Caveat: I started this post on September 8th. So the "this morning" I speak of was then, not today, September 13th. I considered chucking this post. Wasn't sure I was "feeling" it anymore. But for now, given my relative lack of output, I am trusting that anything I start deserves to be finished. "Feeling" it or not. And, sure enough, I'm still feeling it plenty.
So, this morning I had breakfast with my sisters in a small town diner. At the table next to us was an elderly man and women. I presume married because they were sitting next to, rather than across from, one another. I watched them peripherally for most of their meal, and just before they got up to leave I leaned over to my sister and whispered to her, "have they said a single word to one another since we've been sitting here?" "No," she whispered back. She had been watching too. Later, she did observe that the woman had put creamer in the man's coffee. But nothing else. No words. No touch. Nothing but two people eating, looking everywhere but at each other.
Tonight as I was driving, "Missing You" by John Waite came on the radio. I have loved that song since it first came out when I was a teenager. It resonates perfectly with my history of unrequited love. The song is more about a love lost rather than unrequited, but the words fit for both: "I hear your name in certain circles and it always makes me smile. I spend my time thinking about you and it's almost driving me wild. And it's a heart that's breaking, down this long distance line tonight. I ain't missing you at all. Since you been gone away. I ain't missing you. No matter what I might say. I ain't missing you at all. I can lie to myself." That perfect juxtaposition of devastation and the desperate attempt to deny it.
As I sang along to my unofficial anthem, I found myself thinking again about the couple from this morning. Was there ever a time in their relationship when they would have felt that life-wrenching loss if one of them had turned away? "And there's a message that I'm sending out like a telegraph into your soul. And if I can't bridge this distance, stop this heartbreak overload. I ain't missing you at all." And if not, if their love was never intense to the point that losing it would trigger "a storm that's raging through my frozen heart tonight," is that a tragedy, or a blessing?
Seeing them made me feel sad. For them. For me. But perhaps unfairly. Perhaps this man and woman sat there in utter contentment. No words being needed. Not because their relationship has withered but because that is just who they are as people, perfectly suited to one another's silence. Or maybe they are angry at one another. Maybe we looked through a window into this moment in their lives and found them at odds, but loving one another enough to keep their weekly breakfast date. Loving each other enough for her to offer, and him to accept without resistance, the wordless endearment of the exact right amount of creamer in his coffee.
It is so easy to look at others and think we know. We know exactly what we are seeing. We resist when others are so presumptuous in drawing conclusions about us, but we are so quick to do it ourselves, frequently to total strangers. And why? Why this reflexive tendency to interpret and catalog each other? Why do we even care, even when the events or people we are deconstructing have no bearing on our lives? That scene at the diner: utterly inconsequential to my life. And yet consequential enough that my sisters and I discussed it. And it was still in my mind hours later, triggered by a song.
What does it tell me about me? The sadness I felt seeing them, assuming that their silence reflected a relationship gone dormant, devoid of vitality. If I am thorough in my self-assessment I recognize that it triggers a fear- a fear that love cannot remain vibrant and passion-filled. That too many years together will lead to dullness and complacency and silence. And I have plenty of examples of love affairs much longer than any I could have now, starting halfway through my life, that are still glowing from within, where the familiarity of 40 or 50 years together has resulted not in complacency but deep contentment. My aunt and uncle, married almost half a century, seem that way. Playful. Joyful. Alive.
But how do you know which you will be, should you be lucky enough to make it that far down the road together? It is choice? Or personality? As with most things, I suspect it's both. And if I am blessed to have that chance, I will fight with everything I am to stay awake and alert to love. My aunt and uncle are grateful for one another. Of that I am certain. And I suspect that matters more than anything.
By the way, here's a lovely version of Missing You as a duet between John Waite and Allison Krause.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=plFRyYVDw7I
Friday, September 13, 2013
Thursday, September 5, 2013
Number 2
So, I created this blog on September 1st. It will be September 6th in half an hour and I have not yet posted again. Not an auspicious start to this adventure.
The problem is not a lack of thoughts. The problem is a surfeit of thoughts. And I just went to check the definition of surfeit. I do not want to misspeak and it's a word I've not used in quite some time. Sure enough, the first given definition is having an overabundant supply. Interestingly, however, it also has a sense of being overly indulgent in something. And its etymology is from Middle English, Anglo-French and Latin words that mean to overdo. So, probably that second sense came first and usage has simply changed.
I love words. So much. I've often said I wish I had become a linguist. And yet, I have recently met someone who not only loves words, he has pursued them, through several languages. I can sometimes recognize the roots of words, but most of my knowledge comes from rote memorization. He, on the other hand, knows words. He sees their DNA. Which allows him to appreciate and use them more precisely. Which is a thing of beauty. Though it strikes me that almost certainly the majority of the time, the beauty of his precision is known only to him. To others, they are just words, one as good as another. His mind alone gets to savor their nuance. As when the vintner is faced with the unsophisticated palate. The subtleties of bouquet he painstakingly worked to infuse mean nothing to the uneducated tongue; it is merely red or white. I am reminded too of a former boyfriend, a consummate builder, who once constructed a foot bridge that would have supported a tank. No wood was 'wasted.' It was just the beauty of his design, the knowledge of the fundamentals. He sees wood like my friend sees words or the vintner sees grapes-- what belongs and what does not. But no person who has crossed that bridge would ever know by looking. It is just a bridge. Or a glass of wine. Or a word. But, no, to the ones who know the wood or the grape or the language, it is so much more.
But I was discussing my surfeit of thoughts as the impediment to my having written even my second entry for this blog. Yet, seeing that surfeit also means over-indulgence got me thinking. Do I have an overabundance of thought, or do I over-indulge in thinking? I pinned an eCard to my Pinterest board "That's ME!" today and it fits so perfectly with what I now have learned about surfeit. It says "I've been overthinking about overthinking again." Heh.
I am a thinker. But am I a lazy thinker? Or a gluttonous thinker? Too undisciplined to choose one idea and do the work to make a coherent, start-to-finish exposition of it? Or too inclined to gorge myself on one delicious musing after the next, never stopping to digest and gain the singular nourishment each could offer? I do not know. There must be a reason that, labeled as I have been from at least my adolescence as a Writer, praised as I have been for having a Voice, I nonetheless have written very little since leaving school. Which is not true. I have written reams. Notebooks full. The stack is at my feet this very moment. But unless someone wants to read the chronicle of one young (and then not-so-young) woman's battle with inertia, mistaken for undying love and devotion, I might as well not have written a single sentence.
But, I have now written two entire blog posts. Of dubious value, perhaps, but nevertheless words, written and 'published.' (Assuming I do get around to inviting someone other than my sisters to read this thing).
As with most everything I have written, prose or poetry, it feels unfinished. Endings are hard. In writing. In life. Ah, perhaps the subject of my next post has spoken. Endings. And already I am considering how endings relate to beginnings. Vive le surfeit!
The problem is not a lack of thoughts. The problem is a surfeit of thoughts. And I just went to check the definition of surfeit. I do not want to misspeak and it's a word I've not used in quite some time. Sure enough, the first given definition is having an overabundant supply. Interestingly, however, it also has a sense of being overly indulgent in something. And its etymology is from Middle English, Anglo-French and Latin words that mean to overdo. So, probably that second sense came first and usage has simply changed.
I love words. So much. I've often said I wish I had become a linguist. And yet, I have recently met someone who not only loves words, he has pursued them, through several languages. I can sometimes recognize the roots of words, but most of my knowledge comes from rote memorization. He, on the other hand, knows words. He sees their DNA. Which allows him to appreciate and use them more precisely. Which is a thing of beauty. Though it strikes me that almost certainly the majority of the time, the beauty of his precision is known only to him. To others, they are just words, one as good as another. His mind alone gets to savor their nuance. As when the vintner is faced with the unsophisticated palate. The subtleties of bouquet he painstakingly worked to infuse mean nothing to the uneducated tongue; it is merely red or white. I am reminded too of a former boyfriend, a consummate builder, who once constructed a foot bridge that would have supported a tank. No wood was 'wasted.' It was just the beauty of his design, the knowledge of the fundamentals. He sees wood like my friend sees words or the vintner sees grapes-- what belongs and what does not. But no person who has crossed that bridge would ever know by looking. It is just a bridge. Or a glass of wine. Or a word. But, no, to the ones who know the wood or the grape or the language, it is so much more.
But I was discussing my surfeit of thoughts as the impediment to my having written even my second entry for this blog. Yet, seeing that surfeit also means over-indulgence got me thinking. Do I have an overabundance of thought, or do I over-indulge in thinking? I pinned an eCard to my Pinterest board "That's ME!" today and it fits so perfectly with what I now have learned about surfeit. It says "I've been overthinking about overthinking again." Heh.
I am a thinker. But am I a lazy thinker? Or a gluttonous thinker? Too undisciplined to choose one idea and do the work to make a coherent, start-to-finish exposition of it? Or too inclined to gorge myself on one delicious musing after the next, never stopping to digest and gain the singular nourishment each could offer? I do not know. There must be a reason that, labeled as I have been from at least my adolescence as a Writer, praised as I have been for having a Voice, I nonetheless have written very little since leaving school. Which is not true. I have written reams. Notebooks full. The stack is at my feet this very moment. But unless someone wants to read the chronicle of one young (and then not-so-young) woman's battle with inertia, mistaken for undying love and devotion, I might as well not have written a single sentence.
But, I have now written two entire blog posts. Of dubious value, perhaps, but nevertheless words, written and 'published.' (Assuming I do get around to inviting someone other than my sisters to read this thing).
As with most everything I have written, prose or poetry, it feels unfinished. Endings are hard. In writing. In life. Ah, perhaps the subject of my next post has spoken. Endings. And already I am considering how endings relate to beginnings. Vive le surfeit!
Sunday, September 1, 2013
Beginnings
I suppose many bloggers begin their first post by opining on the value, purpose, nature of the medium. For those of us who are somewhat self-conscious about the idea of hoping, much less asking, for people to take a vested interest in our thoughts, yet somehow feel compelled to share those thoughts in a public forum, the experience of starting a blog is fraught. I have things to say. And I am humble (or realistic) enough to know that nothing I say can possibly be original. And yet I am arrogant (or attention-greedy) enough to suppose maybe whatever I type into this space will not be an utter waste of time for someone else to read. Certainly, it's not a waste of time for me. If I can gain perspective or insight from seeing my thoughts and feelings in concrete language, the exercise will not be fruitless. But that describes a journal. Journal writing is therapeutic and very useful for clarification and self-awareness.
A blog, however, is not a journal. Or, at least, I don't want to treat it that way. It is communication. It is me and another. I am writing with the belief that other minds will be engaging in and reacting to my words, whether or not those reactions are ever shared with me.
A blog is also, however, a stage. It is a performance. It has an 'audience.' I talk and you, should you choose, listen. It is not a conversation by normal definition. It may be a call and response, but it is not a dialogue. I have to engage you to want to listen. I have to have things to say that are worth your attention. Otherwise, it is just a journal.
Of course, I did not go to read any web articles about "how to blog." I am certain there is an Idiot's Guide to Blogging out there. And I shall never read it. So, my chances at 'success' are no doubt already greatly diminished. But, that is actually a perfect segue into introducing myself as a voice. I'm interested in being a 'success' but only on my own terms. For better and for worse.
I may make the effort to find studies and data to support the ideas and beliefs I will present. But I most likely will not. And for that reason, I will never presume to present my thoughts as authority or fact. They are my thoughts. Wrought from 42 years of experience and education. Examined by a brain with above average (or so I've always been told) capacity for analysis, synthesis and critical thinking. I have strong opinions. I also have weak opinions-- opinions that are unformed and tentative and questioning. And I'm as likely to write about the latter as the former. The latter actually tend to interest me more.
My writing, even for research papers in school, has always, always, tended to include an integration of my personal experience. Luckily, I generally received feedback from professors describing my papers as "refreshing," "unique," "insightful." I attribute that to being a decent writer and thinker, because otherwise I might have been told I was lazy and unfocused. On my senior thesis in undergrad, one of my professors commented, "You begin in a personal vein, as we have come to expect from Catherine; and although that is not customary in academic writing, it is an important aspect of your style. Clearly, Catherine, you are on the way to becoming a stylist--i.e. a writer--which is something rather rare. ... Your very personal approach to Thoreau is both a strength and a weakness of the thesis. ... I mention it but I don't put too much stress upon it because Catherine must do what Catherine must do; she is developing in her own admirable direction; and it's silly to ask her to go where she doesn't want to go." Ah, if only all my subsequent supervisors had come to the same conclusion. Grin.
And so, there it is. I shall write. About things and about ideas but most likely also with connection to how they intersect with my experience. Am I narcissistic? Or am I honest? I suppose you will decide. And I look forward to hearing your conclusions.
A blog, however, is not a journal. Or, at least, I don't want to treat it that way. It is communication. It is me and another. I am writing with the belief that other minds will be engaging in and reacting to my words, whether or not those reactions are ever shared with me.
A blog is also, however, a stage. It is a performance. It has an 'audience.' I talk and you, should you choose, listen. It is not a conversation by normal definition. It may be a call and response, but it is not a dialogue. I have to engage you to want to listen. I have to have things to say that are worth your attention. Otherwise, it is just a journal.
Of course, I did not go to read any web articles about "how to blog." I am certain there is an Idiot's Guide to Blogging out there. And I shall never read it. So, my chances at 'success' are no doubt already greatly diminished. But, that is actually a perfect segue into introducing myself as a voice. I'm interested in being a 'success' but only on my own terms. For better and for worse.
I may make the effort to find studies and data to support the ideas and beliefs I will present. But I most likely will not. And for that reason, I will never presume to present my thoughts as authority or fact. They are my thoughts. Wrought from 42 years of experience and education. Examined by a brain with above average (or so I've always been told) capacity for analysis, synthesis and critical thinking. I have strong opinions. I also have weak opinions-- opinions that are unformed and tentative and questioning. And I'm as likely to write about the latter as the former. The latter actually tend to interest me more.
My writing, even for research papers in school, has always, always, tended to include an integration of my personal experience. Luckily, I generally received feedback from professors describing my papers as "refreshing," "unique," "insightful." I attribute that to being a decent writer and thinker, because otherwise I might have been told I was lazy and unfocused. On my senior thesis in undergrad, one of my professors commented, "You begin in a personal vein, as we have come to expect from Catherine; and although that is not customary in academic writing, it is an important aspect of your style. Clearly, Catherine, you are on the way to becoming a stylist--i.e. a writer--which is something rather rare. ... Your very personal approach to Thoreau is both a strength and a weakness of the thesis. ... I mention it but I don't put too much stress upon it because Catherine must do what Catherine must do; she is developing in her own admirable direction; and it's silly to ask her to go where she doesn't want to go." Ah, if only all my subsequent supervisors had come to the same conclusion. Grin.
And so, there it is. I shall write. About things and about ideas but most likely also with connection to how they intersect with my experience. Am I narcissistic? Or am I honest? I suppose you will decide. And I look forward to hearing your conclusions.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)