There's so much truth in this. So much strange pain and even joy. There's permission in it, too. I wrote this down: “Don’t write anything you don’t really want to write. There will be no energy or pleasure in it for you. You will produce a dead thing.”
Oh, Amy, I'm so glad you enjoyed this piece. It's such an interesting form to work with, the memory that is not a memory and becomes a new window to look through, trying to see the present as well as the past. My advice actually is good advice about writing only what you want to write. xxL
And in working with old memories that have huge holes in them, I usually find I begin to remember more. And since I'm on the witness stand of my own life, I'm fine with inventing around the memories, too. The books I'm cooking are not the emotional ones, ever. And at the end of a piece, I often find my hard feelings toward people who have hurt me are softening. Not saying the hurt was less then, but letting go of the ashes now. An interesting phenomenon. It's creating a little warm center around these end years (I'm 86).
I can relate to this on so many levels. I haven’t the patience or persistence to keep a journal but I often write random (or not-so-random) notes to myself about my thoughts or interactions. The other day I came across one about a woman in a GED class I was teaching. She had four children and had decided to go back and get her GED. She had dreams! Shortly into the class she privately told me that she was pregnant. According to her, her husband did not want her getting “too far above him”. He thought she would quit now. She would not! I can still see her with tears in her eyes and her fists in her lap. Eight months later she got that GED and the next month she had that baby!
I'm reminded of an incident in my own life, Laurie. I was sitting across from my therapist. I was probably twenty-five. I had been enduring panic attacks that came on so fast and so furious that I didn't experience one moment of relief during my waking moments. This had been happening to me for two years by then. "Linda, you're thinking is normal," he said. "There's nothing wrong with you." I know he meant to be encouraging, but I was so shocked, that almost fifty years later, it's one of most prominent memories of my time (two years) with that therapist. It was the moment I thought, "He cannot help me. I am beyond help." Thankfully, I eventually got well, and even became a therapist myself (such a strange story on its own!).
That must have been such a pivotal moment—feeling so unseen in your suffering yet somehow finding your way through it. It’s incredible that you not only healed but went on to help others in the same field. Do you think that experience shaped how you approached therapy yourself?
“Maybe the reason I am still a girl is that, in my mind, women are the females of my mother’s generation, an army of women who are depressed. You can feel it rising off them, the entire generation tottling along under flop sweat and sodden disbelief there isn’t more for them in life.” And now I understand my mother better. What an apt description.
I hope that girl, now perhaps a wise old crone, reads this and says "thanks." Because your willingness to see and hear were surely healing, even if just temporarily. One comment: in my childhood, it was my mother, not my father (he said nothing at all to me) who told me that what I felt and saw were not true. It took me half my life to feel my self as true. One thing, though - it isolated me and I have never, ever, written anything I didn't want to write.
And the people who say "you are . . ." and "you aren't . . ." Can they really care about anything but themselves, with that urge to pinch and pull and pound the world to match their fears?
Painful. The girl . Suicide. Attempts. Twice. Therapist. Thinks the girl. Believed . She was not as sick. Reminds. Therapist . A woman. I knew the young girl. Attempted twice. Therapist !? . Girl. Walked out. Mid afternoon. Shot herself. In the head . Dead . Listen . It’s a matter .of life
It *is* a basic question, yet it opens an endless depth of meaning. Who are we to one another? We can define it by relationships—family, friends, strangers, rivals, lovers—but even those labels feel incomplete. Are we merely individuals crossing paths, each on our own journey? Or are we fragments of something greater, echoes of the same energy, bound in ways we can’t quite grasp?
Maybe we are lessons to one another, mirrors reflecting parts of ourselves we wouldn’t otherwise see. Maybe we are fleeting moments in each other's stories—significant or passing, but always part of the whole.
This was a beautiful piece. I've been thinking a lot about how to write the duality of love and loneliness that make up many of our daily interactions, and you've captured that here in such a tender way ♥️
What a scene. I love the essay crafted around it. Thanks for sharing your doubts about yourself as a teacher. I could go to town on that one myself. Most of all, thank you for clarifying exactly what a scene is. It embarrasses me to write that, but I won’t forget the writing lesson.
“I see two people—two female humans—sitting in an empty room with a desk and chairs. I see them trying to see the other as separate, whole, and unknowable—and that project joins them.”
You never fail to have a line that makes me go damn or catch my breath or coo in delight. This is the passage today.
“I see two people—two female humans—sitting in an empty room with a desk and chairs. I see them trying to see the other as separate, whole, and unknowable—and that project joins them.”
And also, this one: "The advantage of seeing another person in psychological terms is it’s easier to feel empathy with them. You try to imagine what it would be like to be them. The disadvantage of seeing people frozen in their separate psychologies is we lose sight of how the giant forces of the zeitgeist produce our feeling states." In trauma-aware practice, we often replace the diagnosis of 'depressed' with 'oppressed'. Context is (almost) everything. Thank you, Laurie, for your words and your love across time.
This is so lovely. I was struck by your statement that you aren’t a good listener, yet you knew when that struggling girl didn’t need or didn’t want an answer to what she shared. Knowing when silence is better than response/advice is an under-rated talent.
I regret that I didn't finish my M.Div. Do I want to be a priest? Do I even want to preach? No way, never, not. But like you, I usually finish things, and I think it will continue to weigh on me a bit.
So enjoyed reading this. Learned a lot, and feel like there is so much more to be mined from this piece. Society's insistence on women always smiling. Smiling while being oppressed. Reminds me a bit of black minstrals. Had a moment similar to yours with your student this week with a student of mine who asked to speak to me after class. Turned into an unexpectedly intimate conversation between two women who don't really know each other. Anyway, appreciate your writings so much. You always ignite points of recognition and curiosity for me!
There's so much truth in this. So much strange pain and even joy. There's permission in it, too. I wrote this down: “Don’t write anything you don’t really want to write. There will be no energy or pleasure in it for you. You will produce a dead thing.”
Oh, Amy, I'm so glad you enjoyed this piece. It's such an interesting form to work with, the memory that is not a memory and becomes a new window to look through, trying to see the present as well as the past. My advice actually is good advice about writing only what you want to write. xxL
And in working with old memories that have huge holes in them, I usually find I begin to remember more. And since I'm on the witness stand of my own life, I'm fine with inventing around the memories, too. The books I'm cooking are not the emotional ones, ever. And at the end of a piece, I often find my hard feelings toward people who have hurt me are softening. Not saying the hurt was less then, but letting go of the ashes now. An interesting phenomenon. It's creating a little warm center around these end years (I'm 86).
I can relate to this on so many levels. I haven’t the patience or persistence to keep a journal but I often write random (or not-so-random) notes to myself about my thoughts or interactions. The other day I came across one about a woman in a GED class I was teaching. She had four children and had decided to go back and get her GED. She had dreams! Shortly into the class she privately told me that she was pregnant. According to her, her husband did not want her getting “too far above him”. He thought she would quit now. She would not! I can still see her with tears in her eyes and her fists in her lap. Eight months later she got that GED and the next month she had that baby!
Yes. xxL
I'm reminded of an incident in my own life, Laurie. I was sitting across from my therapist. I was probably twenty-five. I had been enduring panic attacks that came on so fast and so furious that I didn't experience one moment of relief during my waking moments. This had been happening to me for two years by then. "Linda, you're thinking is normal," he said. "There's nothing wrong with you." I know he meant to be encouraging, but I was so shocked, that almost fifty years later, it's one of most prominent memories of my time (two years) with that therapist. It was the moment I thought, "He cannot help me. I am beyond help." Thankfully, I eventually got well, and even became a therapist myself (such a strange story on its own!).
Happy for you and oy about the shrink. xxL
That must have been such a pivotal moment—feeling so unseen in your suffering yet somehow finding your way through it. It’s incredible that you not only healed but went on to help others in the same field. Do you think that experience shaped how you approached therapy yourself?
Hi James. Absolutely.
“Maybe the reason I am still a girl is that, in my mind, women are the females of my mother’s generation, an army of women who are depressed. You can feel it rising off them, the entire generation tottling along under flop sweat and sodden disbelief there isn’t more for them in life.” And now I understand my mother better. What an apt description.
I hope that girl, now perhaps a wise old crone, reads this and says "thanks." Because your willingness to see and hear were surely healing, even if just temporarily. One comment: in my childhood, it was my mother, not my father (he said nothing at all to me) who told me that what I felt and saw were not true. It took me half my life to feel my self as true. One thing, though - it isolated me and I have never, ever, written anything I didn't want to write.
Everyone's identity that is handed to them is a case of mistaken identity. xxL
And the people who say "you are . . ." and "you aren't . . ." Can they really care about anything but themselves, with that urge to pinch and pull and pound the world to match their fears?
Painful. The girl . Suicide. Attempts. Twice. Therapist. Thinks the girl. Believed . She was not as sick. Reminds. Therapist . A woman. I knew the young girl. Attempted twice. Therapist !? . Girl. Walked out. Mid afternoon. Shot herself. In the head . Dead . Listen . It’s a matter .of life
oh wow, THIS was the post that made two men unsubscribe? the fragility boggles the mind. (also i'm sure you were right: her therapist was a man.)
More than two . . . although you're never sure why people leave. There's lots of churn in paid subscriptions, these were mostly free subscribers.
“Who are we to one another?” Such a basic, yet mysterious question—something I never fully understand.
Yes, the question that keeps on giving. xxL
It *is* a basic question, yet it opens an endless depth of meaning. Who are we to one another? We can define it by relationships—family, friends, strangers, rivals, lovers—but even those labels feel incomplete. Are we merely individuals crossing paths, each on our own journey? Or are we fragments of something greater, echoes of the same energy, bound in ways we can’t quite grasp?
Maybe we are lessons to one another, mirrors reflecting parts of ourselves we wouldn’t otherwise see. Maybe we are fleeting moments in each other's stories—significant or passing, but always part of the whole.
What makes you ponder this today?
This was a beautiful piece. I've been thinking a lot about how to write the duality of love and loneliness that make up many of our daily interactions, and you've captured that here in such a tender way ♥️
Thanks, Candace, it might make a good topic for a Zoom conversation.
What a scene. I love the essay crafted around it. Thanks for sharing your doubts about yourself as a teacher. I could go to town on that one myself. Most of all, thank you for clarifying exactly what a scene is. It embarrasses me to write that, but I won’t forget the writing lesson.
Lovely.
“I see two people—two female humans—sitting in an empty room with a desk and chairs. I see them trying to see the other as separate, whole, and unknowable—and that project joins them.”
You never fail to have a line that makes me go damn or catch my breath or coo in delight. This is the passage today.
Yes, that was the crystal for me, too.
“I see two people—two female humans—sitting in an empty room with a desk and chairs. I see them trying to see the other as separate, whole, and unknowable—and that project joins them.”
And also, this one: "The advantage of seeing another person in psychological terms is it’s easier to feel empathy with them. You try to imagine what it would be like to be them. The disadvantage of seeing people frozen in their separate psychologies is we lose sight of how the giant forces of the zeitgeist produce our feeling states." In trauma-aware practice, we often replace the diagnosis of 'depressed' with 'oppressed'. Context is (almost) everything. Thank you, Laurie, for your words and your love across time.
♥️
Thanks, love. xxL
This is so lovely. I was struck by your statement that you aren’t a good listener, yet you knew when that struggling girl didn’t need or didn’t want an answer to what she shared. Knowing when silence is better than response/advice is an under-rated talent.
Thanks! It was probably a miracle of tact. xxL
I regret that I didn't finish my M.Div. Do I want to be a priest? Do I even want to preach? No way, never, not. But like you, I usually finish things, and I think it will continue to weigh on me a bit.
"...trying to see the other as separate, whole, and unknowable—and that project joins them," profoundly true.
So enjoyed reading this. Learned a lot, and feel like there is so much more to be mined from this piece. Society's insistence on women always smiling. Smiling while being oppressed. Reminds me a bit of black minstrals. Had a moment similar to yours with your student this week with a student of mine who asked to speak to me after class. Turned into an unexpectedly intimate conversation between two women who don't really know each other. Anyway, appreciate your writings so much. You always ignite points of recognition and curiosity for me!
Thanks, dear Ann. xxL
I love what you wrote here. So much truth in each word.
Thanks so much!