Neglect

I have been negligent. Not only of this blog but of my art. I need to write because it fills me up with more ideas to write about and more ideas about life. I need to write to fill my soul, and I know that is a cliche, but what can I do? The less I write, the worse a writer I become, and I have to remember that. I need to write daily and not just think about writing, but here I am writing about being negligent; I can find many journal entries in which I declare my renewed promise to write every day and then weeks and months go by without an entry or word. I could find those entries now, but that is the kind of thing that keeps me from writing. Whenever I stop to search for an idea, a book, an artifact, a sound bite, a quotation, a reference, a photo, a yearbook, I will inevitably be derailed and never return to the piece of writing that sparked the need for the search. Now, here, I could use a cliche (but I digress), but having read my brother's Facebook status in which he avowed that he would never use that phrase, I will refrain. He might read this and roll his eyes when he sees it. I do have a gift for digression, and here I could ask for your forgiveness, Dear Reader (is anyone a fan of that archaic convention?).

I have been neglectful of many things, but I think I will focus on things that I do not neglect. Work is one; when I have a job and am being paid for my work, I put it first. My children: I do not neglect their needs or wants most of the time; when they need my attention, I drop whatever I am doing, even work, and attend. I am sorry to say that that is the extent of my un-neglected things list. I am trying to think of other things that I do not neglect, but nothing is coming to me.

I neglect writing, first and foremost, even when it is my most dear friend. It clears my head and purges my emotions in that Aristotelian way it has for doing so. Writing is the best therapist I've ever had, and I have had a few. I love going to a therapist (in spite of the high cost) because for at least an hour every other week (I know that sounds excessive, Dear Reader, but you would have to understand the circumstances, and I shouldn't digress into them here) I can talk about myself, my life, and my emotions to someone who is going to listen and maybe steer me into a revelation (I will NOT say "Aha moment"!) or two so that I am purged (yes, I am a fan of metaphorical purging,) enough to be able to function in other areas of my life. Like a therapist, my writing (or the paper or the reader or the computer screen) will listen, and I don't have to edit while I'm doing it; I can save the edits for later when my head is clear, when my thoughts are more lucid, when my emotions are manageable, and when my time is my own. It is not a wonder that I have many unedited pieces, this one included.

Just now I left the laptop to find the quotation of Saturday's crypto-quote which I deciphered this morning; my writing here warranted a retrieval of the reference as so much of writing does by leading me to other things in my life and surroundings. Saturday's quote by Kurt Vonnegut, the only writer I have ever written to or wanted to know personally and hang out with, spoke to the practice of art: "To practice any art, no matter how well or badly, is a way to make your soul grow. So do it."

My soul has grown, if infinitesimally, with this writing. One thing I know of my soul, or inner voice or art, whatever it is, it is resilient and forgiving, no matter how many promises to return I fail to keep.

The Things we Care About

I can't dwell on what's happened, because then I would live in a bubble of gloom where every now and then a bit of fun or happiness might seep in or peer through but not emanate from inside. One day, it will swallow me up and I won't know how to feel happy.

I'm not one for positive affirmations or positive self talk; I tried it a few times and mocked myself doing it so I thought I'd better find another way to look on the bright side. I usually go for a catharsis in great literature or film to purge the bad feelings. I haven't done that so much lately, but teaching literature is effective for keeping my mind on the more momentous themes in life.

Why am I so upset about things? They are just things, possessions, items that don't hold meaning until I assign it to them. The meaning does not emanate from within; just as in mythology, an object or place is not significant until and unless humans assign symbols or metaphors to that object or place. The objects, when lost, can move into the realm of story and myth.

I have to remember that and keep reading.

The Trouble with Families

"What's done is done and cannot be undone."~Lady Macbeth

Of course she was talking about murder. In family arguments, though, it often seems that this rings true of things said that can never be unsaid or feelings hurt that cannot be unhurt. Excepting murder, I always have a glimmer of hope, sometimes way up at the front of the cave into which I've crawled or followed others in to dark areas where few creatures live, that, with time, heated arguments will cool, feelings and words will soften in intent, and mending of fences will eventually happen. Frost knew, however, that mending a fence only means mending the division between people, so even if fences are mended, a fence still exists.

At the risk of throwing together so many metaphors that you won't know what to do with, I will say that I don't know any way out of this quagmire of bad feeling between me and my siblings except to one day, and it won't be soon, say "I forgive you" or "I'm sorry." The misunderstandings are extensive and come from vast differences in upbringing (even in the same family), environment, and experience. Our ages span three decades and our adolescent years, which I believe shape our personality as much as the first five years of life, were spent in different times with different social histories and in different places with different people. My eldest brother spent two years in Vietnam after he was drafted; I was seven then. He married when he returned home, and I was still a little girl.

By the time I was 15, my three older siblings had been living their adult lives, while I was embarking on adolescence and still growing into my adulthood. My sister, even younger, was disconnected, too, from the older ones; she was closest to me in age, and, as a result, is closest to me now. My coming of age took place in the 70s with college around the corner in the 80s, very different times from the 50s and 60s in which my two older brothers and older sister lived with my much younger parents. As time passed, my parents grew more tired and less parental it seemed, although there was a resurgence of discipline when the youngest, Teresa, began to spread her wings in high school. In college by then, I was not there to see their fear that their youngest daughter was becoming an independent woman.

All five of us are siblings and have the same parents, but that is not enough for us to get along or agree; this would be okay if civility were intact when tempers flared. This is not the case with most families, I assume, and certainly not with mine. One thing that we might be able to point to that is similar for each of us is that we were brought up to be independent and think for ourselves. We were taught to work for everything we have and be thankful that we are able to work. Beyond the work ethic, though, our personalities could not be more individual and different. These differences cause unrest, especially when we are discussing emotionally charged issues such as how to handle our situation with our mother, now in assisted living and suffering short-term memory loss that has been diagnosed as early dementia. The volatile cocktail of educational, regional, emotional, and physical differences is one that explodes when discussing our mom and her needs and wishes.

What's done is done, and I could go on. My brain hurts from thinking and over-thinking everything, from replaying and rewinding to replay events of the past week, from loving my mom unconditionally, and from placing conditions on the love for my older siblings.

Let's exchange charity.
I am no less in blood than thou art, Edmund;
If more, the more thou hast wrong'd me.
My name is Edgar, and thy father's son.
The gods are just, and of our pleasant vices
Make instruments to plague us:
The dark and vicious place where thee he got
Cost him his eyes.

(King Lear, V, iii)

It is a great tragedy.