I remembered diving into the book, fascinated by this new friend's (Amanda and I had only known each other a very short while at this point) interest in my writing. I had come to learn already that Amanda doesn't recommend anything unless she absolutely believes in the product with all her heart--that she also has pretty good taste (she also introduced me to Chris Rice, Ingrid Michaelson, Ray LaMontagne and Mumford and Sons) helps.
The more I got into Bird by Bird, the more I wanted to devote my time to writing. Never mind that I had a crap load of seminary papers that had more urgent due dates. I wanted to write stories that were honest, witty and most importantly, a reflection of the lessons I've learnt from and about Love. And so for a few years, I did.
Writing got me through seminary--and I'm not just talking about writing about stuff that would eventually get a letter A, B or C on them. It helped me process what I really believed about in-class discussions, and I got to write stories about how it affected life. It reminded me to be thankful for all the things I had, the places I had been, and the people I love.
Writing also got me through death. Some of the pieces I've been most pleased with came from the deepest sorrow from Keren's death. And then a year later, my uncle's and grandpa's. And then along the way, the death of other things I believed in, other relationships I held on too tightly to, and probably the scariest one, significant parts of my once-religion.
Then a little while ago, something big inside me died. It came along with such a deep sense of anguish that I decided to bury Writing along with it. I was surprised and appalled all at the same time amongst other sentiments of cynicism and relief.
But most of all, I was afraid. I was afraid of the magnitude of negativity inside; afraid of the repercussions of what might happen if I allowed it to be set loose. I was afraid Writing would take me places I would later regret because I had inadvertently hurt a few someones in my fit of anger. I would start writing, and then delete everything because I no longer had a way to end each of my pieces with that dose of hope--something my mother encouraged me to do back in the day, the same thing that was the motivation for turning my rants into pieces of encouragement for others rather than simply pieces of teenage angst. I still wanted to tell stories, but anything I tried to write came out as matter-of-fact strings of words that were devoid of any human emotion (in other words, BORING).
So I stopped writing. I stopped for so long that I was convinced that was another part of me that had died too. And the longer I took before I picked it up again, the angrier and more negative I got. Once in a while, out of obligation to the rest of the kampong, I would write again, but only so they knew I was still alive. I hated all of those pieces that I wrote. None of them felt like me.
I wanted to tell them all about everything that was happening here. But death has the potential to overshadow everything, casting an ugly perspective on even the most beautiful pieces of life. I didn't want to talk about the big part of me that I had just hurriedly buried. It would mean taking out the smelly, rotten, decomposing parts to try and dress it up for a proper funeral so that I can have that proper sense of closure, and actually cry real tears with the kampong that was waiting to hold me when I fell apart. But until I did that, anything I tried to write reeked of death, and all the negativity kept spewing out all over the page to a point that I realised I would be embarrassed by if I came back to read it a month later.
A month passed, then another. Before I knew it, a whole year had gone by without any pieces of writing I could honestly say I was pleased with.
Then last week, I celebrated my first year in New Zealand. Steve once said, "Since you're the journalling type, it would be fun to look back in your journals eventually and see what your first impressions of New Zealand were like." I wanted to do that on my first anniversary. But I hadn't written anything this year that was worth reflecting upon.
That was when I decided it was time that changed. I had recently downloaded "Grace (Eventually)" and "Plan B" on my iPod, both books by Anne Lamott. I listened to her tell stories of her biggest embarrassments while I was driving, and how she found grace eventually through each of these stories. I laughed with her like an old friend would, as she told of how she had started binge eating again, spiralling downhill for a while before finally deciding to call a friend and confess her humanity--and how the friends had nothing but love and grace for her. I thought about my own melancholic/mild depression tendencies, and all those in my global kampong who had seen me at my best times and my worst, and were now just waiting for me to call them and say, "I'm a mess, I went into recluse again," and rant about how unforgivable God and the world must think I am, and why the hell have I not learnt my lesson? And then they would just laugh because they know I know better. We'd have a few coffees, a couple ciders, have a slice or two of tres leches and angel food cake and get into the deep beautiful melancholy of everything that's happened. And then one of us would say, "Right, let's get this mess cleaned up, go wash our hands and join everyone else at the table because there's a real feast going on." And I would go along not because I'd enjoy the feast but so I could get new recipes and meet new friends. And everyone would be alright again for a little while.
So last week, I went out and got myself a new journal. PJ and the kids do this thing at the dinner table called "highlights, lowlights". It was her way of getting them to talk about their day, but in a way such that all five of them would get a turn to share about the best and worst thing of their day while fighting over fish and chips and milkshakes from Uncle Don. And so I started doing that in my journal. I didn't get anywhere close to writing stories the way I used to, but it was a start. Annie (Yes, I do believe I get to call her Annie now that she's read 1.5 of her books to me while we take mini roadtrips everyday) calls it "bird by bird": "We're all in same boat. All the writers you love--it's painstaking, comes in fits & starts, bad drafts; small victories."
So bird by bird, I did. I still don't have funny, witty stories to share that are full of human emotion. But you know what, I feel so much better and find myself having so many more reasons to be thankful. And I realise again that my kampong is overcrowded with quality people, each one happy with the small piece of land we've been allocated. We may not hear from each other everyday, but we're all silent cheerleaders for each other no matter what part of the world we may find ourselves in.
And my heart is overflowing again with thanksgiving.
Bird by bird.
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A few more thoughts from Annie, just because I've come to love her as an old friend...
If stuck, pretend you're writing yr story as a letter to my brother Stevo. He is kind, safe, smart. Get's pressure off you--is just a letter
I HAVE to write today. Even tho it's hard, it's how I get ME back. It's radical self-care to steal an hour or 2 for your own self and soul.
You don't wait to be in the mood to write. You sit down and keep your butt in the chair b/c nobody cares if you write; so YOU have to.
Follow her on Twitter. Better yet, go out and get her books.
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