A few days ago, I decided to start blogging again. I confessed:
"I've missed it. Because it was always there for me. A place to go and be read, heard, by people who cared. A place to pour it all out in the middle of the night when there was nowhere else to put it."
Yes, it was always there for me. I needed it. But what I'm struggling with today is: Why do I need it again, now?
The only thing I can think of is heartbreak.
I think it's my general state of being.
Default mode. Comfort zone. Code for: sadness.
It has been steady and present throughout most of my life. In childhood and adolescence, into my young adulthood, and now it's here, again -- that old familiar feeling.
I can't describe it.
Rebecca Solnit touches upon it in The Faraway Nearby:
"A book is a heart that only beats in the chest of another."
Can we just linger on that line for a while?
"The child I once was read constantly and hardly spoke, because she was ambivalent about the merits of communication, about the risks of being mocked or punished or exposed. The idea of being understood and encouraged, of recognizing herself in another, of affirmation, had hardly occurred to her and neither had the idea that she had something to give others."
I've carried it with me so long, I don't resist it anymore.
Over at Poor Claudia, Danielle Vogel writes:
"For all creatures, the most primal form of shelter is a hollow: a simple cavity dug into earth, a depression in the sand, the carved out alcove of a tree. For a writer, the most primal form of shelter is a word."
Think of the curve of a spoon, what shapeless form it's meant to delicately cup, hold, carry, lift.
Think of your back pressed fast to your lover's chest. Think of your lover's arm around your body, how it shields.
"It's a lifetime that forms us into people who are becoming ever more loving versions of ourselves, who can bear the weight of loneliness, who have released the weight of shame, who have traded in walls for bridges, who have embraced the mess of being alive, who risk empathy and forgive disappointments, who love everyone with equal fervor, who give and take and compromise, and who have dedicated themselves to a lifetime of presence and awareness and attentiveness."
A more loving version of myself, then.
To bear this loneliness.
To release so much shame, like a helium balloon let go into the sky.
To build bridges instead of walls. And how lovely is that image.
Risking empathy. Forgiving disappointment. Loving.
This mess of being alive.
"Writers are solitaries by vocation and necessity. I sometimes think the test is not so much talent, which is not as rare as people think, but purpose or vocation, which manifests in part as the ability to endure a lot of solitude and keep working. Before writers are writers they are readers, living in books, through books, in the lives of others that are also the heads of others, in that act that is so intimate and yet so alone."
So intimate and yet so alone.
When I read Duras's later work, her "autobiographical cycle," I feel this even more, not less, and deeply. Her books throb in my chest. Hear them pulsing when you put your ear to my ribs.
Marilyn R. Schuster tells us in Marguerite Duras Revisited that some of the frameworks used to read Duras include: "absence and alienation, the body, nothingness, silence, love, desire, sorrow, forgetting, and destruction (among other recurring obsessions)."
These are my themes, too.
And my recurring obsessions are magic, dresses, and flowers. Because I need to believe that these exist and that they have the power to heal those old wounds.
Although, with regard to magic, I suppose what I really mean is the miraculous. Performed with fanfare, at that.
And regarding dresses, what I mean is a symbolic object that not only beautifies the wearer, but also transforms her into a whole new person, so that she can shed the rags of the past and leave them there, walk away, move on, into a future she never even dreamed was possible, a future in which she can be happy, ever after.
Because they are so beautiful and fragile while they are here, and at the same time strong, unsheltered, able to withstand the elements.
Rooted by nature, they can also, if picked, persist, in this moment of their dying, reminding us that our lives, too, are short. And that, like them, we are brief, bright offerings that bloom once, and then are gone forever.