Thanksgiving
Thanksgiving
The week before Thanksgiving was not a very good week for me. I had a touch of fever on Thursday and Friday, so I missed work, as well as a conference I was supposed to attend over the weekend. I was suffering from a mild sickness, the kind I would usually force myself to get through, but I was also deeply depressed, so I decided to let myself crash. I wasn’t sure at the time what had caused me to crash, so to speak, and this was driving me crazy.
For the first day of my illness, most of which I spent it bed, I alternated between restless, nightmare-filled dreams and waking panic: why am I sad now, when I’ve been single/
alone/broken up since June? Why are the looming holidays depressing me?
On Friday and Saturday, I gave in and just let myself be sad even though I didn’t understand it. I let myself cry to friends, feel sorry for myself, wonder about my sanity, and worry that I’d never get out of my funk. My friends helped me make the decision not to go to the conference; they gently assured me that the group presentation I was part of could go on without me. They helped me think of ways to make time for both myself and my extended family over the holidays, to see the people and do the things I needed to do.
On Sunday, I was finally feeling a little better. I didn’t feel better enough to go to church, but I did decide to drive to the Twin Cities, three hours away. I am part of a poetry group that has been meeting almost weekly with a mentor, a fellowship sponsored by Intermedia Arts. Even though the writers are at different levels and have different goals, two of my group members have been particularly helpful, as has the mentor, with whom I’ve also met individually about my work. I’m finalizing a second manuscript of poetry that I hope will be more successful in the publishing arena than my first.
In any case, I decided to go to the fellowship meeting even though it would mean six hours in the car on the same day for a mere two hour meeting. I decided to use the car time for prayer, and to just let myself say whatever I needed to say. In other words, I wasn’t going to worry about getting to the deeper place where my prayers are humble and real (and less selfish)—I was just going to talk to God. At one point, I said, out loud, "I wish I could just get through this because, as you know, God, I have important things to do and I can't do them if I'm crying nonstop, lying around in bed, and feeling sorry for myself."
And I heard a voice say, "What makes you think you know what important things you have to do right now?"
I said, "What the fuck are you talking about?" (Yes, I used the word "fuck" in a conversation with a voice that I later realized might have been God herself, but in my defense, she sounded suspiciously like one of my aunts who would have forgiven me for using the word even if she didn’t particularly approve of it).
Then the voice said, "Maybe what you are supposed to do right now is to learn how to get through your depression."
I said, "That's a ridiculously selfish goal, and anyway, I know what depression feels like and I’m not depressed! I’m going crazy!"
Then the voice went on: "You have to get through this in a way that keeps you whole and ultimately opens up your soul instead of shutting it down, and that's all you can do for yourself or the world right now. I promise it will be a powerful witness to other people. Leave that to me."
Suddenly I realized I had been talking to a voice, and that, in fact, there was no one else in the car. I wasn’t sure if I had actually heard the voice or if it had just spoken in my head. I really am going crazy, I thought. Then I decided the only way to forget that I had just been talking out loud and someone had actually answered was to turn on the radio.
NPR’s Krista Tippet, who hosts Speaking of Faith, a show I love but rarely get to hear, was doing a show about depression. I turned on the radio to hear the voice of Parker Palmer (whose books I love) and, later, poet Anita Barrows. Their words and stories moved me, as did the Barrows’ poems, including translations from Rilke and her original work. Talk about serendipity.
When I got to the cities, I was about an hour early for our meeting, so I sat in a coffee shop to reread the poems for the week and then grade some papers. About 15 minutes before the meeting, one of the other writers showed up at the coffee shop. She is a recently retired Jewish lesbian who is all about the social justice parts of her religious tradition. She is a fierce feminist, a cancer survivor, and an amazing writer—someone I admire very much.
She said, "I’m glad I found you. I have bad news and good news. The bad news is that group is cancelled and that nobody reached you before you got on the road. The good news is that my partner and I made you some homemade soup."
For some reason, I almost started crying right then and there. There was something about the tangible act of placing a plastic container of soup in front of me that almost put me over the edge, even though I have felt well cared for this week by my friends.
We were supposed to talk about her manuscript in the group, as well as one of my poems, so we decided we would have our own meeting and give each other feedback. When we got to my poem, Jane said, "Your poem is all about how, when you're at your worst, the most generous thing you can do is to call people to mind, and that sometimes, that has to be enough. But when I read it, I wondered, who is taking care of you during this time?"
The answer is, of course, lots of people in lots of ways. Some friends listened to me during my bout of nonstop weeping. Others invited me to Thanksgiving dinner even though it was one of the few times they would be alone with family. Some took me with them when they take their three little boys, whom I love dearly, to get a Christmas tree. Some convinced me that it’s OK to splurge a little on myself and buy a new couch for my home during the liquidation sale at one of our local furniture stores. But at that moment, this woman I barely know was the one caring for me. She had bothered to show up when she realized I was on my way to the cities. She had bothered to take the time to sit with me for more than the scheduled two hours to talk poetry.
Mostly we talked about her manuscript and my poem, but I also heard her coming out story (from 1973—two years after I was born!). I realized she's the first older lesbian I've ever really talked to one on one who was out before "coming out" was even a term--I just can’t imagine!
I drove home feeling totally blessed, and also ready to trust whoever/whatever that voice was and let myself move more slowly through the healing.
The week before Thanksgiving was not a very good week for me. I had a touch of fever on Thursday and Friday, so I missed work, as well as a conference I was supposed to attend over the weekend. I was suffering from a mild sickness, the kind I would usually force myself to get through, but I was also deeply depressed, so I decided to let myself crash. I wasn’t sure at the time what had caused me to crash, so to speak, and this was driving me crazy.
For the first day of my illness, most of which I spent it bed, I alternated between restless, nightmare-filled dreams and waking panic: why am I sad now, when I’ve been single/
alone/broken up since June? Why are the looming holidays depressing me?
On Friday and Saturday, I gave in and just let myself be sad even though I didn’t understand it. I let myself cry to friends, feel sorry for myself, wonder about my sanity, and worry that I’d never get out of my funk. My friends helped me make the decision not to go to the conference; they gently assured me that the group presentation I was part of could go on without me. They helped me think of ways to make time for both myself and my extended family over the holidays, to see the people and do the things I needed to do.
On Sunday, I was finally feeling a little better. I didn’t feel better enough to go to church, but I did decide to drive to the Twin Cities, three hours away. I am part of a poetry group that has been meeting almost weekly with a mentor, a fellowship sponsored by Intermedia Arts. Even though the writers are at different levels and have different goals, two of my group members have been particularly helpful, as has the mentor, with whom I’ve also met individually about my work. I’m finalizing a second manuscript of poetry that I hope will be more successful in the publishing arena than my first.
In any case, I decided to go to the fellowship meeting even though it would mean six hours in the car on the same day for a mere two hour meeting. I decided to use the car time for prayer, and to just let myself say whatever I needed to say. In other words, I wasn’t going to worry about getting to the deeper place where my prayers are humble and real (and less selfish)—I was just going to talk to God. At one point, I said, out loud, "I wish I could just get through this because, as you know, God, I have important things to do and I can't do them if I'm crying nonstop, lying around in bed, and feeling sorry for myself."
And I heard a voice say, "What makes you think you know what important things you have to do right now?"
I said, "What the fuck are you talking about?" (Yes, I used the word "fuck" in a conversation with a voice that I later realized might have been God herself, but in my defense, she sounded suspiciously like one of my aunts who would have forgiven me for using the word even if she didn’t particularly approve of it).
Then the voice said, "Maybe what you are supposed to do right now is to learn how to get through your depression."
I said, "That's a ridiculously selfish goal, and anyway, I know what depression feels like and I’m not depressed! I’m going crazy!"
Then the voice went on: "You have to get through this in a way that keeps you whole and ultimately opens up your soul instead of shutting it down, and that's all you can do for yourself or the world right now. I promise it will be a powerful witness to other people. Leave that to me."
Suddenly I realized I had been talking to a voice, and that, in fact, there was no one else in the car. I wasn’t sure if I had actually heard the voice or if it had just spoken in my head. I really am going crazy, I thought. Then I decided the only way to forget that I had just been talking out loud and someone had actually answered was to turn on the radio.
NPR’s Krista Tippet, who hosts Speaking of Faith, a show I love but rarely get to hear, was doing a show about depression. I turned on the radio to hear the voice of Parker Palmer (whose books I love) and, later, poet Anita Barrows. Their words and stories moved me, as did the Barrows’ poems, including translations from Rilke and her original work. Talk about serendipity.
When I got to the cities, I was about an hour early for our meeting, so I sat in a coffee shop to reread the poems for the week and then grade some papers. About 15 minutes before the meeting, one of the other writers showed up at the coffee shop. She is a recently retired Jewish lesbian who is all about the social justice parts of her religious tradition. She is a fierce feminist, a cancer survivor, and an amazing writer—someone I admire very much.
She said, "I’m glad I found you. I have bad news and good news. The bad news is that group is cancelled and that nobody reached you before you got on the road. The good news is that my partner and I made you some homemade soup."
For some reason, I almost started crying right then and there. There was something about the tangible act of placing a plastic container of soup in front of me that almost put me over the edge, even though I have felt well cared for this week by my friends.
We were supposed to talk about her manuscript in the group, as well as one of my poems, so we decided we would have our own meeting and give each other feedback. When we got to my poem, Jane said, "Your poem is all about how, when you're at your worst, the most generous thing you can do is to call people to mind, and that sometimes, that has to be enough. But when I read it, I wondered, who is taking care of you during this time?"
The answer is, of course, lots of people in lots of ways. Some friends listened to me during my bout of nonstop weeping. Others invited me to Thanksgiving dinner even though it was one of the few times they would be alone with family. Some took me with them when they take their three little boys, whom I love dearly, to get a Christmas tree. Some convinced me that it’s OK to splurge a little on myself and buy a new couch for my home during the liquidation sale at one of our local furniture stores. But at that moment, this woman I barely know was the one caring for me. She had bothered to show up when she realized I was on my way to the cities. She had bothered to take the time to sit with me for more than the scheduled two hours to talk poetry.
Mostly we talked about her manuscript and my poem, but I also heard her coming out story (from 1973—two years after I was born!). I realized she's the first older lesbian I've ever really talked to one on one who was out before "coming out" was even a term--I just can’t imagine!
I drove home feeling totally blessed, and also ready to trust whoever/whatever that voice was and let myself move more slowly through the healing.
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