Words as Shovels

Maybe digging myself out is not the point.

My whole life I’ve processed aloud, using language to assign meaning I can view as an observer, at least for the length of a conversation with someone else. I need words to exist outside me. It’s how I unearth my sense of self. (Can you relate?)

No one knows this better than the sister sixteen months younger than me, number two of eight siblings. J and I have lived in different states for nearly two decades and call each other most days.

J, along with another sister and her two kids, just left after a long visit.

The night they arrived, J and I were stretching sheets onto her guest bed. One of my girls was readying a couch bed in the same room for an auntie sleepover. She chattered a mile a minute, narrating every thought aloud.

Suddenly, I couldn’t stop laughing. I collapsed on the floor and even peed myself a little.

My sister—who lost sleep most nights we shared a childhood room—knew why immediately.

“It’s like looking in a mirror, huh?”

I was in third grade, the same age as my mini-me daughter, when I first knew I wanted to be an author when I grew up.

What I didn’t know? Checking that box is not a magical fix for my insecurities and everything I struggle to accept about myself.

“I’ve been buried, and words make nice shovels.”

-Patresa Hartman, my friend whose blog you should read.

My sisters’ visit was a shit show.

My nephew started puking shortly after their arrival, and the stomach bug dominoed through the rest of us over the long weekend. I skipped several nights of sleep, first because my stomach was determined to eject everything I’d ever eaten, and then because I was rotating clean-up for each of my kids, the carpet, and all of our towels/sheets.

Even after the worst was over, one of my kids still woke up in the dead of night a few times last week to empty her stomach (she’s fine now). The first time was epic—she left a trail all the way from her bed to the bathroom down the hall.

After starting her bath, I surveyed the magnitude of clean up required of me yet again. My kids have had what feels like a constant stream of sickness since March. I’m over it. I wanted to sit and cry, if only I could find a clean spot of floor. Mark was enduring his turn, and I didn’t want to wake him up for help.

Downstairs, I was gathering trash bags, disinfectant spray, and old towels when J walked through the back door, coming inside to use the bathroom. (Her usually manageable cat allergy acted up the first night because of course. So, she spent the visit in our backyard, in a tent one of my neighbors hastily loaned us.)

“J, you are not going to believe what happened. Oh my god, I am so happy to see you.”

Like the incredible sister she’s always been, J jumped in. She spent hours helping me recover the upstairs as best we could. With my daughter settled on a couch, I kept vigil with a bowl nearby, worried what else would happen if I fell asleep.

Everything seemed to go wrong all week.

Or, at least, that’s one way of looking at it.

I also got to snuggle my niece—almost a year old—for the first time. My kids reveled in cousin chaos with my nephew. One night my two sisters and I spread a blanket in the backyard and pulled cards together. We watched movies, fed the kids, kept the laundry going (okay, that was mostly J), and laughed at the ridiculousness of every foiled plan. We mommed each other.

“Hey, I’m making tea. Do you want some?”

“Here, let me get that.”

“What do you need? How can I help?”

Credit: www_slon_pics from Pixabay

Late last week, with everyone finally better, I snagged a window to fiddle with my query letter again. I’d like to resume my search for an agent, an advocate who will help me get my book published.

“J, will you read this? It’s only a page. It’s supposed to have a blurb of my book, some comparable titles, and a little about me. Tell me what you think.”

My sister balanced my laptop on the edge of the couch where I’d been writing and scanned the screen.

“I mean, I don’t know what’s normal. But this feels clinical, you know what I mean? There’s no warmth—it doesn’t feel like you. I don’t feel your big, beautiful, messy heart.”

This gutted me, but not because she hurt my feelings.

Because she was right.

I put my laptop away.

After marathoning to finish my book proposal and query materials right before my sisters arrived, then surviving the vompocalypse, I’d hit a wall. I couldn’t bring myself to try again.

The last handful of years have stretched my capacity for rejection and ability to pivot. Lately though, I’m too fragile to handle any snap back. My love/hate relationship with social media and the pressure I feel to keep marketing my decks doesn’t help. I feel buried by the weight of growing a platform—an industry requirement for my book to find a publishing home.

The day before my sisters left, I broke down. My “everything’s fine” apathy dissolved, revealing a Pandora’s box of full-blown despair beyond what I’ve shared with you here. It was embarrassing, necessary, and probably only possible in front of them.

I’d like to blame sleep deprivation, the stress of sickness, my premenopausal hormones and getting my period the day after I stopped puking. Sure, all of that contributed. Yet underneath everything, I was heartsick. It sounds dramatic to call it an existential crisis— but it’s not wrong either.

What is wrong with me?

Am I a self-absorbed monster?

How can I profess faith in the Universe and my support team when all I feel right now is doubt?

Is everything a lie?

I’ve deleted social media from my phone, cancelled a reading event for later this month that I’d yet to advertise, and consigned writing paraphernalia from my bedroom and living room to hide in the basement.

Part of me wants to, too.

The trouble with authoring a book about your personal evolution is that life will never be static like words on a page. Now that I’ve anchored language to make sense of myself and my role in the world—the ground has shifted.

Credit: Venita Oberholster from Pixabay

Here I am, buried yet again.

This makes it difficult to package myself for consumption, you know? I have an illusion it’s my job to remain in a perpetual state of bloom because I think that’s what will make me loveable or noticeable or helpful—and it’s sure what the publishing industry wants to hear about (which, yeah, I totally get since it’s easier to sell flowers and books cost money to print).

Writing to you here served as a shovel, but not to dig myself out— to dig myself in. It helped me understand myself in this moment as a seed, all over again. I’m planting myself in the soil of decomposition. It’s supposed to be dark and heavy. That’s where the magic of breaking open and sprouting always happens. My work is staying put and exercising faith I’ll feel sunshine on my face again.

Tomorrow night, I’m offering a guided meditation at a sold-out collab hike event with Wander Women. Of all my scripts, the one I chose weeks ago to use at the event focuses on experiencing oneself as a seed. The irony is not lost on me. It feels like perfect timing, and I’m curious to witness the unfolding for everyone who attends.

One of my dearest friends lives very far away, and we exchange voice memos daily. The space we’ve co-created requires only that each of us show up honestly. She patiently coaxes out all my messiest words. Seeing myself in the mirror of compassion she always holds up helps me understand I’m not too much, too little, too behind, too lost. I’m here. I’m learning. I’m growing. And that’s enough.

Could you use your own word shovel or mirror? What are you planting these days? I always love hearing from you in the comments.