Day 2, After the Dawning

As the moon brightens... (Clear Lake, Adirondacks 2010)

So it turns out that that little photo I ran on my last post—of the moon rising in my gloom—was pretty apt. Writing that little piece of honesty about my depression and my struggles did something important: it allowed me to submit, to drop to my knees at last. And we all know what comes after that (even though we resist this simple truth; we try not to yield, we fight instead of giving in): After we fully accept that we are struggling, we begin again. It’s as simple as that. The moon rises into the dark, as it always does.

After writing that post, I went to the gym. I did my work. I didn’t have a glass of wine. I got enough sleep. But the biggest shift was that I felt loving and compassionate toward myself for the first time in weeks, because of the compassion all of you were able to point at me. But also because, in writing the post, I let go of my false strength, once again.

It’s a curse to be “strong.” That trait (and yes, that gift) can keep me in a rock-hard place when circumstances demand that I wail and rend my clothes. I’m not someone who experiences much fear; instead I feel a blankness and steely resolve. But along with that resolve comes self-cruelty, disgust that underneath my strength I might be hurting, mewling. It seems so obvious to me that we all must keep on keeping on, regardless of our struggles, that I often forget that allowing the exhale and the tears is part of being strong, too. Strength and vulnerability are forever tied together, as my smart friend Rob wrote in the comments to that post. That balance is what keeps us from turning into unfeeling creatures, lost to the poignant, aching beauty of life as a human being.

I stumbled across this quote on my Facebook wall today (thank you Daisy Hickman!), from Khalil Gibran’s The Prophet, long a source of inspiration and wisdom for me.

“Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls; the most massive characters are seared with scars.”

And so I set aside my imitation of a hulking rock (unreachable and solid), and instead decide to be massive and seared with scars. The scars are my story, written on my being, and I am honored to carry them.

 

About stacy

I am a writer, author, mother, former magazine editor (last at Redbook), optimist, and, above all, a searcher. I'm still searching for whom I'm really meant to be, after a series of very jarring losses: a divorce and house disaster that led to a book (Falling Apart In One Piece); a week after the book came out, my parents suddenly fell gravely ill, I resigned from my job (and, apparently, my career), my son went into crisis, my parents then rapidly died four weeks apart, and my boyfriend (who had moved in with me and my son just weeks before the book came out) began the painful journey of realizing we couldn't make our relationship work (that story unfolded on this blog). Since then I've been trying to figure out what's next. Or, in other words, how to fill in the blanks.
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8 Responses to Day 2, After the Dawning

  1. Rita Arens says:

    I hear you. I’m glad you had a better day yesterday. I always keep reminding myself of those same things, and also that painful days make the mundane days look brighter.

    Beautiful sentence: That balance is what keeps us from turning into unfeeling creatures, lost to the poignant, aching beauty of life as a human being.

  2. This is a great post. I’m currently on my own search for emotional balance, whatever that means, for myself.

  3. Martha says:

    I relate to that so very much. Thanks for writing.

  4. Love this post. It is so powerful to let go of false strength and admit that we are having a tough time. I always think it’s the beginning of climbing back up.

  5. Caroline says:

    I’m so pleased to have a friend like you who can remind me of these things. Sometimes you need to see them in print (or hear them out loud).

  6. Heather says:

    I think Free to be You and Me had a soundtrack for this post: It’s all right to cry! (It just make you feel better.)

  7. Lisa says:

    Once again, you have no idea how much this is connecting with me. I am oh, so “strong” that my husband has said to me (once I let the cracks show a bit), “I thought you were a rock. You had me fooled.” So…I’m tuning in. Thanks for sharing your journey.

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