Writer's Remorse

         The moment I hit the “POST” button on my blog yesterday, I began to feel a deep sense of regret and guilt.  (And yes, I do know that I could have instantly taken it down, and I chose not to.) After working on the piece for a couple of days, satisfied enough—or at least as satisfied as I was going to be for a while-- I took that writer’s leap of faith and posted it. Instantly, that faith failed me replaced by the haunting feeling that my words were totally inadequate, self-centered and indulgent.  All I had told is my little story of some months with my mom when there are so very many others living with more dramatic, painful, loving stories. While theirs are reminiscent of being sucked up in a tornado and spinning for days, mine was like being caught in a thunderstorm on a steamy summer afternoon.

         After all, for years others have lived with situations far more heroically and harrowing than anything I have known. There is my friend Bonnie, and her husband, Dave year after year faithfully attending the needs of their respective parents who suffered with dementia. Merianne spending week after week away from home, finally moving her mother closer to attend to her more fully. Ruth Anne, flying monthly from Pittsburg to Muscle Shoals, Alabama, taking two flights and a long car ride to visit her mom. Marty’s parents dying only a few months apart. Sam, taking countless trips to Kentucky to be with her mom when things got tough. And the men, dad’s in their own right, like my husband, Chris, who for years flew to D.C., picked up his mom to fly her to Boston for visits, accompanied her back to D.C. before returning home. As the list grew, so did my discomfort.

         Feeling miserable and self-centered, faces rolled around in my head all day.  My only solace came in reminding myself that I cannot tell their stories, any more than they can tell mine. Yet I wish I had. I wish I had the talent and tenacity to do that. I have felt this before and ultimately my only consolation has been in discovering that by writing a bit of my life, I feel more connected. I see the world and those I encounter differently; maybe even once in a while have an inkling of what it is like to walk in someone else’s shoes. While helping me figure out my own life, writing also makes me more open and vulnerable and receptive to others .

         So today I did the only thing I could think to do. Letting go of remorse, I prayed.  Letting faces float around me, giving thanks that we are all joined in some strange illusive way that means connection—moms, dads, sisters, brothers, friends--I lingered with the little bit I know of the ache of our collective lives. And it helped. It helped me see how our stories are our own and yet, they blend, yours and mine, and somehow that helps. It just helps.