Looking Back

On memory and reflection.

Hi Folks,

The last three weeks I have been held in the kind of depressive episode I haven’t experienced in years. I say this because I think it is important to be honest about these kinds of things, but also because I want to explain my frequent absence from writing this newsletter. If you have ever experienced depression, you will know that one of the worst parts of it is the desire to do things contrasting with the inability to find energy to do them. Most days, there is nothing more I want than to work on this newsletter. And yet, I just cannot seem to do it.

I feel this way often about writing. Any art form is hard, and for most artists, it takes a lot out of us. Writing is my way of processing the world, reflecting on it, and figuring out my place in it. For most of my life, it has been a form of escape, a way to dream of new futures. That has always felt like hope. It has also been hard. Ask any artist and we will tell you that we do not always want to live in our pain. It has long frustrated me that I have received the most conventional success for works where I mined my trauma and not for works where I wrote of healing and happiness. That is a narrative I am trying to shift, and one that I have been thinking about a lot lately.

As the year wraps up, I am, like almost everyone else, thinking of how it will feel to enter year three of the pandemic. I hardly even remember the person I was at the beginning of this, and I hardly recognize the person I was even this time last year. Time has felt strange these days, and I feel strange living within it. There has been growth and loss and sorrow and triumph and love and disappointment and I am still here. I am still here.

Today I want to offer to you a writing activity I led recently with some friends, and which I will be leading with my students in the new year. It’s a reflection practice, but also an opportunity to think about where we have been, where we are going, and how the stories we tell about our lives differ depending on our perspective of them.

First, make a list of each month of the year. Leave some space to write beneath or next to the month name. Begin with a list in chronological order, going from January of 2021 to December.

Now, take some time to reflect on each month. Next to where you have written the name, write out 2-3 words or phrases to describe that month or where you were within it. These do not have to make sense or go together.

Once you have done this for each month, start at January and take the words or phrases you have and write them into a poem or narrative. Go in chronological order first. If you need to add in words or phrases feel free to.

Then, take your whole narrative and reverse it. You can return to your list of months and write a new story beginning with December and going backwards to January, or you can simply reverse the sentence order of your full narrative.

See how this changes your story. See how it stays the same. See which version you prefer.

Below are my two versions. First is January - December, second is the reverse. I find, oddly, that I much prefer the reverse. Both poems are titled “Ghosts”.

Ghosts (version 1)

I am a ghost again. Frost turns the fields back white. By noon the cold fades and they are brown once more. In this season, even the cows have disappeared. In another place the sand freezes beneath my toes, the sun sinking slowly into the still, dark water. I drive into the orange light like fire on the horizon. It begins to rain and it does not stop. Pines disintegrate and reek of damp. I had thought it could be love, but it slips away again like stones into the river. Needles enter my flesh, some known, some new. I light what I know to be true on fire and watch it burn. In the blue of evening the lake shimmers. I hang my head out the window and watch as the world becomes something known once more. I swim beneath the dirty surface. Everything green, above. And I am reminded of myself. When the sun hits I grow hot to the touch. Desperate and needy. In my dreams the coastline calls me home. I am a mermaid sinking beneath its depths. I am a black snake slipping over the trail, and into the river. I am lost in the brush again. I keep calling but my voice is just an echo. And he is too, over and over again on my voicemail. I stare out at the trees as the world goes dark and I am the happiest I think I have ever been. This is a night that never seems to begin. Black concrete, hot coffee, pots of tea and honeyed wood. I tell myself I will stop drinking but I call again and the silence endures. Now, in the night, I am full of laughter. I am listening to moon song in the rain. I am swaying beneath the stars. I am somewhere and everywhere and nowhere all at once. This time I think it will be love. This time I know I want it to be true. When winter comes I learn I am wrong again, I am always wrong, the days are slipping back away, the leaves are falling down into the brush. My body is spindly like the bare branches, as if I could snap at any moment. On this drive there are no cows to mark the passage of time. The frost returns to the fields and I am pink beneath the glow. I turn the bend and the light is breaking over the water. It is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.

Ghosts (version 2)

It is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. I turn the bend and the light is breaking over the water. The frost returns to the fields and I am pink beneath the glow. On this drive there are no cows to mark the passage of time. My body is spindly like the bare branches, as if I could snap at any moment. When winter comes I learn I am wrong again, I am always wrong, the days are slipping back away, the leaves are falling down into the brush. This time I know I want it to be true. This time I think it will be love. I am somewhere and everywhere and nowhere all at once. I am swaying beneath the stars. I am listening to moon song in the rain. Now, in the night, I am full of laughter. I tell myself I will stop drinking but I call again and the silence endures. Black concrete, hot coffee, pots of tea and honeyed wood. I stare out at the trees as the world goes dark and I am the happiest I think I have ever been. And he is too, over and over again on my voicemail. I keep calling but my voice is just an echo. I am lost in the brush again. I am a black snake slipping over the trail and into the river. I am a mermaid sinking beneath its depths. In my dreams the coastline calls me home. Desperate and needy. When the sun hits I grow hot to the touch. And I am reminded of myself. Everything green, above. I swim beneath the dirty surface. I hang my head out the window and watch as the world becomes something known once more. In the blue of evening the lake shimmers. I light what I know to be true on fire and watch it burn. Needles enter my flesh, some known, some new. I had thought it could be love, but it slips away again like stones into the river. Pines disintegrate and reek of damp. It begins to rain and does not stop. I drive into the orange light like fire on the horizon. In another place the sand freezes beneath my toes, the sun sinking slowly into the still, dark water. In this season, even the cows have disappeared. By noon the cold fades and they are brown once more. Frost turns the fields back white. And I am a ghost again.

I hope you have a wonderful holiday, and time to enjoy the world away from the constant pressure that seems to hover the rest of the year (and during the last two weeks). If you are willing to share what you wrote with us, please email it to goodfolksonly@gmail.com— or any other thoughts or questions you have.

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This week’s song is Triple Dog Dare by Lucy Dacus. I have not stopped listening to this song in three days. I am convinced it is one of the most beautiful songs ever written. No one can tell me otherwise.