 |
| My project: #100photosonlivingacreativelife. You can see it all so far on Instagram. |
I was stunned. Offended.
I didn't need to "work on my self-esteem!" I had just been accepted into the very limited-entry dental hygiene program at Clark College, where, over the previous four years I felt I had already beat back many of my demons. I had, in fact, excelled in college, and I was surprised by it, but proud of it. I was a single mom, after all, with four kids at home. In addition to that, I was about to marry my now-husband, the man of my dreams. I would have never believed in my whole life that someone like him -- college-educated, smart, and an editor to boot (be still my English-loving heart!). He had a wonderful network of friends who had accepted me as their own -- and this man was tall and handsome to boot.
Wasn't I on my way? What could she mean?
Caroline was my advocate. This is the title of the person you are assigned through the Catholic church when seeking remarriage after a divorce. While this is a big topic, I realize, and a topic for another time, it was what I was choosing. My husband-to-be and I wanted to be formally married in the church, and I personally, after several years of attending Mass with him and careful consideration of the doctrine and church history, decided that I also wanted to be a full member. (Yes, another big topic! Especially since I was coming from a Conservative Baptist background.)
I sat with Caroline that sunny afternoon after a year-long project for the annulment, a very large writing and counseling project that ended in 50 pages of my very personal information to be sent off to the Seattle Archdiocese. It required a lot of personal and intimate excavation. It was hard. It could be alternately enlightening or upsetting. And Caroline was with me every step of the way. Now at the end she was telling me I still had work to do -- and from her tone, it sounded like a lot of work...
That day was many years ago, but I remember it well. I walked away from that conversation with my heels dug in. While I was sure that Caroline had the ability to see past other people's false fronts, with her grandmotherly ways and her sweet long gray hair, which was often held back on one side by a silk flower on her right ear, and her wise, wide brown eyes framed in a soft, Hawaiian face, she surely had nothing to see in me.
After all, I had been laid bare before her. She had seen it all, my life story, the good bad and the oh-so-ugly parts.
I still am not sure what it was that she saw specifically in my history or demeanor that caused her to call me out, beyond two especially bad marriages; in fact, maybe that was it. The history of bad relationship choices that revealed someone who thought of herself in a low way. There was also a childhood of bullying (wherein I was the the receiver), and some other happenings that I won't list here, but all those things I believed I had worked out. Through personal success and now this year of talking it all out.
Here is what I now know: You can tell yourself all kinds of stories about why you are okay as you are; you can choose to disbelieve those who would try to help you -- all along the way. People like me (who have the deadly combination of denial and an independent mind) often ignore many signposts in life trying to point them to their own true personal direction; you could call it destiny, but that sounds trite and overplayed. Put simply, sometimes there is a just a better way to go, and we can't see it. We need help.
This is the reason I am doing The Artist's Way as my #the100daysprojecct. I am re-doing it to be sure, as I did it three years ago. That first time around, it was my oldest daughter who called me out. I guess I listened to her because she said I was a "blocked artist," which sounded better than "You need to work on your self-esteem." That time around was emotionally rough. Surprisingly, as I had said here on the blog before. But I got so much out of it that time that I wanted to do it again.
As time passed, I realized that the first time out did not feel complete. My journaling habit had become sporadic at best, and my writing (which I had once felt inspired to commit to) was like a dried up, dying plant in a hot window. I had, of course, had health issues, which are now largely resolved. But that wasn't even the biggest problem.
We sometimes put up our own roadblocks, saying almost anything to prevent ourselves from "following our bliss," as Joseph Campbell said. After all, we have to get food on the table, raise kids, work out, eat right, and commit to absolutely every school/church/work/neighborhood/community activity/committee that comes along. Right? And boy, howdy, aren't all those causes right as rain? Every last one of them.
So, overcommitted, overworked and underfed, artistically inclined folks may start to feel trampled, beaten down and just plain bad. That's where I now realize I was. I had put absolutely everything else before my writing, knitting, fun-loving, crafty self and now I was even beginning to notice new phrases crossing my mind, like am I becoming depressed?
Maybe it turns out that we have to constantly work at it -- fight against the inner and outside sources of interferences in our creative lives; fight for our need to be creative. After all, doesn't creativity problem solve? Get the work done? Come up with new and interesting ideas? It is a valid pursuit. And don't let anyone tell you differently.
That day was many years ago, but I remember it well. I walked away from that conversation with my heels dug in. While I was sure that Caroline had the ability to see past other people's false fronts, with her grandmotherly ways and her sweet long gray hair, which was often held back on one side by a silk flower on her right ear, and her wise, wide brown eyes framed in a soft, Hawaiian face, she surely had nothing to see in me.
After all, I had been laid bare before her. She had seen it all, my life story, the good bad and the oh-so-ugly parts.
I still am not sure what it was that she saw specifically in my history or demeanor that caused her to call me out, beyond two especially bad marriages; in fact, maybe that was it. The history of bad relationship choices that revealed someone who thought of herself in a low way. There was also a childhood of bullying (wherein I was the the receiver), and some other happenings that I won't list here, but all those things I believed I had worked out. Through personal success and now this year of talking it all out.
Here is what I now know: You can tell yourself all kinds of stories about why you are okay as you are; you can choose to disbelieve those who would try to help you -- all along the way. People like me (who have the deadly combination of denial and an independent mind) often ignore many signposts in life trying to point them to their own true personal direction; you could call it destiny, but that sounds trite and overplayed. Put simply, sometimes there is a just a better way to go, and we can't see it. We need help.
This is the reason I am doing The Artist's Way as my #the100daysprojecct. I am re-doing it to be sure, as I did it three years ago. That first time around, it was my oldest daughter who called me out. I guess I listened to her because she said I was a "blocked artist," which sounded better than "You need to work on your self-esteem." That time around was emotionally rough. Surprisingly, as I had said here on the blog before. But I got so much out of it that time that I wanted to do it again.
As time passed, I realized that the first time out did not feel complete. My journaling habit had become sporadic at best, and my writing (which I had once felt inspired to commit to) was like a dried up, dying plant in a hot window. I had, of course, had health issues, which are now largely resolved. But that wasn't even the biggest problem.
We sometimes put up our own roadblocks, saying almost anything to prevent ourselves from "following our bliss," as Joseph Campbell said. After all, we have to get food on the table, raise kids, work out, eat right, and commit to absolutely every school/church/work/neighborhood/community activity/committee that comes along. Right? And boy, howdy, aren't all those causes right as rain? Every last one of them.
So, overcommitted, overworked and underfed, artistically inclined folks may start to feel trampled, beaten down and just plain bad. That's where I now realize I was. I had put absolutely everything else before my writing, knitting, fun-loving, crafty self and now I was even beginning to notice new phrases crossing my mind, like am I becoming depressed?
Maybe it turns out that we have to constantly work at it -- fight against the inner and outside sources of interferences in our creative lives; fight for our need to be creative. After all, doesn't creativity problem solve? Get the work done? Come up with new and interesting ideas? It is a valid pursuit. And don't let anyone tell you differently.
No comments:
Post a Comment