Don’t forget to write it all down
Today I’m sharing an essay I wrote in the summer of 2020. I know I’m far from alone in considering that year a year of painful transformations. My marriage was unraveling and I was on my own for the first time in a long time, unsure if and when I would feel secure in partnership again. I was desperately lonely, longing for connection, intimacy, attention. And I was so angry - at everything, including myself.
One of the most important things I did that year was begin writing morning pages, a daily practice of writing 3 stream of consciousness pages as soon as possible upon waking. This practice is the foundation of The Artist’s Way, a workbook by Julia Cameron, which I had begun earlier that year. The morning pages got me writing everyday, beyond those first 3, and I began embracing writing as a healing practice, a way to express my anger and to cope with the chaos of my days. I found myself writing about everything I saw, big and small, and a selection of those observations eventually became my book, Attention.
I’ve kept a journal off and on my whole life, but it wasn’t until that year of loss that writing became a way to see myself more clearly, by way of shameless expression within the pages of my notebook. I held nothing back - the morning pages had freed me from the critic in my head that had previously required constant revision. Free-writing allowed me to be more honest with myself; I could no longer deny the pain I was in when I was writing about it each day. The growing stack of composition notebooks at my bedside were evidence that something had to change.
The essay below was born out of all of this note taking. I wrote it after one of the first times in 2020 that I felt truly happy to be in my own company, grateful for a peaceful moment by myself. I was in the habit of writing daily so it felt natural to document it. When I re-read the essay today, 3 years later, I was immediately transported to that late afternoon in the forest and the vital shift toward self romance that occurred there, and I’m grateful that I wrote it all down.
The Bath
A few days ago I did the laundry by hand, the stuff that’s not too dirty, coaxing frigid water from the depths with the hand pump well. I used the antique wringer to squeeze out excess water but it still took a long time for the clothes to dry and I broke the mother of pearl buttons on my favorite nightgown when I cranked it through. I re-braided my hair and secured it with a clothespin, fell into bed and didn't dream. That left all of the really dirty clothes and the sheets, unwashed for too long. The next day I bring that stuff into town. This is after blueberry work, where I winnowed for a few hours alongside my neighbors and their children, staining my hands and shorts a pinkish-purple. For lunch everyday we hide in the shade of the barn and eat handfuls of blueberries. When the giant white spiders roll past on the belt someone always shrieks. Sometimes I'm the one screaming.
The laundry seems to be taking a long time even though I’ve memorized the wash and dry times for different sized loads, able to walk in just as the load is finishing. I’m hot and the day has gotten to me. The people I know who are all just trying to live during a pandemic have also gotten to me. I feel like I’m full of secrets that no one wants to hear.
Without knowing why or how, I start running.
Running, which I normally hate, but feel drawn to do - running at dusk in clogs that have seen better days, over a path half-forgotten by my feet, which is riddled with roots and obscured by bracken. These things combined would normally spell twisted ankle or worse, but my feet fall firmly and without trouble the whole way there. In the dim forest, I run with the directions uttered months ago by a friend: past the hidden bench, through the fallen pine with the cut out, down to a pool of water, grown wider and deeper by a simple human-built dam of rocks and branches. They did a good job building this dam, and already I can see that the pool is much deeper than it was last summer when I came down here from another path.
Without even scanning the woods I strip down, leaving socks in shoes, peeling off my blueberry stained shorts and laying them on a fallen ash trunk. I lay my tank top and underwear on top of them, as well as my glasses. Finally, I let my hair down and leave the stretched out band on top of everything. Carefully, I enter the pool.
The water is perfect. Normally I find it too cold this late in the summer, this late in the day. But today it is perfect. I crawl down the mossy rocks and am delighted to find that the water is so deep it grazes my hip bones. I stare for a moment at the small waterfall that feeds the pool and, facing it, go under. I feel the gravel bottom on my feet and then my knees. I allow myself to float face down for a moment then stand up quickly and throw my hair back in a Disney princess-style arc. I laugh to myself. I am giddy. I scrub my arms and legs to rinse off the sweat of the day, of the week, of the past two weeks since my anniversary, which is the last time I swam.
It feels good. I float on my back, feeling held, as I always do in a body of water. I find myself longing to share this place, exactly how it is right now at dusk, with someone: a friend, a lover. I want to bring someone here and share the magic of it, like a sweet secret.
I realize with a start that I already have: I brought myself here.
I’m warmed by this thought as it dawns on me. The pool is like bath water. The night approaching is romantic. I’m on a date with myself. I smile at the trees. I float on my back and smile at the sky. When I finally feel clean, I make my way out of the water as carefully as getting in. I run my hands over my skin to brush off the excess water. I put my clothes on carefully. Tie my hair up again in a bun. I turn back to face the pool and do something I’m not often called to do: I quietly say “thank you”, then turn to leave.
Walking out of the woods, I am at ease. I know that I will be cooking dinner in the dark, probably a grilled cheese with what’s left of the block of cheddar and bread from the corner store. I will lay down and read by the light of a single candle and sleep on fresh sheets. I will not forget this night. I feel like I’m keeping a secret, a good one. I feel something that I have not felt in a very long time so I hold it close and write this all down.
- August, 2020
When I want to be alone I usually go to the forest or a body of water, when I can. Sometimes I just go to my room and put on some wordless music.
Where do you go?