WATERMARK

Cameron says Life is what we make of it, which is easily said
by those of us who have it easy. But I’ve written about this before,
and I don’t want to feel angry this morning — another topic of this
chapter — so let me expand on what I do agree with.

Synchronicity:
I suspect this has to do with what we choose to pay attention to, rather
than whether the universe is moving to support us. I think we can
choose to pay attention to those things that make us unhappy, or to
those things that encourage us. And I think that both of these
categories are plentiful for most of us.

I also know that, as human beings, we are driven to make sense of the world even if our explanations are mistaken.
So if we can choose explanations that both work in the real world, and
bring us more balance, joy, and contentment than others that are
equally reasonable — why not choose the first? Social research seems
to suggest — in its early and experimental days, still — that those
who believe, who have faith, who belong to congregations, live longer
and happier days than those of us who do not.

As if is a tool often used by therapists: try acting as if you were confident, brave, loving. So I play with the idea of acting as if I believed that The universe is prodigal in its support. As I do, sort of.

I just don’t think it’s personal.

Shame: This section speaks to me, strongly. It was here that I dug out my highlighter, and this section is brightly lit.

I
know — I had forgotten — that the hell I used to go through when I
tried to create something, and all that work to get past it — all that
was about shame. I had never seen it put quite this way before:

Making
a piece of art may feel a lot like telling a family secret. Secret
telling, by its very nature, involves shame and fear. It asks the
question "What will they think of me once they know this?" This is a
frightening question, particularly if we have ever been made to feel
ashamed for our curiosities and explorations — social, sexual,
spiritual.

And:

If a
child has ever been made to feel foolish for believing himself or
herself talented, the act of actually finishing a piece of art will be
fraught with internal shaming.

And:

A
lifetime of this kind of experience, in which needs for recognition are
routinely dishonored, teaches a young child that putting anything out
for attention is a dangerous act . . . The very act of attempting to
make art creates shame . . . Shame is retriggered in us as adults
because our internal artist is always our creative child.

Shame
can be overwhelming, paralyzing. It certainly was for me, for much of
my life. And now, looking at it again — now that I can write, and I
can finish a poem, and I can post it on the internet — now I wonder if
this is the wall that stops me from sending my work out for publication
elsewhere.

William Stafford encouraged me, years ago, to send
a piece to Calyx; I did, and they published it. When I received my
contributor’s issue in the mail, I felt — exposed. Ashamed. I
reassured myself that no one I knew would see it. Then a person I knew
slightly stopped me on the street and asked if that was me in Calyx,
and I felt humiliated.

I don’t write that raw anymore, and you
will not find that piece online. I think that this blog, and my poetry
sites, allow me to ‘publish’ without shame. It doesn’t elicit that Who do you think you are?
voice — I’m just a person who puts her poems on the internet. And it
doesn’t invite rejection letters that might elicit that same voice: See? Told you so!

Interestingly,
though, true criticism of my work does not bother me. I was fortunate
in having an excellent mentor, who taught me something about the real
thing. So when I began going to workshops, I had some discrimination —
and some tools. When I am on the receiving end of a critique, I sit,
quiet, and write almost everything down. I absolutely do not allow
myself to respond — it simply gives my defensive self too much room.
By taking it all in, for later consideration, I give myself time to
think without — well — shame.