The Stories I Can’t Tell

 

A handful of people have asked if there’s been a resolution or conclusion to my crisis of vocation, time, and blogging.  I left off with big questions:  What is worthy of my time?  Is a hobby selfish?  Is self-care crucial or selfish?  Does blogging have a place in the New Evangelization, or am I just kidding myself because I like it?

After Mass this week, I think I came to terms with a conclusion.

There are several decisions that once made, change the course of history.

Marrying someone.
Giving birth.
Killing someone.

Once you’ve put an unkindness out in the universe, (hello, internet!) it can’t be taken back.  One choice, potentially big consequences.  It works the same way with generosity and kindness.  One choice, potentially big consequences, largely outside your control.

But there are lots of decisions that aren’t quite as once-and-for-all.  Choosing a brand of shampoo, a job, a school– all those decisions can probably be reevaluated if it turns out the shampoo or your new boss gives you a rash.  It might take a little effort, but it can be changed and fixed.

I don’t have answers to any of the questions above, but I do know that continuing or stopping won’t have much of an impact one way or another.  And the decision is reversible if more information comes to light.  I don’t need to eschew absolutely everything that gives me pleasure, but I do need to be careful to keep things rightly ordered.  That’s true of everyone.

As I’ve thought about what writing means to me, I realized something.

I am haunted by the stories I can’t tell.

Okay.  That sounds a lot more dramatic than it actually is.  Not *that* haunted.  Here’s the thing:

When I was younger, I loved listening to my grandma’s stories.  She talked about her life growing up, my dad’s childhood– all these fascinating ideas that as an introvert and a lover of stories I soaked up.  Her words allowed me to step back and observe a world I couldn’t have otherwise known.

And now– those stories are gone.  Forever.  When I visit my grandma with Alzheimer’s in the nursing home, I will her to talk to me again.  I hope that this visit will be different.  That she will be able to talk again.

To tell me about how she led a blind boy to school every day as a child.  (Years later she saw him driving around.  Apparently he had surgery, but gee whiz did she get a fright!)

To fill in the blanks about the woman (maybe my great-great grandmother?) who met her husband while trying on shoes during a layover at a train station on a journey.  If I remember right, she missed her next train by visiting with the dashing clerk.

To tell me what it was really like to grow up in the 1940s without a father.  He just left.  She never talked about the challenges she faced growing up.  How she felt.  How they made it.

I am haunted by the stories I can’t tell.

Occasionally my grandma, my only living grandparent, will hum or sing along to the songs she sang with me in her white wicker rocker 30 years ago.  Other than those songs and a few phrases here and there– her words have been lost forever.

I wish I could tell 10-year-old me to write down the funny story about the dog who ate too much cabbage.

I have had (maybe 2?) people tell me I should write a book (bless their hearts!).  But I don’t have anything monetizable to write about.  I don’t write in a way that people pay for.  But– I feel like I can tell stories.  I like figuring out how to make people giggle through the computer screen.  I think blogging is a good platform for me.

Facebook is giving me a rash.  I need to stop using it.  I love seeing the baby pictures and updates from friends and family on social media.  I’m a sucker for a good momming meme.  But it just…drains me.  There’s so much dumb stuff to sift through to get through to the gems.  Fear of missing out on pregnancy and engagement announcements isn’t reason enough to stay.

But NOT writing…that’s giving me a rash too.  I think that writing out my stories helps me to process life.  It’s also something already I’ve looked back on and treasured.  Someday Moe will be taller than I am, and I’ll love to remind him about that time he slithered under the pews at Mass.  I don’t want to lose that story.  It’s going to increase in value over time, let me tell you.  As the humiliation fades, the humor increases.

So I’m going to keep blogging, but tie up all my facebooking.  (Maybe I’ll leave it to weekends because Lularoe is a drug hard to quit.  But that’s part of the reason to step back.  Me looking at Lularoe isn’t helping anyone.  I’d have to actually buy it to make a difference in someone’s life.  What?  You don’t know Lularoe?!?!  Honey, come on over.  I’ll move all the couch laundry, and we’ll talk.  If you’re lucky I’ll tell you the one about the dog who ate too much cabbage, too.)

I’m going to keep telling stories.  Because I’ll always feel sad about the ones that got away.

 

 

 

Thanks for reading!  Sign up on bloglovin or by email subscription above to catch future posts.