For the past week I've been working on an essay I intended to post today. It was about Mary and how we "send Mary" to each other in my family when things get dark and difficult.
I'd been writing about how Mary does all the heavy lifting over here when it comes to comfort, empathy and compassion. I was going to share a picture of a leather keychain with 'Mary' stamped into it that I'd mailed to my daughter when she was away at college; so I literally sent Mary to her. I wanted to show the very real importance that Mary has for us while finding a way to communicate the lightheartedness and humor we share when sending her. I wanted to pay tribute to her on this special day.
It wasn't coming easy. My sentences were clunky and lacked good detail and I was failing to capture the essence of the ritual for us. I've put it away a number of times but woke up this morning with the intention of finishing. I'd hoped a good night's sleep would bring inspiration.
What's descended on me instead is the very strong feeling that I have no business writing anything at all, much less about such an important subject. I saw everything I'd written so far through a new filter called, "This is why you need to stop writing."
I'm never given a warning for when this filter will click into place but I've been known to stay stuck on that setting for long periods of time. As I write these words I am sure I have no business writing these words. This shit happens in real time.
This is why I have so many unfinished pieces. Essays and poems that start with a spark only to stop; randomly abandoned. Even finished ones left hidden in folders. These are labeled, "I hope I don't die before I clean this up otherwise my kids or my sister might see them and think, 'I didn't realize she was that bad' folder." It's a long name because I'm a terrible writer and don't know how to edit my own work.
I do my best to defend against these attacks by pointing out cracks in the condemnation. But this is just a mental game of Whack-a-Mole, where each time I defend my tender art, the mallet chooses a different target to beat to death:
"I love this image"
You should have cropped it better and it's not tack sharp.
"That's a lovely sentence"
Too bad all the other words around it drag it down.
"If I write every day I'll get better"
But you'll die before you're actually any good.
As any other person who tries to write knows, I could definitely go on.
Choosing to bet on art is an everyday risk. Choosing to believe that inspiration will show up and transform ideas into stardust, is to invest in magic; a hit and miss proposition at best. I'm one of those people who believes that creativity is something I borrow or channel. There are days when I capture impossible images and write words I don't remember thinking. Those days are the best because I get to be in the audience when creativity puts on a show. It's like feeling borrowed for something best left to the professionals; a desperately hopeful understudy.
I try to remember these times on those 'flat-line' days. They are my airbag against the onslaught. The fact is, the call to stop writing is soft and alluring when it's not being aggressive. It pretends to abandon the fight and decides to try and reason with me. I'm really too busy anyway and what I've done is very charming but can be set aside now for more important responsibilities. I didn't really think I was going to keep doing this after lock down did I? If I didn't think it mattered, I'd listen.
All art is needed right now regardless of medium or level of experience. We are being smothered by hate, vitriol and misinformation and the enemy doesn't spend time agonizing over whether something is 'good enough' to share. We toil away, eviscerating ourselves over the choice of one word when others can't be bothered to properly spell or punctuate the correct version of their, there and they're, in their haste to attack.
I'll write about Mary one day, the one who "moves behind me and leaves her fingerprints everywhere." The Mary who's never too busy for us and says, "Come here" in that one word way that blends all the letters together. The young mother with a full house on Christmas Eve and a little too much on her plate, who sees the big picture so doesn’t mind indulging us in our tiny picture thinking. One day I will do her justice.
For today, I’m giving up the need to write the perfect essay for Christmas Day. I’m not giving up on Mary though so instead, I am giving you a song that says it better than I ever could anyway. Please forgive the live version; It was the best one I could find.
So, now I’ll say thank you. Thank you for reading what I did end up writing, and thank you for being part of a place where we show a little corner of our creative world and hope it will be received the way it’s intended. When I started this blog it was hard to imagine two hundred people would give me a chance and look at my art. You have been an unexpected surprise in a year of unwelcome ones, and the support I’ve received has been just the right boost to keep me showing up. For today this is good enough.
For today, I will Let It Be.
Merry.
Comments