“If you don’t dare now, then when?” That’s the quote I discovered Monday when I opened my engagement calendar to a new week. Every Christmas since 1979, my beloved Charlotte has gifted me with calendars like this one, and each one has included hand-written and often-timely notes of encouragement for every week.
This quote was particularly prescient because it dovetailed with the inscription inside an anniversary card that Adrienne gave to me over the weekend to mark our 16th anniversary. Her message was simple and sweet: “Here’s to the next chapter.”
On the front of the card was a painting by John White Alexander (1856-1915), an American artist who has been ranked as one of “the four big [American artists],” along with Edwin Austin Abbey, John Singer Sargent, and James Abbott McNeill Whistler. The painting is entitled, “Ontspanning” which is Dutch for “recreation.”
The card and sentiment were beautiful for many reasons. The obvious reason is that they captured my love of reading as well as art that focuses on the female form. The less obvious reason is that at the end of last week, I resolved to dare to write every day, and not just in my engagement calendar and journal. I resolved to write, as someone who Susan Sontag said, “pays attention to the world.”
Lord knows I pay attention to the world. I wish I had realized that more profoundly before my one remaining client decided two weeks ago that it no longer needed my professional services. That shut me up until I remembered that loss can be a gift [I hate that!]. I also remembered that writing doesn’t mean writing perfectly. It means something much, much harder. It means writing. Period. It means following Mary Oliver’s, “Instructions for living a life,” a stanza from her poem, “Sometimes”:
Pay attention. Be astonished. Tell about it.
Carrying around an untold story is a bitch. So it’s time for a new chapter. It’s time to be ridiculously audacious. To dare now. To tell my story.
Every. Damn. Day.
Yesterday morning, before I wrote this post, I spent a little over a minute creating a list of topics in my life to write about. I stopped at topic #14. Fourteen topics in a little over a minute. I then remembered that I’m very skilled at writing lists. Lists, I can write. Not the same thing as telling your story.
I’ve maintained a diary/engagement calendar — daily event details like my weight, what I did for exercise, the weather and other mind-numbing details — since 1979. Diaries, I can maintain. Not the same thing as telling your story.
I’ve kept a journal since 1973, writing out thoughts, perspectives, gripes, etc. Journals, I can maintain for 47+ years which is, admittedly, impressive. However, not the same thing as telling your story.
On May 21, 2019, I was informed that I did not make it into the prestigious Bread Loaf Writers Conference in Vermont. I had submitted around 6,000 words of my working memoir. Looking back (via my journal), that rejection appears to have knocked out a lot of my drive to tell my story.
After she found out, Charlotte sent me a note. Here is part of what it said: “What a horrible, horrible blow. Words continue to fail me. I can’t even begin to imagine how it feels to receive such a blow. I cannot figure out how to move on — I just know that somehow you need to survive this blow — please — you are an artist. You are a writer. Find your way to who you are.”
It takes a lifetime to find your way.
Good for you for realizing that “writing doesn’t mean writing perfectly.” Sometimes “accidents” take us in a direction we would not logically pursue; creating something unique or unusual.
For example, see the second image. The red Converse sneakers are a nice touch in the upper left.
Adrienne — I didn’t notice the red sneakers (one of my favorite holiday gifts from you) until after I had taken the photograph. I wondered if anyone else would notice. Of course, you did, being an admirer of my exquisite style.
Speaking of my style, good point about accidents . . .
I saved a devotional from November 18, 2017, that begins, “In the void lies the potential for everything.” This goes along with your “loss can be a gift” (even though you hate it). I did notice the red shoes! And Jem is beautiful.
Thanks, Wendy. The line, “In the void lies the potential for everything,” is unusually memorable — I think it’s the word, “void.”
And Jem is beautiful even if the red shoes aren’t.
Yesterday, my favorite yoga teacher said in class, “Everything begins in the darkness.” She went on to list birth, sunrises, stars, seeds germinating. This was an invitation for us to embrace the darkness both internally and externally, with the shorter winter days.
You have had a lot more darkness in your life than most. Something wonderful is on the horizon.
Thank you for your thoughtful comment, Beth.
Ironically, I drove to the farmlands very early this morning while it was still dark to see if I could spot some of the Leonid meteor shower. I knew that it would take at least 30 minutes for my eyes to adjust to the darkness, and after that, I didn’t see anything. But then, I saw the barest wisp of them — so fleeting and barely visible — especially to me who really only has one good eye. But I did see them — these tiny streams of light in the darkness. Sometimes that’s the most light you can get in the darkness. This morning, it was enough, and I felt like I had done something wonderful for myself — waiting, watching for what you call “something wonderful on the horizon.” xoxo
Writing may not mean writing perfectly, but when you write your attention and your astonishment, it sure does come pretty close!
By the way, I also noticed the red sneakers right away. That’s Sharon, I said!