Substack post: Paying attention
(This piece was originally published on my Substack, where I put all of my new writing these days. You can subscribe, here.)
I chatted the other day with my dear friend Claire, who I haven’t spoken to in many months. She’s 84, a gifted writer and a great truth-teller, whose presence I have missed deeply since the pandemic removed her from my in-person life.
She told me that sometimes she gets upset about the complications of aging, because, she said with a chuckle, “you know I’m very important, and it’s not fair”.
I replied, “It’s OK to feel sorry for yourself now and then.”
Her wise answer: “Well yes. If you don’t grieve occasionally, you’re not paying attention.”
Amen.
This is not an easy thing, though. Paying attention, and the grief that follows, is often painful. I find that my fellow believers skirt this with cherry-picked Bible verses about God riding in as a conquering hero or saving the righteous (us, preferably) or what have you, forgetting that we believe in a tortured, despised savior, who saved sinners.
Mary Karr writes in her stunning memoir, Lit, that she was drawn to Catholicism when she became sober, and when friends asked her why, she referred to the prominence of the crucifix. “At least my God feels pain.”
I too, believe in a God who feels pain, and, juxtaposed, one who wins. But, it’s important to note: not for my outcomes or desires. Not because, as Claire joked, “I’m very important” but because knowing that good wins, whether I see it or not, brings me great comfort in an unjust and disease-ridden world.
Why am I going on about this?
Well, in part, I feel sad, and when I feel sad, I often wonder if I have any right to feel this way. After all, look at my middle-class life and my beautiful kids and woweeee forced perspective is exhausting, even if needed. Sometimes we just have to pay attention and grieve, don’t we?
I grieve what I’ve lost over the last 21 months, what I feel is still slipping through my tight, unfaithful grasp. I cried four times at work yesterday and I’m usually quite a peppy person, particularly at the barn. This is paying attention at its most intimate and inconvenient.
Sometimes, when we pay attention, and liquified grief comes out our eyes, the solution is to let someone in to our weakness (see: public crying). “Tell me why you’re mad at me,” I said to a coworker, plunking a locally-made alcoholic beverage on her desk. We clinked cold ones. She told me the truth. Wasn’t that honesty the best thing, for both of us?
We admit that after many months of looking on the bright side and saying “we’re all in this together” (gag) we’re tired and sad and finally paying attention. We admit that our dreams have not come true and there is not a white horse coming from the clouds to save us, that victory doesn’t always look like romance or dream-come-true. There’s a lot of sweat and work and disappointment still to wade through, there will be many more moments of quiet, sad attention paid.
This life of mine is indeed a beautiful one, made richer because I can allow myself the deep satisfaction of paying attention. Pain doesn’t make victory impossible, as the crucifix proves. My frustrated joys and honest tears are signs that my soul is awake.
In other (less serious) news – I finally have a publication plan for the kids’ book about my beloved Buzz (pictured above). If you’re so inclined, please follow @buzzthenotsobrave on IG for updates and horsey stories. More news to come.