the hole in the ozone layer! Somewhere along the line I became responsible for the smooth runnng of the planet.

Which, if I’m honest, and I’m too often not honest enough about it, I’m not really strong enough to handle. But truly, old habits are hard to break, and I’m still trying.

When I was little, I used to feel, as you did too probably, that my parents misunderstood me a lot. When I would do something and get in trouble for it, I would often be bemused and perplexed. How could they have misunderstood what I was trying to do?

My daughter’s look of absolute shock and confusion when I told her off the other day for drawing on her wall, reminded me all too well that, like me, she was probably innocent of any willful wrongdoing, and I felt chastised in not understanding her.

When I was a teenager, I used to feel, as you did too probably, that everybody misunderstood me a lot. I was figuring out that I was this person with all these thoughts and opinions and hopes, feelings and aspirations. But I was often perplexed at the fact that other people, friends, family, teachers, audition panels, universities, employers, didn’t ‘get it’. How could they have misunderstood what I was trying to do with my life?

When I’d stay out all hours of the night, when I’d get into trouble with my father at three a.m. for being out with my friends, the accusation was that I must be doing something wrong. Taking drugs, drinking, being reckless. When really, all I ever did was talk, try to find a place for me. The accusations hurt. Didn’t they know that I wasn’t as bad as all that?

Now that I am older, I often worry, as I have no idea if you ever do, that I have been misunderstood, misinterpreted, mistaken. Things that to other people might be water off a duck’s back, to me plague and unsettle me, still believing people think wrongly of me. I remember how often I felt wrongly accused as a child and even more as a teenager and react in fear that it has happened once again, that once again, it has only been a ‘misunderstanding’. The fear of accusation sometimes withers me.

I have learned that I am ‘different’, and I do/think/behave/mean differently to the people/culture around me. Often being ‘different’ leads to my expectation that others will misinterpret me, and getting into trouble, when, at least I believe, that my intentions have only ever been the best.

I had a long conversation with a friend once.

I was about 18 and as we were both from one of those ’small towns where nothing ever happens but everybody listens’, for some reason, we often found that sitting in the middle of my street (i mean actually on the street) was as good a place as any to have a long conversation at 3 am. I don’t know why, but then I don’t know why we did half the things that we did when I was 18. There really wasn’t anyplace else to go.

He was the kind of friend who didn’t pull any punches. And neither did I. (I probably still don’t, for that matter) After several hours of him telling me (in the kindest possible of ways) exactly what he thought of me and what my place in the world should be I said “D, is there anything good about me?” (remember, this was a friend. just an honest friend. And I actually liked that about him. You never had to wonder where you stood.)

He thought for about half a minute and replied, “You care. . . You care about things, but you care too much.” And I couldn’t begin to even comprehend what he could possibly mean by that. How could it even be possible to care too much? Is there a “too much”? It bemused, perplexed and stayed with me for 15 years.

However recently, I began to understand, and I now accept his assessment of the character of my former self. Because I am completely aware that it could also describe my current self. I don’t think I’ve really changed that much.

I had a conversation with my husband not long ago. And somewhere in that conversation I remember him concluding that “Unfortunately, you’re a bad kind of combination. You’re a nonconformist who is sensitive to rejection.”

I understood and accepted that assessment of my character from the start. Some things can’t be denied when they’re as plain as the nose on your face. And again I think it all comes down to caring too much. And it has caused me a lot of grief over the years. If I could manage to be a ‘nonconformist who didn’t care’ then I could just get on with doing and saying things that confuse people in a parameter outside of the norms, and being different wouldn’t cause me any bother and I would be perfectly happy.

But I can’t. And I’m still not sure that I’d really want to. I don’t think I’d really want to stop caring. I’ve tried, completely unsuccessfully. Perhaps there’s just a way of doing it better? I don’t know.