The most regretful people on earth are those who felt the call to creative work,
who felt their own creative power restive and uprising,
and gave it neither power nor time.
~ Mary Oliver
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I feel I should start with a postscript to last week’s blog. I considered not writing it. I’m glad I did. Because five women wrote private notes, said same for them. This painful estrangement by daughters-in-law. My postscript leaves me soothed, tho. I had a last afternoon with my son and grandson at the rehab aquarium. Looking at big sea turtles and sea horses that change colors. Little boy excited over the cases with seashells. Look! broken ones! he said, pointing to the shells sliced in half to show their inside magic. Pleasing me beyond all get-out he remembered what I told him. I decided I could definitely be a ray petting guide. Don’t splash. Let them come close, then gently put your hand in. I scored 10 good pets across their whole backs. They feel so silky, I love it. The little family comes back a few nights before they’re off to Taiwan. I have hope for more hugs.
But the whole experience wound into a low-grade anxiety two days later. Under the surface of my skin. Like I may be missing something. Or falling behind. Won’t get it all. Get it right. Time passing, passing. Strangely, not like I won’t be okay. I knew I’d be okay. A friend said Uranus went retrograde.
I turned to two tubs of pictures with a goal to reduce by half. I flipped thru without lingering. Duplicates tossed. Flowers, buildings, scenery, photo experiments passed to my husband to decide. Short piles for family members, including oldies of parents & grandparents. More short piles for my son, organized by people and his age. Short piles organized by people and events for me. One of my father set aside for little boy. Because he draws dragons, loved his temporary tattoos. Was fascinated when I told him dad had mother & baby dragons covering his forearm. Those dragons not so sweet.
Since starting my blog, I’ve noticed stories repeat themselves. How my mother rarely shows up, but my father does. How I never say ‘when we moved to FL’ without adding ‘over 4-1/2 yrs. ago.’ So telling of this time I’m still counting. Same thing happened as I flipped thru pictures.
There’s none of me in Florida. Not even digitally. I found a shot of a Dad story that arrested me. The story how he sailed around the world x4 by the time he was 17. The note says “on the high seas, 18 yrs. old.” He stands beside another, shorter seaman. Both alike. Legs planted apart. Arms behind erect backs. Gaze direct, face serious. And most interesting, a shine to my dad’s boots. I remember he always shined his shoes. I put it on my desk. Look at his face, the turn of his mouth, often. Not sure what I’m looking for.
I noticed how emotions passed thru as fleeting as the images I flipped past. A spark of happiness, expansion in my chest at the sight of the arroyo behind one of our Santa Fe homes. The way the light captured how it feels on a warmish winter day in the high desert. The affection I felt in those early years with my husband. A strong dislike for the way I looked at times. Confusion I didn’t recognize myself in two retrieved from the trash for a double take. Relief I have images of friends I’ve loved, and some, still love.
I noticed I’m attached to particular images of my son and parents. One, my mother pregnant. She and my dad out on the town. Others. My baby boy under dappled light in a baby carrier, looking up at a leaf. Tiny boy with a big smile, all in red, half standing on the cheap sofa. His arms wide open. A teen leaning against his first car. A young man, his fair hair long, face looking down as if we eavesdrop. The shot atmospheric, like a foggy wood. Something about the faces.
The favorites of me were mostly in times I felt a surety within myself, if not my life. Most stunning, the contrast between the shy, sweet, innocent me barely in my twenties. And those decades later showing me strong, present, solid. As if somehow I filled in not with flesh, but with some kind of stuffing that made me real. I put those in an album next to one another. Two me’s, so different.
Only one shot I lingered over. I stand beside a young woman after a ceremony at NC State where I received an award for my activism for women’s issues on campus. I’d worked with her. She was president for all the sororities. Someone I admired for her clarity, intelligence, clear offers in service. I lingered because one clear early summer day, standing beside a lamp post, outside Bruegger’s Bagels on Hillsborough St. across from the university, she looked up at me and said, ‘I want to be just like you.’ I was so sure the work I’d do next, then. And seeing her face now, I don’t know if I let her down. Think perhaps if there’s a second chance, this work I’m creating to help writers live and love their best creative lives may be it. Because writing is power to enliven people’s hearts and minds, help them see things thru new lens. I need to sit with it.
I’m glad I have the hard copies. Like a book, even faded they feel more real in my hand. And I can place them anywhere. Look any time. I left the piles of me, Art, and us as a couple scrambled, without a timeline. As if all that time ran simultaneously. Whole lifetimes of changes I can flip thru. As if I gave it the power and time for no regrets.
Another small journey. Getting to Wise.
A Writer’s Life.
Tell me. . .what stories do you return to?
I’ll tell you a secret. . .Always. I wanted the creative life. And to do something good for the world. And that day on Hillsborough St. I planned to go on for a phD.
