I'm not talking about sex, here. I'm not crowing about sobriety. I'm not even ranting about what the Bishop is doing to Gardner, Massachusetts by single-handedly closing down Sacred Heart Church and St. Joseph's...and screwing over the last generation of people who supported, carried on, believed in and stood loyal to these institutions--even when people from other parishes didn't do the same. No, I am not going to lose myself in things that I have given over to a Higher Power. I'm going to write about writing.
Two weeks ago, I thought I wouldn't be writing, again, for anyone. A scary brush with mortality, accompanied by massive bleeding and not a wee bit of pain, had me almost convinced that whatever I've already put down--published and not--would be what the world remembered about my life--if the world cared to remember. Surprisingly, there was a calm about this that came over me like an umbrella. I wasn't afraid. O, I was in pain and I was uncomfortable and I was embarrassed at the mess and the fuss and that even as I tried to deal with the ER situation on my own, in the end, my friends and family arrived (thank you!), however, I was never fearful.
I guess, partly this is because so many people I've known, up close and personal, have passed. I grew up with extended family--many of them as Great Uncles and Aunties--most of them very old. I also became close to many "elders" as I went through college. Becoming friends with people in their later years is like buying a dog...you know, however intense the connection, it will be short-lived. Those relationships prepared me, somewhat, for the AIDS massacre, which I witnessed, first hand and up close, in L.A., working with street prostitutes and teen runaways, from 1978 on. None of us emerged unscarred from those times. All of us emerged humbled...and just a little bit "removed" from taking anything too seriously.
As I watch my parents' supply of friends and older family dwindle, each day brings another phone call or newspaper obit. Death dances outside on the lawn; in the falling leaves; in the rattling bushes. I make long agreements with the "invisibles" around me: don't appear to me, please. I believe in you. I speak of you with respect. Someday, I will join you. For now, though, stay back. Trust you were loved and stay back, please.
In the ER, I was ready for the cancer statement. I was also ready to finish bleeding out. It occurred to me: I have no children who need me. I have no partner who is clinging to my bed. It seems my family can get along fine, without me, most of the time. The new dog has found a forever home with both of my sisters. I have published three novels; I have been anthologized; I have short stories in collections and poetry on at least three continents. My paintings are in private collections all over the world. Now, because of alien (smile) technology, my blog is streaming through the Universe, for better or worse. I have loved and been loved and feel loved, still. Nothing I have ever done has amounted to treasure; no riches; really, no savings, either. My only legacy are the words I've accumulated; the stories I've told. (Okay, maybe the stories I've lived...hah!) So, whatever comes, I'm ready. As ready as anyone I've met.
Of course, when we avoid a bullet, the shock of that experience makes us re-think everything. My sister Ann was furious when she found out I had signed a "do not resuscitate" form. I had to re-think that, perhaps, just maybe, it would be inconvenient if I croaked, after all...hmmm...Then, I had to think about writing: what was left to say? What arguments to illuminate? What great battles and romances still to explore? Was the final tally of three published novels enough? Have I been too easy on myself? The very thing I throw at my students, in High School...was I not living up to the challenges I've been given? It isn't about publishing. It IS about writing. So, was I throwing in the towel because part of me forgets this axiom? Have I given in to the demons of jealousy and envy: the publishing monsters who are not really interested in the kinds of warped visions and skewed analysis I bring to the table?
I didn't die, two weeks ago. Didn't even have cancer. Did have an emergency that necessitated surgery and the surgery was successful. Went back to Gardner High School, last week, walking like a drunk cowboy, but walking and managing to last each day, to the end. This week will be even better. As I finished up with the week, one of my students approached me, after school. She waited till all the other kids had left the classroom. She had a request: "Ms. Minns, my Dad is dying of liver cancer...he wants me to write his...what do you call it? Memorial...or whatever it's called. I can't do it, alone. Will you please help me?"
There are reasons we come back. They have nothing to do with glory nor monetary rewards nor lasting fame...Our gifts are to be of service...to each other.
Namaste.
Two weeks ago, I thought I wouldn't be writing, again, for anyone. A scary brush with mortality, accompanied by massive bleeding and not a wee bit of pain, had me almost convinced that whatever I've already put down--published and not--would be what the world remembered about my life--if the world cared to remember. Surprisingly, there was a calm about this that came over me like an umbrella. I wasn't afraid. O, I was in pain and I was uncomfortable and I was embarrassed at the mess and the fuss and that even as I tried to deal with the ER situation on my own, in the end, my friends and family arrived (thank you!), however, I was never fearful.
I guess, partly this is because so many people I've known, up close and personal, have passed. I grew up with extended family--many of them as Great Uncles and Aunties--most of them very old. I also became close to many "elders" as I went through college. Becoming friends with people in their later years is like buying a dog...you know, however intense the connection, it will be short-lived. Those relationships prepared me, somewhat, for the AIDS massacre, which I witnessed, first hand and up close, in L.A., working with street prostitutes and teen runaways, from 1978 on. None of us emerged unscarred from those times. All of us emerged humbled...and just a little bit "removed" from taking anything too seriously.
As I watch my parents' supply of friends and older family dwindle, each day brings another phone call or newspaper obit. Death dances outside on the lawn; in the falling leaves; in the rattling bushes. I make long agreements with the "invisibles" around me: don't appear to me, please. I believe in you. I speak of you with respect. Someday, I will join you. For now, though, stay back. Trust you were loved and stay back, please.
In the ER, I was ready for the cancer statement. I was also ready to finish bleeding out. It occurred to me: I have no children who need me. I have no partner who is clinging to my bed. It seems my family can get along fine, without me, most of the time. The new dog has found a forever home with both of my sisters. I have published three novels; I have been anthologized; I have short stories in collections and poetry on at least three continents. My paintings are in private collections all over the world. Now, because of alien (smile) technology, my blog is streaming through the Universe, for better or worse. I have loved and been loved and feel loved, still. Nothing I have ever done has amounted to treasure; no riches; really, no savings, either. My only legacy are the words I've accumulated; the stories I've told. (Okay, maybe the stories I've lived...hah!) So, whatever comes, I'm ready. As ready as anyone I've met.
Of course, when we avoid a bullet, the shock of that experience makes us re-think everything. My sister Ann was furious when she found out I had signed a "do not resuscitate" form. I had to re-think that, perhaps, just maybe, it would be inconvenient if I croaked, after all...hmmm...Then, I had to think about writing: what was left to say? What arguments to illuminate? What great battles and romances still to explore? Was the final tally of three published novels enough? Have I been too easy on myself? The very thing I throw at my students, in High School...was I not living up to the challenges I've been given? It isn't about publishing. It IS about writing. So, was I throwing in the towel because part of me forgets this axiom? Have I given in to the demons of jealousy and envy: the publishing monsters who are not really interested in the kinds of warped visions and skewed analysis I bring to the table?
I didn't die, two weeks ago. Didn't even have cancer. Did have an emergency that necessitated surgery and the surgery was successful. Went back to Gardner High School, last week, walking like a drunk cowboy, but walking and managing to last each day, to the end. This week will be even better. As I finished up with the week, one of my students approached me, after school. She waited till all the other kids had left the classroom. She had a request: "Ms. Minns, my Dad is dying of liver cancer...he wants me to write his...what do you call it? Memorial...or whatever it's called. I can't do it, alone. Will you please help me?"
There are reasons we come back. They have nothing to do with glory nor monetary rewards nor lasting fame...Our gifts are to be of service...to each other.
Namaste.
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