Lost and found, as they closed in on me last night, announced they are a team; they are one hand giving, the other taking away. But what is found may be the unwelcome surprise, while what is lost may be the blessing.
As suspiciously new age or cosmic babble as this may seem, these are times of adult growth spurts. Old and unfinished business keeps floating to the surface, as though the chains holding it to the blocks of cement, long ago consigned to deep water, had rusted through. The reason for its pivotal appearance is not to torment, or not for long, but to inform and move along. And so it is with whatever was hissing "lost and found, lost and found" while I tried to bring other topics to life.
As the pesky duo visited in the early hours, it became clear that this is not the place for listing them. For one thing, there are far too many - and they have too much in common. Boring and repetitious, they would have readers clicking away as fast as their fingers would carry them.
This is another exercise in...does it even have a name? Processing sounds so...process oriented, so medicinal, so like something for which there is a manual and one just one way of doing it. I think old business finds places to lodge in our bodies. It tosses us hints of its presence with the odd twinge, a chronic, lumpy ache, disquiet of the organs and systems, a fierce and jabbing pain. Assuming everything is energy, I suspect it wants to be dislodged in exact proportion to how much we want it gone.
Losses and finds, it turns out, are about ways in which I hold myself responsible for them, the grievous ones. They are visiting en masse to persuade my heart to soften, my blaming to fade. They tell me there is no suspect to identify and, if there were, it would not be me. I rassle (see an earlier post) with this but I don't disbelieve.
Those aren't skeletons in the closet, they are ghosts, the ones we use to frighten, to torment ourselves. To speak of the fantods is not an indication of pending collapse. There may be a note of lament in pondering states of unease or unavailable answers. Discomfort lessens, answers seep through. Are we willing to see each other through (not process) evolution, holding our breath as each new wave rises? Are we willing to trust that as mad as it all appears, it is actually in some version of order?
If we don't mention that parts that we are convinced signal unraveling, we have created no opening act for the restoration that follows. Our out-loud narration of each transformative moment may cause those around us to give up...not this again...to which they are entitled. Pretend you are watching time-lapse photography, play your i-pod, look only at every third posting here.
I used to write personal memoir, childhood moments, not lies, just not a thorough account of what was happening in the present. Gradually, my focus changed. It became more immediate, things as they happen in real time. We, IT, can only be called works in progress. Since it hasn't thrown me yet, I believe there's a chance.
6 comments:
We find things in those hauntings, in those ghostly apparitions, Marylinn that are endlessly important to our lives and writing.
I have heard it said that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over but expecting a different result. But how many of us are guilty of indulging in the same routines, the same thinking. It is not an accident that lugging around old thoughts and behaviors which weight us down is referred to as "baggage".
But every once in a while we are treated to a glimpse of overlooked potential. If we are wise and unencumbered, we can sometimes grasp it. It has happened to me, finding that exuberance lost as a kid, and allowed me to step out of airplanes or make a film. Finding lost things is a joyous thing.
[I love my word verification today: "Gumbi"]
Gracefully expressed.
Elisabeth - We do find material in the hauntings, don't we? A life without texture would not serve a writer well.
Robert - Do-overs present themselves, if we, as you say, are wise and unencumbered (at least somewhat). I cannot claim a fearlessness such as you demonstrated in your sky diving but in my own way have discovered avenues to broader experiences. Finding what was, or what we thought had been, lost is joyous. Go, Gumbi.
Laoch - I wish you a happy Friday. Your comments always bring me a sense of accomplishment. Thank you.
Someone once said to me:
"There is no such thing as a true story". Memories are unreliable at best. Maybe their purpose is to nudge-this still needs to be resolved.
Mmmh, by sheer randomness, my WV is "purems".
Artist and Geek - We certainly know from "eye witness" accounts the unreliability of memory. I think our own stories undergo a more complex revision. It is not that we tell ourselves untruths but as we process (that word again) our experiences, one hopes in an intelligent and beneficial way, the memory becomes what or how it needs to be to provide us with the lesson. Does that make sense or did I just make it up as well?
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