No life has all the lovely things. Each choice we make moves us toward one thing and away from another. I chose to spend my time fully writing stories and walked away from a career that could have brought me riches. I chose to write about the love of two women and left others to woo the larger market. I chose to live out as a lesbian and associations and opportunities were lost. I have never wanted a different life although from time to time not having this and that has brought tears to my eyes on a quiet night. No life has all the lovely things.
I had a near melt-down the other night and wrote an angry letter to my deceased mother and father in my journal. I have spent a lifetime trying to heal my anger toward them.
Spiritual work and psychotherapy have helped but haven’t been the miracle I probably need. Most days I feel I have rooted out my anger and forgiven Mother’s insistence that I be other than I am and Dad’s cowardliness, letting her speak for him. But too many days, I get lost in the pain of the past and return to the darkness of the victim. I marvel at the people who have suffered far greater than I and seem to be living without bitterness, with light hearts.
When I am drawn back into the drama of the past that apparently I have not finished arguing over, I use my wild energy to do something productive, outdoor work, back-braking work, pulling weeds from the white shell that surrounds the house where I live. Or I release my anger in my journal, or through a character in a story, or in a letter to a friend,
It is a rare occasion when I am able to sit or stand in the anger and let it, like a river, run through me.
I am sure I became a writer to save my soul, declaring who I am, what I feel, and how I see things on a sheet of paper.
I wonder will I ever be able to transcend, rise above, center myself so that nothing at all is needed from me, for me?
In the meantime I write it down and writing it down becomes the river to the sea.