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I’m not yet sure how this will turn out, but that’s the beauty of blog writing – it’s an invitation to enter into the middle of a story without the pressure of either having to know the beginning or close it up neatly.

Emily P. Freeman, Before Helpless Turns to Hopeless, July 19, 2016

One of the most stunning mysteries a writer discovers, if one puts any effort into the craft, is that ninety times out of a hundred, the audience and the reason for writing are rather secondary; the first priority is to pin those elusive, wriggling words floating around the brain down on paper where they can’t run away anymore, bring them into the light, find the shape of them. The shapes only heft into view after much wrangling, and even then, they are fuzzy, out of focus. You have to take hard looks all about before you get a clear view.

A writer’s prayer: give me clear vision.

My previous post has been haunting me since I published it. I thought I knew why I was writing it. I thought I understood the audience: the mysterious and not so mysterious dear readers who stop by whenever I have something to say, bless their patient hearts. I am realizing though, that every missive published here is a letter more to me than to the universe; if any audience could really be named, it might be my children.

Maybe I am writing to the child in myself:

Here is the world. Beautiful and terrible things will happen. Don’t be afraid.

-Fredrick Buechner

Here is the world. 

I don’t think I realized what a slow processor I was until Emily began writing about it a year or so ago. I used to think my time delay was unique to me and was always discouraged and berating myself; I’m incredibly heartened to realize that there are whole tribe of people who react the way I do to the world. I used to think it was a curse. I am beginning to accept it as a gift.

The words I laid out here the other day are taking further shape for me, haunting me, pushing me.

A writer’s prayer: give me clear words. 

They are not easy to choose.

I live between so many worlds. I think I’ve always known that, always known that I live in the outskirts and margins of places, tucked into quiet pockets. But I don’t think I realized how profound the remove was until Election Night.

There is no way to describe what happened on November 7 in the our national pysche. An inchoate howl? A keening? A roar? A clamor?

A writer’s prayer, a mother’s prayer: give me courage.

Beautiful and terrible things will happen.

I was awake in that weird dawn because of a child who cried out in the throes of a nightmare.

Having tucked her back in, I wondered at the results, unclear as they were before I headed to bed, and so I checked in for a moment. I should have waited for the morning. I couldn’t fall asleep after that; I just sat in mute horror as I watched the noise scroll past my screen until you wanted to clap hands over your eyes, as if it would block it out.

I stood and watched in horror as blog post and news article immediately began to circle in the wee smas before most rose from their beds, so very quick to censor the pain, the anger, the hope, the triumph. The level of noise, the words, every writer so quick to put spin on something un-spinnable, barely nameable, so new in its infancy- the speed and clamor of it all upset me far more than the actual election results.

You are talking about humansI wanted to scream. You are talking about your friendsYou are talking about people you love! You are talking about people who are loved! You are talking about your mothers and daughters and sisters, you are talking about your fathers and sons and brothers. You are talking about your friends who you eat and drink with! Real flesh, real blood. Be wary, be careful. HUSH! 

I have echoes of this reaction every time a major event happens in our nation, not just on Election Night; good or bad, but especially when some sort of trauma happens, especially if that trauma has roots in dehumanizing behavior (like a mass shooting). It troubles me that our humanity is subverted for a quick newspaper title, a five second sound bite.

The mama in me wanted to escort everyone to their rooms, remind them to take deep breaths, tuck them in, kiss their foreheads. Tell them we’ll talk about this in the morning. But you can’t do that, and it’s not my place. But that’s where I was. What I wished I could do.

How many times I have told a child, (how many times have I told myself?) to find peace before they said and did things they could never walk back, never undo, never unsay? It was like watching such a regrettable moment writ large across a national consciousness.

A writer’s prayer, a mother’s prayer, a believer’s prayer: help me to see.

In my last post, I was writing to all those many people who poured out words in that dark, early morning. I realize that now.

I was writing to myself. I was writing to the parts of me that want to offer a quick fix people’s pain, people’s emotions, people, period, because being human is messy. People are messy. Being a human, being in relationships with humans- it’s rarely comfortable. It can be as beautiful or as ugly as we chose to make it but it will never be perfect. Or easy.

Don’t be afraid.

The odd dichotomy of enduring through suffering is that it leaves you scarred but makes you fearless. Once your worse fears have been realized, the rest of it doesn’t quite seem the big hairy problem you thought it was. If you will allow it, suffering will also allow you to see the scars written all over your fellow humans. It will soften you. It will humble you. It will gives you eyes to see, ears to hear.

I’m not afraid of people’s pain as I once was. Perhaps more importantly, I am not afraid of people’s suffering or the fact that answers don’t come easily. I had to live through it to understand how strange a world can be.

So how, then, shall I live?

I think of my children again, the people, the humans I want them to be, that they already are, the world I want to give them, the world they are finding within themselves.

It was the words of comedians and poets that brought it to clarity, the shape finally named.

It is usually to them I turn to when I cannot find the words.

This, from Jim Gaffigan, comedian, Catholic, father of five:

This from John Blase, one of my favorite poets bar none, wanderer, father of three:

That’s kinda where my head’s been, seeing myself standing in a room full of people much like that final scene in It’s A Wonderful Life, looking around at the eyes gathered, with a goofy George Bailey look on my face thinking “How on earth did I get here?” And then that old familiar pain: I remember that something has to die in order for something to be born.

John Blase, Dear Winn- 8 December 2016

And so I write, a letter to myself, a letter to my children.

***

Dear ones,

We are the Children of the Great Divorce. We live in the now and not yet. Between heaven and hell. 

And all the time — such is the tragi-comedy of our situation — we continue to clamor for those very qualities we are rendering impossible. You can hardly open a periodical without coming across the statement that what our civilization needs is more “drive”, or dynamism, or self-sacrifice, or “creativity”. In a sort of ghastly simplicity we remove the organ and demand the function. We make men without chests and expect of them virtue and enterprise. We laugh at honour and are shocked to find traitors in our midst. We castrate and bid the geldings be fruitful. – CS Lewis, The Abolition of Man

I had forgotten what this meant for many years, but Aslan’s name is whispered. Let us, dear ones, my children, let us be of courage, men and women of chests. 

Ye can know nothing of the end of all things, or nothing expressible in those terms. It may be, as the Lord said to the Lady Julian, that all will be well, and all will be well, and all manner of things will be well. But it’s ill talking of such questions.”
“Because they are too terrible, Sir?”
“No. Because all answers deceive. If ye put the question from within Time and are asking about possibilities, the answer is certain. The choice of ways is before you. Neither is closed. Any man may choose eternal death. Those who choose it will have it. But if ye are trying to leap on into Eternity, if ye are trying to see the final state of all things as it will be (for so ye must speak) when there are no more possibilities left but only the Real, then ye ask what cannot be answered to mortal ears. Time is the very lens through which ye see — small and clear, as men see through the wrong end of a telescope — something that would otherwise be too big for ye to see at all. That thing is Freedom: the gift whereby ye most resemble your Maker and are yourselves parts of eternal reality. But ye can see it only through the lens of Time, in a little clear picture, through the inverted telescope. It is a picture of moments following one another and yourself in each moment making some choice that might have been otherwise. Neither the temporal succession nor the phantom of what ye might have chosen and didn’t is itself Freedom. They are a lens. The picture is a symbol: but it’s truer than any philosophical theorem (or, perhaps, than any mystic’s vision) that claims to go behind it. For every attempt to see the shape of eternity except through the lens of Time destroys your knowledge of Freedom.” – CS Lewis, The Great Divorce

Be kind, my dears. Be compassionate. Choose love and life every time. Remember that the first commandment is to love God, and the second is to love your neighbor. Always choose love.

If we are going to be destroyed by an atomic bomb, let that bomb when it comes find us doing sensible and human things — praying, working, teaching, reading, listening to music, bathing the children, playing tennis, chatting to our friends over a pint and a game of darts — not huddled together like frightened sheep and thinking about bombs. They might break our bodies (a microbe can do that) but they need not dominate our minds. – CS Lewis, On Living in An Atomic Age

I add, here, dears, that atomic bombs and microbes have different names sometimes; but you know them all by how they are called the Other. The articles preceding the nouns are all “those” and “thats” full of fear. Those people. That thing different from me. Let those and these and thats find you at peace. Find you loving and doing and praying. 

The blessed Father St. Anthony put it this way:

“A time is coming when men will go mad, and when they see someone who is not mad, they will attack him, saying, ‘You are mad; you are not like us.’”

Pray for peace, dear ones. Do not go mad. 

The blessed Father St. John of Kronstadt said this and it is ultimately my hope and prayer for you, for me, for your father, that we would chose the real world: 

“There is, my brethren, a true, real life, and there is a false, imaginary life.

To live in order to eat, drink, dress, walk; to enrich ourselves in general, to live for earthly pleasures or cares, as well as to spend time in intriguing and underhanded dealings; to think ourselves competent judges of everything and everybody is—the imaginary life; whilst to live in order to please God and serve our neighbors, to pray for the salvation of their souls and to help them in the work of their salvation in every way, is to lead the true life.

The first life is continual spiritual death, the second—the uninterrupted life of the spirit.”

Here is the world. Beautiful and terrible things will happen. Do not be afraid.

        With more love than you can ever know,

Mama

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A letter to my children…

One thought on “A letter to my children…

  • January 9, 2017 at 2:03 pm
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    Love this so much, Joy. And so perfect. Beautiful and terrible things indeed. It reminds me of Galadriel in LOTR: “Beautiful and terrible”.

    Reply

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