Anne Lamott really pisses me off. In fact, when I saw her Operating Instructions: A Journal of My Son's First Year
in the parenting section a couple years ago at the Harvard COOP, I
actually gave the book the finger. Such was my resentment at some
writer journaling in public about motherhood, like I could. Or, like I should.
It
must be trite, it must be drivel, it must be painfully common. How
presumptuous to think she had something unique and fascinating to say
about parenting.
The fact that my resentment blossomed and
exploded with physical force (the middle finger jammed up at the
softcover book) didn't elude me. I recognize jealousy. I recognize
fear: Afraid. Really, really afraid. Here was this dream and someone
else was living it and how could I possibly ever do it if other people
already are. I only want the path less traveled on; I won't be a sheep
or a lemming.
So it required great bravery on my part last week
to pick up the book, purchase it, and open the cover to read. I
finished it in 36 hours which says a lot as a parent of a 4 year old.
That weekend as I read, I began feeling rumblings in my body. Discomfort. A loosening of my glue.
I
turned to the wisest person I know. I turned to this four year old who
has spent her life facing her fears and asked, "Sweetie? There's
something I really, really want to do but I'm scared to do it. But I
want to do it, but I'm scared. What should I do? How can I do this
thing? How do you do it when you feel this way?"
Very seriously
and with several long long seconds of contemplation, she looked at me
with those ocean-deep eyes and gave me the answer. "Mommy, I listen to
what my body is telling me. I might need to give myself more time with
my Mommy first, but when my body tells me I'm ready, I just do it."
Later
that day, lying on my back finishing up the Lamott book I spilled
empathetic laughter every few minutes. With my four year old audience
demanding it, I read the funniest portions out loud (meatball-like
poops rolling away, slapping an infant for fear it wasn't just sleep
overcoming him but rather a seizure). Most items made Maya giggle, too.
Years
ago (1996 to be exact), I began writing a weekly column and posting it
online. This was before I knew the term "blogging," and certainly the
activity of blogging hadn't reached the masses. My self-imposed
deadlines kicked my ass, really. I took them so seriously. I remember
many a Wednesday evening sweating and twisted at the computer screen
researching "What in the hell is going on with the Hutu and the
Tutsis?" Or simply commenting on my latest self-revelation that I
somehow imagined might interest someone.
For the past year, I've
known an intense magnetic pull bringing me back to writing personal
essays. I left them when I became suddenly embarrassed at how
self-obsessed I knew I seemed to some.
I've found the courage to
begin reading these kinds of things again, Anna Quindlen, Barbara
Kingsolver, (and of course that beastly and fabulous Anne Lamott), most
recently. In their words I've found not only camaraderie but also
inspiration. Much of why I drink their words with such abandon are the
feelings I get of a Shared Experience. As I approach my own writing, I
feel a permission to address the day-to-day.
Each essayist has a
unique voice and experience, no matter how common the theme. Knowing I
can say "what's already been said" and have it still be new and unique
simply because it comes from me frees me from the sheep and lemmings
fear. Any path I choose will be less traveled because the path belongs
to me.
I'm falling apart from the inside out. I'm unhinged,
unglued, and frighteningly free floating. My writing days return like a
herd of buffalo. Knowing I seem just fine, perhaps a little tired, but
as if I'm a functioning member of our simple world, well, that's just
craziness at it's strangest. How these feelings can be mauling my
insides while I stroll through the pumpkin field with my darling
daughter and my dreamy husband? I know it's all because the writing is
coming.
I know it because my body says I'm ready.
Heather Denkmire is a freelance writer and small business owner living near Portland, Maine with her daughter (Maya) and partner (Josh). She invites you to visit and read her regular "personal essay column."
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