Yesterday I heard a brief segment of Terry Gross' Fresh Air interview with Jonathan Franzen. Franzen explained that as a writer he is a bit of an exhibitionist. He takes his privately lived moments and filters them through his imagination to create fiction. Increasingly, he simply shares his private, interior life publicly.
Gross asked, how do you share responsibly? How do you share your experience, as it's relevant and compelling to larger, shared experience, while having a sense of respect for those in your life implicated in your stories and while protecting your own sphere? I'm paraphrasing as I can't find a transcript yet but here's my take-away: we have control over what we share. We share what stimulates the collective imagination and clarifies individual and collective experience. We keep secrets. Our secrets give us identity.
If our every thought and perception was shared in a sense, we would cease to be. The boundary between what is known and unknown about us breaks down. In this instance, there is no longer intimacy. Intimacy comes from that deep sharing of secrets. When you fall in love, you start listing your previous homes and jobs and moments so that the other person is allowed in to your memories and past. Intimacy comes from the trust, the sharing of secrets. When everything is known, there is no longer the hope or possibility of creating trust and intimacy.
Mind blown.
Last Sunday I lounged on a raft in a pool and had a similar conversation with some friends. A few had read my blog and mentioned this to me (thank you, kind people!). I shared that this blog came into being when my fantastic web designer suggested and created it as a way to direct more traffic to my site. I began blogging so that folks might feel compelled to take a yoga class with me or join me on a retreat. And I found that I like blogging.
Given that I'm an entrepreneur, I have to market. Given that I teach yoga, host retreats, and a number of other services that have to do with creating a charged or meaningful space for another, it's helpful to share something of myself so that those working with me have a degree of comfort. I've self-identified as a writer since I was a teenager, which also pushes me a bit towards the exhibitionist camp.
Yet, with the increased presence of social media and our collective increased sharing, I worry. I still share (obviously). But I worry. I worry about what I'm relinquishing that I don't even see or know or recognize or value. I worry about the implications of my tellings on those in my life. I try to behave responsibly, ask those involved how they feel, and proceed from there, but still. I worry.
I wrote about this before after posing a similar question to Cheryl Strayed at a Free Library event in Philly. She said a lot, but my takeaways were: she's waited 20 years to be confessional about certain events, she also talks to implicated parties, and ultimately, they're her stories.
And I read them. I read them voraciously because they connect to my own experience.
I think about this too because I've spent plenty of time being repressed and surrounded by repression. I'm fearful of once more living without emotional honesty nor transparency. I err towards sharing because it feels safer to me. I think we can all use a bigger emotional vocabulary. I want emotional literacy to be cultivated and practiced. Some secrets control us individually and collectively. I want these closets opened, the skeletons excavated.
But I realize that much of this feeling could be reactionary. How do we cultivate balance? Share in a way that promotes transparency and honesty? Withold what is dear for privacy and mutual respect?
Strayed and Franzen have each made choices about what they share and what they guard. Something is guarded and those details are precious. These secrets are only given to those in close proximity where intimacy is created and nourished. It helps me understand how I can trust myself and be trustworthy to those around me: I give thought to what I release and thought to what I hold close. There's substance to me.
It makes me think about larger social media as well. What do we give away and what is it worth? I will happily tell you about my current work projects or how we can work together. The quieter details of my private life? You have to buy me dinner first.
Showing posts with label Cheryl Strayed. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Cheryl Strayed. Show all posts
Wednesday, September 2, 2015
Wednesday, December 31, 2014
The Catalyst of Our Story
On this New Year's Eve, Kevin and I went to watch the movie, "Wild." We both relished the memoir by Cheryl Strayed. It's her swan song. It's her big moment of claiming her life and she shares that process with the reader in full color.
Watching a cherished book transform into movie is always delicate. What will they edit out? What will they highlight and emphasize? I thought they did a wonderful job clarifying the central story for those who had read the memoir and those being freshly introduced to the story. I mainly wanted to see "Wild" adapted to film to know the scenery of the Pacific Crest Trail. It didn't disappoint. What surprised me a little was my own ability to visit her journey with fresh new eyes. I didn't expect to be able to find pain the most beautiful catalyst-- because that's the potential, right?
I've long had a theory that none of us makes it out unscathed, or put differently, that we all have a story. We all have scars, we all have been hurt. Some of us pretend otherwise. Some of us loudly proclaim our stories. In my own life, I'm seeking to transform the pain, to let the moments that hurt me most also propel me towards my best self. If there is a point, that's it right? Otherwise. Well, that's a darker investigation.
Strayed's grief lead her into her darkest self and then ultimately onto the trail. She literally learned how to carry herself again. She learned how to live again. It was an actual walk-a-bout, which has a pretty good track record for folk's reconciling with the great overwhelm.
I never hiked or backpacked a trail. I did blaze out on my own and it was scary as shit. It also taught me my mettle. I gained confidence knowing I could care for myself, that things are tough plenty, but there is a way through.
Kevin and I have been talking recently about that weird tension between loving and wanting to care for another but also create the space for independence and freedom. Of course, we try to do that for one another. That's the line between interdependence and co-dependence, right? That's the space we create for intimacy and vulnerability. That's the space we make for the important, deep living.
It feels pertinent that we shared this story on New Year's Eve, the big day of accounting for many of us. We tally up the last year's highs and lows and make some determinations for what's ahead. In the space of "Wild," I resolve to make the pain beauty. I resolve to make the pain beauty. I resolve to stay in it, all of it. I resolve to let it all be. The pain. The beauty. To be. I resolve.
Watching a cherished book transform into movie is always delicate. What will they edit out? What will they highlight and emphasize? I thought they did a wonderful job clarifying the central story for those who had read the memoir and those being freshly introduced to the story. I mainly wanted to see "Wild" adapted to film to know the scenery of the Pacific Crest Trail. It didn't disappoint. What surprised me a little was my own ability to visit her journey with fresh new eyes. I didn't expect to be able to find pain the most beautiful catalyst-- because that's the potential, right?
I've long had a theory that none of us makes it out unscathed, or put differently, that we all have a story. We all have scars, we all have been hurt. Some of us pretend otherwise. Some of us loudly proclaim our stories. In my own life, I'm seeking to transform the pain, to let the moments that hurt me most also propel me towards my best self. If there is a point, that's it right? Otherwise. Well, that's a darker investigation.
Strayed's grief lead her into her darkest self and then ultimately onto the trail. She literally learned how to carry herself again. She learned how to live again. It was an actual walk-a-bout, which has a pretty good track record for folk's reconciling with the great overwhelm.
I never hiked or backpacked a trail. I did blaze out on my own and it was scary as shit. It also taught me my mettle. I gained confidence knowing I could care for myself, that things are tough plenty, but there is a way through.
Kevin and I have been talking recently about that weird tension between loving and wanting to care for another but also create the space for independence and freedom. Of course, we try to do that for one another. That's the line between interdependence and co-dependence, right? That's the space we create for intimacy and vulnerability. That's the space we make for the important, deep living.
It feels pertinent that we shared this story on New Year's Eve, the big day of accounting for many of us. We tally up the last year's highs and lows and make some determinations for what's ahead. In the space of "Wild," I resolve to make the pain beauty. I resolve to make the pain beauty. I resolve to stay in it, all of it. I resolve to let it all be. The pain. The beauty. To be. I resolve.
Wednesday, May 1, 2013
Divulge
Kevin & I went to the Free Library two weeks ago to hear Cheryl Strayed. She authored Torch, Wild, & Tiny, Beautiful Things. Wild has become a runaway success. Oprah revived her book club to recognize the book, it's on NY Times best-seller lists, & has kept Strayed on tour for at least a year. In Wild, Strayed details her trek on the Pacific Crest Trail & how that experience offered her healing from the death of her mother. It's a raw, naked look at one of the darkest periods of Strayed's life.
During the Q & A, I raised my hand. I said, "In many of your works, especially Tiny, Beautiful Things you make yourself available as a mentor to other writers. I thank you for that! As a mentor, I want to know how you balance divulging so much personal information in your writing with healthy boundaries. How do you maintain your privacy? Handle relationships that are exposed? Grapple with readers who experience a sense of intimacy with the aspect of yourself revealed in your work?"
I really wanted to know. I hold back from writing about a lot of my experiences for a number of reasons. One, I want a private life. Two, I don't know how to manage the implications for others involved. Three, I don't want to be gratuitously confessional. I want to be responsible with my own life & respectful of my own story. Yet, these stories do have a larger resonance. That's why we write.
Strayed acknowledged that she maintains healthy privacy. She's considered in what she shares & why. Thankfully, there hasn't been much fall-out in her relationships due to her writing. Her writing has opened up conversations with some of those included in her work.
She also said that most people are incredibly respectful & acknowledge her privacy & boundaries. Her authenticity makes interactions with others real, fast. Readers are quick to share big, pivotal moments in their own lives.
& she mainly wrote about events that happened over twenty years ago. She hasn't written about her marriage nor her young children.
My life is sacred. My stories are sacred. Yet, part of what helps me understand & heal is knowing how these stories resonate with something bigger than me.
During the Q & A, I raised my hand. I said, "In many of your works, especially Tiny, Beautiful Things you make yourself available as a mentor to other writers. I thank you for that! As a mentor, I want to know how you balance divulging so much personal information in your writing with healthy boundaries. How do you maintain your privacy? Handle relationships that are exposed? Grapple with readers who experience a sense of intimacy with the aspect of yourself revealed in your work?"
I really wanted to know. I hold back from writing about a lot of my experiences for a number of reasons. One, I want a private life. Two, I don't know how to manage the implications for others involved. Three, I don't want to be gratuitously confessional. I want to be responsible with my own life & respectful of my own story. Yet, these stories do have a larger resonance. That's why we write.
Strayed acknowledged that she maintains healthy privacy. She's considered in what she shares & why. Thankfully, there hasn't been much fall-out in her relationships due to her writing. Her writing has opened up conversations with some of those included in her work.
She also said that most people are incredibly respectful & acknowledge her privacy & boundaries. Her authenticity makes interactions with others real, fast. Readers are quick to share big, pivotal moments in their own lives.
& she mainly wrote about events that happened over twenty years ago. She hasn't written about her marriage nor her young children.
My life is sacred. My stories are sacred. Yet, part of what helps me understand & heal is knowing how these stories resonate with something bigger than me.
Monday, March 25, 2013
Be Down Low
"Do you know what that is, sweet pea? To be humble? The word comes from the Latin words humilis and humus. To be down low. To be of the earth. To be on the ground." -Cheryl Strayed, Tiny Beautiful Things
"Earth, my likeness, though you look so impassive, ample and spheric there, I now suspect that is not all; I now suspect there is something fierce in you eligible to burst forth." -Walt Whitman, "Earth, My Likeness"
A few months ago Kevin & I spent a Saturday night pawing through our Collected Poems of Whitman. Whitman wrote a poem called "This Compost." No lie. Of course, I don't believe he's using "compost" in the modern sense of purposefully returning organic matter to rich soil. I believe he's applying the age-old definition of organic material inevitably returns to rich soil. This rich soil is compost.
Based on my reading, Whitman wrote this shortly after witnessing the trauma of the Civil War. The poem is too long to quote in it's entirety, but it expresses awe & horror at the diseased limbs & toxic matter absorbed by the earth. Whitman watches fruit and flowers emerge from what was once rotting corpses. Though impressed, he's scared. His response seems to be an obvious reconciliation with the horrors of war. He begins with, "Something startles me where I thought I was safest," in nature, on earth. Slowly finding hope in the restorative power of the natural world, he ends by writing, "It gives such divine materials to men, and accepts such leavings from them at last."
This idea is lingering with me. I took a fruit tree pruning workshop a few weeks ago. The instructor briefly mentioned certain plant's ability to draw towards them (through chemicals & other behaviors) animals that might eat a predatory insect. Plants, that are often characterized as inert, are dynamic. I've written here & in the Rooted Blog about soil's capacity to heal, regenerate, break down inorganic material, find balance with various plants, & ultimately restore healthy habitats. As Whitman wrote in "Earth, My Likeness," "I now suspect there is something fierce in you eligible to burst forth."
Derrick Jensen suggests to his readers to spend time on the ground. Literally, lay down on grass or dirt or whatever is available to you & watch. As a yoga practitioner, this feels like meditation. Watching the earth at ground level, we're suddenly conscious of the many worlds cohabitating. The actions of ants, the subtle movement of grass, the breath of soil. This is why we practice yoga-- to draw deeper into our body's own dynamism. Obviously, as I've written before, I see a profound parallel here.
This past month, my studio has been thinking about sickness, disease, & dying. I've begun to reflect on taking in toxic foods that caused me to become ill. I remembered bouts of sickness. I've thought of death touching me, peripherally, & one day profoundly. It reminds me of my body's ability to "give such divine materials" and "accept such leavings." There is a profound ability, in soil, in bodies, to absorb, reconcile, and transform that which does not kill. Even deadzones, like regions impacted by volcanoes or man-made "disasters" often teem with unpredicted new life.
I'm finding hope in these thoughts. I'm finding renewed belief in the capacity of earth & body to evolve, grow, & be healthy. In no way do these thoughts exonerate me, nor anyone else, from actively working against impediments to individual or collective health. If anything, I find myself more motivated to fight against fracking, Monsanto, & any other practices or corporations that interfere with health. But I also know that the devastation caused thus far is possibly impermanent. I suspect that something fierce is eligible to burst forth.
"Earth, my likeness, though you look so impassive, ample and spheric there, I now suspect that is not all; I now suspect there is something fierce in you eligible to burst forth." -Walt Whitman, "Earth, My Likeness"
A few months ago Kevin & I spent a Saturday night pawing through our Collected Poems of Whitman. Whitman wrote a poem called "This Compost." No lie. Of course, I don't believe he's using "compost" in the modern sense of purposefully returning organic matter to rich soil. I believe he's applying the age-old definition of organic material inevitably returns to rich soil. This rich soil is compost.
Based on my reading, Whitman wrote this shortly after witnessing the trauma of the Civil War. The poem is too long to quote in it's entirety, but it expresses awe & horror at the diseased limbs & toxic matter absorbed by the earth. Whitman watches fruit and flowers emerge from what was once rotting corpses. Though impressed, he's scared. His response seems to be an obvious reconciliation with the horrors of war. He begins with, "Something startles me where I thought I was safest," in nature, on earth. Slowly finding hope in the restorative power of the natural world, he ends by writing, "It gives such divine materials to men, and accepts such leavings from them at last."
This idea is lingering with me. I took a fruit tree pruning workshop a few weeks ago. The instructor briefly mentioned certain plant's ability to draw towards them (through chemicals & other behaviors) animals that might eat a predatory insect. Plants, that are often characterized as inert, are dynamic. I've written here & in the Rooted Blog about soil's capacity to heal, regenerate, break down inorganic material, find balance with various plants, & ultimately restore healthy habitats. As Whitman wrote in "Earth, My Likeness," "I now suspect there is something fierce in you eligible to burst forth."
Derrick Jensen suggests to his readers to spend time on the ground. Literally, lay down on grass or dirt or whatever is available to you & watch. As a yoga practitioner, this feels like meditation. Watching the earth at ground level, we're suddenly conscious of the many worlds cohabitating. The actions of ants, the subtle movement of grass, the breath of soil. This is why we practice yoga-- to draw deeper into our body's own dynamism. Obviously, as I've written before, I see a profound parallel here.
This past month, my studio has been thinking about sickness, disease, & dying. I've begun to reflect on taking in toxic foods that caused me to become ill. I remembered bouts of sickness. I've thought of death touching me, peripherally, & one day profoundly. It reminds me of my body's ability to "give such divine materials" and "accept such leavings." There is a profound ability, in soil, in bodies, to absorb, reconcile, and transform that which does not kill. Even deadzones, like regions impacted by volcanoes or man-made "disasters" often teem with unpredicted new life.
I'm finding hope in these thoughts. I'm finding renewed belief in the capacity of earth & body to evolve, grow, & be healthy. In no way do these thoughts exonerate me, nor anyone else, from actively working against impediments to individual or collective health. If anything, I find myself more motivated to fight against fracking, Monsanto, & any other practices or corporations that interfere with health. But I also know that the devastation caused thus far is possibly impermanent. I suspect that something fierce is eligible to burst forth.
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