This year has been one of tremendous growth and change. And
most of that time, I’ve been fighting it, trying to hold on to life as it was,
life as I intended it to be. The more I struggled, though, the harder it became
to keep everything together, especially myself. And then I read this amazing
chapter in Women Who Run with the Wolves by
Clarissa Pinkola Estes. She talks about the tendency we have to try obsessively
to fill whatever hollowness we find in ourselves, how we can become nothing but
grasping hands and hungry mouths. It was such a riveting image, and one that
resonated with my experiences. I’ve felt myself grabbing at things and people,
trying to stuff them into the gaping holes in my heart so I didn’t have to feel
all the scary things that were looming behind me.
In general, I think it’s human nature to fear change, to
avoid it as much as possible. Let’s face it: even when it turns out for the
best in the end, the process can be disruptive and painful. It often means
leaving behind cherished places or beliefs or even people. Some of those losses
can never be replaced, some of those griefs never heal, even if you find
yourself in a better place in the end.
Yet change, like death and taxes, is one of life’s
inevitabilities. If we freeze in the headlights, like deer, we may think we’re
hiding from all that scariness, but we’re not. We’re only holding still as fate
bears down on us.
Change, and the inevitable endings associated with it, is
one of those things that a friend of mine calls “The blessings we don’t enjoy.”
At least, not when we’re in the middle of the process. It’s only afterward,
when we can see the whole situation and appreciate how far we’ve come and what
we’ve learned, that all the growing pains seem worthwhile.
So, like I said, I’ve been fighting change for a while. Some
of it is spiritual in nature, as I found myself adrift after some distressing
stuff at church. It felt like my spiritual side had been ripped down to the
foundations; I found myself questioning even the most basic assumptions I’d
made about the universe and my place in it. (It’s the kind of situation that I
wish I’d gone through in my twenties, like normal people. I keep thinking,
“Aren’t I too old for this nonsense? No? Well, crap.”) There’s been a lot of
sorrow, a lot of anger. But now I’m starting to feel little inklings of hope
again. I don’t know where they’ll lead me. But I’d like to believe there’s some
purpose to all of this, and that all my well intentioned religious beliefs
imploded because only in that utter destruction could I grow. I hope that
somewhere out there, Someone who knows way more than me is nodding and saying,
“Now the real work can begin.”
Some of the struggle has to do with my writing career, or
lack thereof. On an intellectual level, I can appreciate the revolutionary
nature of this time, and the artistic ferment that’s going on. It’s exciting!
It’s also super discouraging. A few years ago, I realized I would never, ever
have the kind of writing career I dreamed of when I was starting out. That
world, unfortunately, just doesn’t exist anymore. And I can also accept, on
that intellectual level, that this means not just loss but opportunity.
Oh, but try to tell that to my wounded heart. As Anne of
Green Gables would say, “My life is a perfect graveyard of buried hopes.”
Lately I’ve been reading a lot about courage, and
creativity, and trying to understand what it is I’m looking for and what I need
to hope for. It’s not an easy journey. Being a goal-oriented, driven sort of
person, all this uncertainty has been excruciating. But I suspect that, like
the physical therapy exercises I’ve been doing for my injured shoulder, it’s
the painful parts that will help me get to where I want to be. Only by
stretching through the stiffness that’s been caused by guarding myself too long
can I become something more than I am right at this moment.
This is me, standing at the brink of something I hope will
be amazing, and true, and beautiful. This is me, ready to let go of the
comfortable so I can embrace something magical.
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