This blog has been a curious project to understand. I’ve always related to Stephen King in his book On Writing where he describes thought dumping his first drafts then sending them to close readers who help him understand what he’s written so he can edit and shape the work into something coherent. Every year or so, I find myself reflecting on the role this blog plays in my life, why I’ve written it, and what I’ve written.
I started to share publicly, to advocate and humanize and in that respect I feel a sense of peace and accomplishment. Things that were once my dark unspeakable secrets have been put into words, images, poems. Given context, embedded in community, spoken aloud. I have made a platform from it, tackling the difficult topics, confusing diversities, and isolating traumas. I own those secrets now and wear them in public. Yes, I’m strange and different, and this is how, and this is why, and this is our common ground – that we are all in some way strange and different, and that we are all human and often longing for the same things from each other.
I’ve learned more words to describe what I’m doing here: intuitive artist, social practice arts, discovery writer and one of my favorites ‘pantser’ (those who write without plans, but fly instead by seat of their pants).
I’m struck by how many people in my world know things about me and my ideas I can’t see how I would ever have found a way to share otherwise. I’ve used this blog to bridge many gaps between my strange self, my largely invisible experiences, and my community. Always building connections in some way.
I’ve documented parts of my life, both the carefully researched and constructed reflections, and the beautiful or sad trivialities that make up the rich detail of a life. I’ve aimed to make myself human, and public, at a time where we don’t talk about multiples as human but as liars or freaks. I have a soft spot for freaks and embrace freakishness in my own way. We’re all freaks, and that can be so lonely, but it doesn’t have to be. Connection, empathy, bridging gaps between us are easier when we are alike, but possible nonetheless. It’s less about finding similar people and more about learning to listen and be heard. That’s a magic I’ve finally begun to grasp, after so many years of feeling different and looking for people like me. It’s not about ‘people like me’, it’s about people who are listening, the way I’m listening to them. It’s about love.
I’m going into surgery tomorrow. I strongly dislike the feeling of general anaesthesia. Falling into the void and having no control terrifies me, I fight it and the more I fight, the more powerless I feel and the more terrifying it is. I can only submit and rest in it when I’ve made my peace with death. This year that is hard. I’m not at all ready to die. My eldest is fighting with me and my youngest is so young. I want to be here with every breath in my body. My Grandpa was not ready to die either. Yet he is gone. My friend Leanne didn’t go to bed at peace with Death, that last night. Narrative arc, fairness, or the power of love are no armour against the fragility of life. Peace is hard to find.
It is what it is. Despite all the broken and unfulfilled dreams, the incomplete artworks and friendships that never quite ripened into closeness, I’m proud of what I’ve done, who I’ve become, how I’ve lived. I’m proud to have been part of your lives, all of you I might never otherwise have met or known, all of you who know more about me than our meeting would ever have normally permitted. The rules about public and private life are largely arbitrary, unthinking, even brutal. Many can be summed up simply: joy is to be shared, pain is private. How stunted our lives are when we obey those rules, when we suffer alone and come to believe we are alone in pain, the only person to have felt what we feel and wrestle with what’s drowning us. More so for those of us who are more hurt, or who’s entire lives are deemed to be suffering: disability and illness of which we should not speak.
These things are universal. Our fragility is part of what makes us human – our capacity for loneliness, grief, despair, even self hate. Our yearning. Our fear of rejection and abandonment. Pain is best bourne in connection. Somewhere out beyond the fear of inpropriety or oversharing, is the transformation of the forbidden experiences we feel most taint us, into the universal threads of pain, courage, humility, and hope that connect us.
It’s foolish and maudlin to think of death, gallbladder surgery has minor risks. As a multiple I switch and fall into voids I can’t control or explain many times a day. But it is what it is. The world has tasted sweeter this week. I’ve looked more closely, soaked it in. Sleeping beside my daughter is one of the most beautiful experiences of my life. My garden is in full Spring bloom, spectacular and luscious. My darling Rose has cooked and cleaned and held a space for me in a way that soothes my heart. I’ve finished admin, touched base with my people, cuddled my cats, finished reading my book and downloaded many more to start.
I never know quite what I’m doing, at the time, only in reflection do I glimpse behind the curtains to the needs and longings and beliefs that animate my actions. I’ve fallen far short of my hopes in many ways. But of what I’ve made here, I’m glad. In a world swamped by sales funnels, content creation advice, and strategic business cunning I’ve been as useless and embarrassingly sincere as any poet. I’m glad to have touched your life, fellow poet, freak, artist, madman, flower grower, dreamer, and/or reader. Until tomorrow, with great love.