The Tide
Yesterday I got a call telling me to start making plans to fly out to California. My mother is in stage 5 of Liver Disease and although plans are being pursued for a transplant, the disease has its own plans to be pursued. We all know who will win that race, so I am preparing for the voyage of saying good bye while she can say good bye back.
Today I got an e-mail telling me that The Artist in the Office is also in stage 5 of Poor Sale’s Disease and will be remaindered for its final leg of its short shelf life before going out of print. I am preparing myself for the sam fate of Great Gals, which sold even less.
I walked out of the library this morning, surrounded by leafless mountains and snow flurries reeling with all this. Do I need to tell you what all this means?
The tide is out, my friends.
Change is wonderful when it is exciting, when it harkens something beautiful like falling in love, having books published, reaching a goal, or making a giant leap forward. I have experienced all of those kinds of change and felt like I was dancing in a parade of confetti, drinking champagne on the rooftops of the dazzling city of my life, and panted wild eyed at all my good fortune.
A lot of the time though, change is death. I have experienced small versions of this and I have experienced large versions of this. I have experienced times when all that I have known and built up and tried was knocked down and burned to the ground as I stared wild eyed with shock at all the devestation, sometimes holding the matches that took it all down.
The last 3 years have been a giant BUCKET of change. Within a period of 6 months I lost my job, had a baby, and published my first book. In the next 8 months I made another book and that got published. It was a shock, to say the least, and I only see now that I have been avoiding the wild and painful change in all those things because who the HELL wants to experience that BY CHOICE? I did okay avoiding some of it, and for the most part doing OKAY (in all caps), even GROWING in some places, but there were cracks, rumblings happening in the CORE.
Moving to this desolate town, away from the romantic notions of New York, the romantic notions of where I *SHOULD* be, what I want my life to *LOOK* like, has left me in a desolate small town of the soul. I don’t see many people here and don’t feel a lot of company, but it is making me change into something. What that something is, I don’t HAVE A FRICKN’ CLUE YET.
The good news is that the core of my life is in tact: my marriage and my family/home life are like the last bit of earth that I hold. The good news is that I am old enough to recognize what is happening because I’ve seen it before and I see it for what it is: a necessary phase, like a season, that will emerge as something else if I let it. Beyond that, I am watching so much of what I hoped, what I have known, what I thought get stripped down. I said it before–I am in a new phase–or perhaps, I am not quite there yet. A new phase might have more edges to lean on, boundaries, a sense of place. I feel nothing of that sort right now. Where I am is cold and confusing and yet I feel oddly strong in it. I am not so much depressed as grief stricken. I can get depressed, but when I do it’s because I am fighting against the tide, fighting to regain control, to get some GRIP.
I wanted to write this down, to make sense of it, to tell the truth. I’m not sure I’ll be doing that here much longer and that is also part of the truth. I feel so many things saying let go let go let go. The tide is out. God help me, I will try.
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Yes, all those metaphors: low tide, compost, decay, hidden things, things passing, winter, the cocoon. When lobsters molt and lose their shells they are like jelly things and have to hide for a while. Support from me and from all those who you have generously shared your life with through your books, art, and this blog.
I love you and that is all.
“I can get depressed, but when I do it’s because I am fighting against the tide, fighting to regain control…” Thank you! You just wrapped words around something I’ve been wrestling with for six months.
You are in my heart, Summer.
And you awe me.
xx
So sorry to hear about your mom…sending good thoughts your way.
I will truly miss your blog (always check it in my RSS first if there’s new posts) but I’ll continue to support you in whatever you decide is next. Much thanks for your 100 things list–sharing your process really inspired me to do my own….so thank you thank you!
Thank you for sharing your truth, which is in some ways an universal truth. Take courage! You are heard! And I still find comfort in your book “the artist in the office”. Warm greetings from another part of the world.
It’s good to get these things out, if only to remind yourself that you’re never alone. If I could hug you, I would. I would also love to do a special offer of ‘The Artist in the Office’ through my blog because it’s an amazing book and I have it on my shelf and my mum has it on hers and my psychologist recommended it and I like to think we’re all really sensible people with good taste in books and therefore more people should read it.
Not sure what to say except I am here, reading, wishing you well.
Oh Summer. yes, loss comes in waves doesn’t it. I was going to write: sending courage your way, but you clearly have that. Softness though; sending you some softness. Take care of yourself.
Summer,
Know that The Artist in the Office will always be on my shelf. I love you for introducing me to Papermate black markers, to lists and to guerrilla office art.
I’m currently reading Demartini’s Breakthrough Experience, and I recommend it for peace and gratitude. And change. And comfort.
You are wonderful and nothing will change that, no matter whether you live in a box or in Manhattan or wherever.
Good luck & courage!
Cecile
Death is its own thing and hard to deal with.
It’s a dark parade that sweeps you into motion and sucks you along its path.
In England the undertaker marches in front of the hearse – dirge pacing with a stick and all.
People fall in behind and variously draggle along.
In N’Awlins of course they dig deep and find the party in the parade.
It helps I’m sure but it’s still got to be hard.
Don’t forget that you are in the bitter rind of winter – a time for gloom and thoughts of passing.
I suspect that that finally shucking the hoary old rind and reaching for the first bloom or pussywillow of the new season will mark the sea change you long for.
Being a cliche does not falsify “the darkest hour is always just before the dawn” .
Remember, tides turn and this will too…
What can I say to make any of this easier for you to bear? So very little. But being four short years from sixty I can say there is much wisdom in what you’ve written here. There is so much bending we must do in our lives; the trick is learning to bend but not break.
I wish you courage for the hard journey. Yes, go now. I thought there was time, but I was a day late.
Hey Artist Mama Fellow Traveller Who is Often On Parallel Planes Despite the Age Difference…firstly, you know I know what you mean. I’m in a huge transition too and don’t know what and where it is going to but ok [perhaps my turning 55 is helping on this one I don't know]. So I like it that you are also ok and calm in many ways about it. It will present itself. You know though, I think it’s okay to mourn for the book, and other things will come that wouldn’t have if this part didn’t happen. I also read a wonderful memoir by patricia Hampl [spelling?] when my father was entering early hospice, called The Florist’s Daughter. It struck many chords with me, but her family had some parallels with mine. I loved her writing. Write a memoir. Oh, listen to me…I am here open hearted about your mom and know there are alot of stages you are going through with that…xo
Summer, you will always be an inspiration to me. Wherever the dark moments of your life might take you, always remember that you are loved.
My heart aches for what you now endure, Summer. Eleven years ago, my beloved father died after being robbed for more than four months of his greatest love–conversation. He’d had a stroke and could no longer speak. At the time, we didn’t know what would happen and whether he might recover. Spending time with him was what mattered, both then and now. I wish you joy, however bittersweet, during your time with your mother now. And please know that I cherish The Artist in the Office and Great Gals. They inspire me. They nourish me. Thank you.