Those of you who know me have probably noticed that my blogging has slowed down lately. I write two blogs – this “Peaks Island Press” and “Heritage in Maine.” Virtually every printed word advising writers how to write well says “write every day!” “Don’t stop for anything!” My performance in this regard lately has been…FLAIL. I won’t argue against the advice that writers should stay in the flow of their writing, but I’ll confess that I just haven’t been able to do it, haven’t been able to write through my pain.
The source of my pain? I could shorthand it and call it “mortality” – that of my parents, in particular. I lost my mother to pancreatic cancer four years ago and it was as though the floor dropped out beneath me. But, as a mother, a wife, and a professional woman, I kept going and going and going…and going. But now, a few years and a 3500 mile move across the country later and my father’s precipitously declining health and loss of mobility and independence fills my life – often with anguish, sometimes with tenderness. Did I say fills my life? I should say it swamps my life. And yet I keep swimming, lifting my head to gulp air deeply as often as I can remember to try. And, I write to all of you even when I can’t move other writing projects forward.
Writing through pain – it’s good therapy, although not necessarily good writing. When I lost my mother, the pain seeped into an essay that has just now been published in Columbia Magazine at the Washington State History Museum. Check it out. It’s titled “Objects of Pain, Objects of Power“. I hope it touches you in some small way.