Joy After the Fire
where grief, despair and loss become the seeds of new growth and joy
12 years ago I was sitting in the cafeteria of my first cruise, weeping words into my laptop; by the time the 5-day cruise was over, almost 20,000 words had been added to the memoir I didn’t want to write.
I live in and write from the great middle of the human bell curve. What I was writing was not a tale of heroic deeds or triumph over insurmountable odds. While each of us is a unique, one-time event, the vast majority of us live our time here on this planet coping with what comes our way: eating, sleeping, procreating, huddling for warmth and affection, surviving as best we can the challenge of the lions and tigers and bears that stalk our paths.
Mine is an ordinary story. It probably looks a lot like yours: days of sunshine and storms, peace and pain, love and loss. This part of my life began six years before that cruise when my husband’s battle with cancer ended his journey. Losses then continued through what seemed like an endless, downward spiral.
These lines from Mary Oliver captures so much …
“Tell me about despair, yours,
and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.”
I didn’t write this memoir to be published. However, as I sat there pouring my broken heart onto the page, another part of me was creating a collage of healing. Life had tested me, stripped away many layers of who I thought was and what my life was about.
From that fire, something new emerged. Somehow, an understanding sprouted of what brought healing, and what was now actually bringing me joy. This pulled me deeper into the writing, wanting not only to share my story but also to help others cope with their own dark nights.
It’s now twelve years since that cruise. When I finished the manuscript, I put it out in an early epub format where it went nowhere and was forgotten until a friend mentioned it recently and I found it buried in my Dropbox attic.
Grief isn’t gone; it will always be a part of me. However, it has turned into a fierce determination to find and celebrate joy and my “one wild and precious life.” (Mary Oliver again.)
So, I want to share this memoir in serialized pdf form over the next 10 weeks. It is my gift to all of you at Substack, which for almost two years now, has been part of my joy.
Please feel free to share it.
Joyce
I wrote this memoir for myself … I’m serializing it for you.
Segment #1/10:
Preface: After the Fire: New Life
Chapter 1: Breaking Rule #1 (2007)
Interlude 1: Changing Pronouns (2009)
It seems like the cruise got the writing juices going! What a great gift to be able to write and share your story. Thank you.
Joyce; I so wanted to comment on this before now. I was riveted to every word of this first section of your memoir that starts with the loss of your husband. I love learning more about you. You were just as great of a writer years ago as you are now . Though my life path was so different than yours, I related so much to your story and experiences.Your art is gorgeous, and the interludes invite us to ask such deep questions of ourselves. I also love how you told us how each art piece was formed and your dialogue with the process and finding meaning as you made them. Everything is so inter-connected.
In truth, though I wanted to work along and ponder and answer your questions you pose in the interludes, this first section of questions was terrifying to me. I have spent so many years running in place- rooted in one place, yet still running. My path was one of all kinds of addictive behaviors and avoidance behaviors. I'm just coming to terms with some of that enough to face the losses of not trusting myself enough to risk. I'm not yet sure I have the fortitude to face and grieve that, or the interlude questions, but I am downloading all of your sections as they come, to keep in a folder and read and ponder as you weave your magic with your words and imagery and spellbind us with your story. Thank you for including us.
I applaud your willingness to 'run down the street naked!' You do it with such grace, courage and honesty.