I relate to this so much, Susie. Words rarely suffice. Or, as I often say, words fail. We simply do not have the language. And so, too, I am often silent. To speak, even to write, when the language is not there is almost an insult. Better to simply be and let it unfold. Later, when the enormity and the luminosity of the moment has passed, words will come.
Your present relocation is too large to reduce to words at this time. It is enough that you stay present. The gifts of this transformation are reaching you, I suspect, like waves rolling into the shore.
In the very early days of my chaplaincy, I was called to the emergency room to be with a young woman whose husband had been killed in a skiing accident. I remember having nothing to say and knowing in some deep way that that was right. Thank you for validating that.
Ah to be present enough to just sit in silence with another, that is such a gift. Holding the space. Bearing witness. You intuitively knew that early on and im sure it guided you well through all your years. 🧡
You say "I have to find words for the upside down nature of my situation. What can I say about leaving home? " Such a time in your life, Susie, and you write about it with your usual elegance. I also loved how you described your father.
I've grown to appreciate him more and more in the forty-four years since he died. So many women I know were impacted by angry, sometimes violent, fathers. I was one of the lucky ones.
I love the description of your father's quiet nature. Perhaps we are related? My father was the same, right down to the twinkle in his eye. And there is always lots to think about in your pieces.
…”words are escaping me like green peas of a knife…” and going off on their own, maybe into incoming traffic. Loved this—made me laugh out loud. Change—like like old age, ill health, death, being separated from those we love, and the consequences of our actions. No escape. I predict your wisdom and curiosity will see you through this giant change.
I am partial to the green peas. I started with a rubber ball rolling into the gutter - hence the oncoming traffic - but I felt like those upper Broadway images had become a little stale in my writing. Peas! Now that was new.
Rings on the coffee table, crushed munchies underfoot, the whole shebang. It is a blessing of age that I can have such a good time without getting off the couch.
Thanks for the recommendation. Blessings to you on entering the selling phase. It's a doozy. I will definitely be writing from afar and look forward to our coming collaboration.
In the Berkshires, where I've lived for the past 50 years, there are no open houses. So each prospective buyer walks through the house alone with the realtor and you have to leave each time. We had 25+ such showings and the place had to be perfect each time.
Susie, there may be a little while during and after your big move when you won't feel like writing, but I don't see your love affair with language as anywhere near ending. An affair isn't an everyday thing, anyway! Silence is indeed golden and trusting it to take care of us is important. When I was taking a lot of writing workshops, back in the day, I was taught that "a real writer writes every day." There's some value in writing every day when we are honing our skills, but as a seventy-something I feel it's better to be quiet a lot and trust the silence. I don't believe in "writer's block" either. I think of the quiet times as composting times.
Composting is a great way of looking at it. I've never been one for writing every day. With the Wednesday post, I start on the previous Saturday. I got rhythm.
I relate to this so much, Susie. Words rarely suffice. Or, as I often say, words fail. We simply do not have the language. And so, too, I am often silent. To speak, even to write, when the language is not there is almost an insult. Better to simply be and let it unfold. Later, when the enormity and the luminosity of the moment has passed, words will come.
Your present relocation is too large to reduce to words at this time. It is enough that you stay present. The gifts of this transformation are reaching you, I suspect, like waves rolling into the shore.
In the very early days of my chaplaincy, I was called to the emergency room to be with a young woman whose husband had been killed in a skiing accident. I remember having nothing to say and knowing in some deep way that that was right. Thank you for validating that.
Ah to be present enough to just sit in silence with another, that is such a gift. Holding the space. Bearing witness. You intuitively knew that early on and im sure it guided you well through all your years. 🧡
I loved this. Will read it again and again. Thank you and if you keep writing, I will keep reading. 💜
It's wonderful for me that you find enough in my work to want to re-read. I will absolutely keep writing from points west.
You say "I have to find words for the upside down nature of my situation. What can I say about leaving home? " Such a time in your life, Susie, and you write about it with your usual elegance. I also loved how you described your father.
I've grown to appreciate him more and more in the forty-four years since he died. So many women I know were impacted by angry, sometimes violent, fathers. I was one of the lucky ones.
I love the description of your father's quiet nature. Perhaps we are related? My father was the same, right down to the twinkle in his eye. And there is always lots to think about in your pieces.
I've given up on genealogy...at least for the time being. But I do believe in a spiritual family tree that we are undoubtedly both flowering on.
…”words are escaping me like green peas of a knife…” and going off on their own, maybe into incoming traffic. Loved this—made me laugh out loud. Change—like like old age, ill health, death, being separated from those we love, and the consequences of our actions. No escape. I predict your wisdom and curiosity will see you through this giant change.
I am partial to the green peas. I started with a rubber ball rolling into the gutter - hence the oncoming traffic - but I felt like those upper Broadway images had become a little stale in my writing. Peas! Now that was new.
That was definitely new—a unique metaphor that did the trick. And gave me a chuckle—always appreciated.
Once again, gorgeous.
Seems your written word party is still in full swing.
Rings on the coffee table, crushed munchies underfoot, the whole shebang. It is a blessing of age that I can have such a good time without getting off the couch.
You may enjoy a book I just read Susie, EXIT by Sara Lawrence Lightfoot - all about endings, their meanings and their impact. May resonate.
And i do hope you keep writing. It's enlightening.
We are just putting our home up for sale...
Thanks for the recommendation. Blessings to you on entering the selling phase. It's a doozy. I will definitely be writing from afar and look forward to our coming collaboration.
Oh god, do tell! Whats doozy about it??
In the Berkshires, where I've lived for the past 50 years, there are no open houses. So each prospective buyer walks through the house alone with the realtor and you have to leave each time. We had 25+ such showings and the place had to be perfect each time.
Susie, there may be a little while during and after your big move when you won't feel like writing, but I don't see your love affair with language as anywhere near ending. An affair isn't an everyday thing, anyway! Silence is indeed golden and trusting it to take care of us is important. When I was taking a lot of writing workshops, back in the day, I was taught that "a real writer writes every day." There's some value in writing every day when we are honing our skills, but as a seventy-something I feel it's better to be quiet a lot and trust the silence. I don't believe in "writer's block" either. I think of the quiet times as composting times.
Composting is a great way of looking at it. I've never been one for writing every day. With the Wednesday post, I start on the previous Saturday. I got rhythm.
Wonderful questions. You have me on the edge of my seat awaiting the answers.
Hope you don't tumble. Answers are few and far between.