You Can't Go Home Again

After reading three books (ranging from 80 to 200 pages each) in the span of about a week, I got challenged to read one that might take more than just a couple of days. I obliged. And just a month and three weeks later, I've finished this massive epic novel, You Can't Go Home Again by Thomas Wolfe. Whew.This book came to me in a box with six other books (two of which were read as noted above), all with little neon green post-it notes attached. Some notes gave a three- or four-word summary, some a reference to why the sender thought I might enjoy it. The note attached to this particular book: "My favorite book." 

For the details of the book, you can read it yourself. As for what I got out of it, I'm happy to share. The title of the book is anything but true. You most certainly can go home again. But what you find there is never going to be what you remembered. We tend to go to extremes when we think about our pasts--we glorify or vilify whatever we remember and use it all to our advantage or disadvantage, whichever works best in the moment. The looking back, in and of itself, makes it difficult to move forward. So we spend a lot of time turned around, looking at the past analyzing it and figuring out where we went wrong, all the while we stand still, looking back at something that will never be again. It's not that there's no importance in looking back and figuring out what the hell happened back there, but there's something to be said for not pulling off the road in order to do so. Especially for something that no longer exists, save inside our minds.

There are parts of this book that are written so eloquently and truthfully about life and the way we go through it (albeit written in the 1930's), and the way we use our egos to maneuver through this piece and that and ultimately sacrifice the things we want for the things we think we ought to have. It's these portions that made me contemplate my own ego in this capacity. The idea that I have a past but don't use it against my future in order to "succeed." The idea that I have a future and don't discard my past in order to bypass the trickery of achieving a future at all. The idea that what happens in my reality is not only my reality, but a portion others' as well. That my world not only affects my self and my ego, but that it has effects on all mankind, even if I should choose not to believe so. That what goes on in the world is not just something happening some place else, but that this is all our home, my home and ought to be looked on with familial care. That just because what happens "over there" doesn't affect me over here, it has a great impact on the world in which I choose to live. That my existence, while mostly lived in the solitude of my own head (and briefly spilled out onto the pages of the internet via private journal or public blog), is not just my own (in part, because of these things). There is more to me than just what I see. And just what I say. And just what I remember. Because every time I try to go back where I once was, it is always someplace different, and thus, so am I. And that became clear to me as I read this book, in all its glorious 704 paperback pages. 

This feels a little cut off, but that's really all I have to offer right now. I'm trying this thing where I post what I have to post instead of saving draft after draft after draft because it's just not right quite yet and then sits there for three weeks or four months before I delete it because it's no longer relevant. And there you have it. 

Just one more thing: I wonder what makes this book anyone's "favorite book"? Not because I think it can't possibly be, but because the things that become our favorites become so because they've touched us in such a way that can never be forgotten. I cannot say that this is my favorite book, but it's touched me in such a way to see that it's possible.

Small Steps

This afternoon I finished my chapter on Acceptance from 7 Days and I feel great. It's crazy to me that writing about something that seemed so depressing while going through it is now so uplifting to me. I've learned so much from my father's death; so many really wonderful things in me have flourished as a result, and it's not that I'm happy about his death, it's that I've learned from it, I've grown, and I've become a better person through the process of it all. 

This past weekend I was in another coaching course with CTI and we focused on perspectives. I have more to post on that in a bit, but for now, I'm astounded at how little I've gotten done with my book in the past three years because I've looked at it as one giant step I have to take: write a book. It's not that I haven't done anything on the book, I have. I've even posted excerpts of some portions I thought might end up in the book here in this blog. But I never acknowledged myself for the small steps I was taking.

Every word I've written for this book has been a step that's gotten me to where I am now with it--whether it gets cut, fought for, or printed. It all leads me to whatever will get printed. So I'm celebrating this completion of this chapter by buying myself flowers for the flower box I put up today outside my writing space. I'm proud of myself, and I don't mind saying so. This is a small step. Which actually means it's a big step. Because in the end, any step is a step forward, no matter which direction it takes me. 

Writing Space

I've been running around this morning trying to figure out if I like my new writing space. My experience with home writing spaces in the past has not been so great. It's been a tiny desk with a tiny chair--a tiny blue fabric and black plastic and rusted metal chair my father bought me in high school in the hopes that I'd do some homework--and it's always seemed too...childish. 

My new writing space is very adult. An espresso wood desk with three drawers and brushed nickel drawer knobs, sturdy, curve lined legs, and a sleek, almost glossy desktop with room for more than a glass of water and half a keyboard. Next to the writing space is my vision board, complete with a million-dollar bill, a house on a golf course, a vacation home in Hawaii, beautiful sunsets around the world, triumphant fists raised in joy and excitement of capitalizing on the moment, sandy beach shores, green grasses of baseball stadiums, and my name on the NY Times Best Sellers List. Now it's time to live up to it all.

As much as the space I have to write in is exactly what I've created, it's a little intimidating. Now I have everything I said I needed in order finish this book, and it's time to do it. Can I write what I think I can?  Will people even read it? And if they do, will they see what I mean for them to see? I guess that's not what the writing is about anyway. It's more for you to pull whatever it is that means something to you out. Isn't that what we do with books, anyway? We always have the freedom to see something other than the author's intent, and maybe only then have we really gotten something out of the book, anyway.

So as I think about it now, yes, I like my new writing space. I look out into the little backyard, and I can see the flowers on the sill (if I close my eyes because I haven't put up the planter just yet), and the desk and the cat perched on the desk, and the vision board, all in my peripheral vision because what's in front of me is the writing. And the writing is all the space I need. 

Acceptance

I've been working on a chapter of 7 Days over the past couple of weeks, possibly titled: Acceptance. What began as an exploration into the acceptance of my father's death, both before and after it became reality, has turned into so much more. I'm reflecting on the level of acceptance we'd each held for each other, and the thresholds we each had for such. I could accept that my father was a Christian man and lived his life as such, but I drew the line at accepting any and all words into my ears upon hearing the words "church," "faith," "God," or the likes. And if I stopped listening when he talked, was that really me accepting him for who he was? 

We had a conversation just before he died about religion and the ways in which it's affected our relationship, and I came to realize that we'd never have had that conversation if not for his imminent death shadowing his every move. This conversation catapulted us into feverish acceptance, given the "knowledge" that he'd be gone soon(er, rather than later). There were questions like: "Why don't you ever ask about _______ when you know she's my girlfriend?" and "What do you believe about God, Dian??"; then statements like: "She's not my friend; she's my girlfriend--you can acknowledge that even if you don't like it."; and "I don't necessarily believe that you'll go to Hell anymore...". 

All this (and more, which I'll leave for the book for now) from the knowledge of his death, looming around the corner, not knowing which corner but being able to smell it if we put our nose to the ground like a hound, in the air like a retriever. And we were not wrong, unfortunately so. I wanted to believe we were wrong about how close his death actually was, but there's a knowing that comes in the form of a gut feeling, a twisted knot deep in the belly that tightens and sickens the days away, beckoning questions unasked and statements unstated to be asked and stated and put out in the open air so they can live and breathe and not die with the man sitting in the sunken couch with cushions that ought to have been replaced years ago, just as these things ought to have been aired. 

And what comes at the end, but acceptance? Of the man sitting in front of me. Of the woman standing before him. Of the death waiting around the bend. Of the cancer buried deep in the man. Of the lesbian buried deep in the woman. Of the love for each and all of these things, these people. Of the idea that one can believe what one believes and that belief is not tarnished or broken or made irrelevant by another's belief in the opposite. In the end, there was acceptance of all that we were, all that we tried to be and all that was left over. In the end there was acceptance of a father and a daughter and a death that could not tear the two apart. 

Fear In The Sky

I'm trying to honor the fear. The fear of everything. The fear of nothing. And where do I go from here? What am I moving towards? I get in a space where I'm comfortable and all I want to do is just sit here and be comfortable. How do I get out of this space? How do I get ready for the next move? How do I put one foot in front of the other and just move? Move forward. Move backward. Sidestep this. Work around that. Can't I just move forward? It all feels like a step back sometimes. It all feels like it just can't be good all the time. I don't understand being happy all the time. There has to be some despair. There has to be some texture to this life. A blissful life is glossy and clean but it slips away from me like I never had it to begin with. I feel greasy and grimy like I’ve never been clean. Somewhere in this is my brilliance, but the needle. The haystack. The bull, the ox trying to find nothing in everything and everything in nothing. I feel so whole and lifeless. And then it passes. The light shines, a spark catches. The cold, dark fire turns red hot and burning. The desire to move again is here. The desire is here. Must. Take. Action. I see the mud ahead and somehow I know exactly how to move through it. Move through it. Through it. Through. It. I don't move around it or over it. I move through it. This must be what life is about. There must be something to this life and moving through it not around it or over it. Trying to figure it out doesn't seem to work. I just need to move, keep moving, keep on moving, moving, moving on up to the deluxe apartment in the sky.

Coaching Progress

Something happened this past weekend that sparked a newfound exuberance for Life Coaching. I'm still trying to figure out exactly what it was, and in the meantime I've put my nose and fingers and elbows to the grindstone. A month or so ago I bought coachdian.com. And then waited until now to tell anyone about it. I feared that it wasn't complete. I feared that I didn't have my niche. I feared that it looked and felt lame. I feared that I didn't know what I was doing. I feared that someone would actually contact me for a coaching session. But isn't that the idea of starting a business? And then the weekend happened. 

I felt alive and excited. I received feedback from several sources acknowledging my growth and a natural knack for listening without judgement. I allowed people to ask me to dig into my fears. I allowed myself to actually dig. I allowed myself to release the fears that don't make sense. I allowed myself to honor the fears that held value. I allowed myself to take action...forward action. And now the site is up and running. I'm even telling you about it. 

This isn't to say that I'm a perfect Life Coach now and that I've got everything figured out so get ready to pay the big bucks for my services...this is simply to say that I've actually begun to offer my services. I'm still in the stages of learning, and I'm learning quickly. The only way I'm going to get better is to do it. And then to keep at it. To make mistakes and learn from them. To honor the failures and use them as stepping stones toward success. This is how I'm going to become a great Life Coach. This is how I've started to already become this great Life Coach. 

I probably won't post much here regarding coaching moving forward, as I really want to have some clear boundaries between my writing and my coaching. This is more for my sake than anyone else's. I have a tendency so get so wrapped up in one value that I think I'm honoring another value when actually I'm ignoring it altogether. That being said, who knows how this will all evolve...I guess we're all works in progress. 

The Summer Day

This is a poem by Mary Oliver, and can be found here. 

The Summer Day

Mary Oliver

Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean-
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down-
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?


from New and Selected Poems, 1992
Beacon Press, Boston, MA

Copyright 1992 by Mary Oliver

This poem was passed to me by a Coaching colleague, and inspired me to ask of you...what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?