In November it will be 5 years since I've written anything, let alone posted anything, on my blog.
It seems when Ron died and I broke up with Dan, I felt done. Done with trying to understand my past and trying to make a workable present. Done. And I was angry. Angry that I was divorced, but still living in the same house I bought with my ex. Angry that I was raising two children, basically alone, and hadn't signed up for that. Angry that my time was spent working long hours, helping my parents become dependent and my children independent. I didn't want to write about anger. Just like I didn't want to sell fear as a literary agent. So I stopped writing.
Three years ago, I sold the house we had together and bought a bungalow of my own. I started to feel some joy creep in and some anger leak out. My children helped me with the move, and when we found items that my ex had left behind, seven years earlier, it triggered old resentments. How does a person leave all his books, a closet full of clothes, his first ex-wife's jewelry-making materials, and decades of journalism papers, magazines, books, and disks (yes, disks) behind? I tried to be civil, but when one spends the better part of a day cleaning out an attic alcove full of stuff that doesn't belong to you, it's hard. The kids saw the stuff, knew I was putting it aside for the father to collect, and my sighs and silence spoke volumes. It probably appeared odd to them, too. Seeing all that he had left being displayed in full view for the first time, it was a reminder that he'd left us and most of his stuff, and it didn't seem to matter one iota. We were as disposable and replaceable as a button-down shirt. He always had secrets, didn't trust others, and kept different parts of himself hidden or stored away as a result. His choices mirrored his beliefs. He operates out of fear and insecurity, and that has hurt everyone who cared for him. Just last month he and his third wife moved to Vancouver. I'm not sure I'll ever see him again, unless one of the kids has some right of passage while we're both still alive and we both attend it.
My mother was a "secret writer." That's what we (collectively) wrote in her obituary this spring. She was shy and operated with an odd combination of joy and fear; both childlike yet sage. My brother writes songs that are sung around the world. They are infectious and joyful melodies with often dark lyrics. I've helped other people, from teenagers to adults, write and refine their writing for nearly four decades. However, my last byline was in a travel magazine in the mid-90s, when my agency took off.
Being alone so much during Covid and not dating, also made writing hard. You'd think with more time alone it'd be easier, but not so. When I'm alone, I mostly need to be recharging my batteries or restoring my spirit. Writing used to help me think more clearly and process my problems. But I found it didn't keep me company the way it used to do when I was young. Again, anger and sadness (two sides of the same coin) were the topics I most often worked through in my writing as a young adult. By my mid-50s, I found I was practicing more gratitude and joy in my journal jottings or on Facebook posts.
It has been an entirely new landscape and one in which I'm not well versed. How to write about my open-water swimming community and how much joy and pleasure I've received from them? They are all accomplished swimmers and professionals who are incredibly generous with their time, attention, and expertise. None of them are conceited nor competitive, which is impressive as many are record holders, triple crown earners, and ice mile finishers. Every attempt to capture their friendship and the comradery of the group has felt like a cheesier version of a Kripalu lecture or an "intentional living" article in a Yoga magazine. Also, Open Water and Cold Water Swimming have become mainstream during the pandemic, although most folks do not follow Wim Hof's methods nor join in our weekly year-round swims. Nature was discovered as a savior during covid. These swimmers had already been immersed in the beauty and sacredness of all bodies of water, and it was something profound we shared instantly. It's a kinship that straddles ages, classes, genders, races, and skills. One that is essential to all of us and has been, for most, since our youth. Unlike most of the other swimmers, I wasn't schooled in a pool. I learned how to swim in a pond and the sea.
My dog, Triton, a tripawd rescue, has also been a great source of comfort and companionship for the last three years. How do I write about him absorbing my grief, warming my cynical thoughts, and forcing me out the door on days I just wanted to stay in.
