I’ve seldom wanted to, but I know I’ve disappointed
others. I’m disappointing some right this
very minute. Sometimes, it’s
unavoidable.
I need to
write.
This has been a fact of my life that’s run as an undercurrent since I was very
little, and perhaps the strangest part about it is that it doesn’t hinge on
whether anyone actually reads what I write.
Here’s the thing:
It’s the way I make sense of the world.
It tells me clearly how I feel. It’s
like breathing: Constant, sometimes refreshing,
sometimes labored and difficult, but apart from very short breaks, always necessary.
But writing takes time, and quiet rooms, and
reading, and reflection. This makes me unavailable.
My response time to emails lengthens. At times, I turn off my phone and don’t answer
my front door. I’ve been called
occasionally –- and teasingly, I hope -- a “recluse,” “antisocial,” or even “obsessed.” (If you don’t mind terribly, I’d prefer
“committed,” “dedicated,” or if you absolutely must, “literarily eccentric.”)
Pardon me if I sound just a smidge strident here. I’m
generally a “pleaser,” and often will put my own needs in second place if only to
avoid confrontation. But I’m afraid this
is as close to “non-negotiable” as I get.
The etymology of the word disappointment, from the late 15th century is, quite
literally, “to fail to keep an appointment.”
And so often, this is an appointment of the heart, led on by the
expectation of another that we’ll be, or say, or do more than we’re able.
That look in my son’s eyes at five or six years
old comes back as clearly as if his little self is right here next to me. “But you said…”
he says softly, as his tears start welling up.
“I know I said I would TRY, but it didn’t turn out
that way. I’m sorry.”
That was a moment when I wanted to say, “Oh,
okay. Never mind. I won’t… go to work / finish that poem / visit
a friend who needs me on Saturday / take a much-needed mental health day alone
/ accommodate your father’s schedule….We’ll go to the movies instead...”
But I would weigh the consequences -- holding a
little boy’s disappointment in one hand, and my responsibility in the
other. I could even hear a voice in my
head at times, saying “Well, he’ll have to learn about disappointment someday.
We can’t always get what we want.” And when the Rolling Stones’ voices
followed, wailing, “But we get what we ne-eed!”
I would turn away, and so would he, running his hand across his face and wiping
the hot tear on his t-shirt. And my
heart would break a little.
I’d venture to say there’s not a person on the
planet who hasn’t felt the clench of stomach and droop of shoulders that comes
with disappointment. It’s certainly not a stranger to me. We expect so much of each other, and of
ourselves.
When I was younger, much younger, my home life was
so out of control I remember thinking that when I could control it, it would be perfect. I would be responsible only to myself, and
disappoint no one. As I said, I was much younger.
But the slowly-dawning surprise of this life has
been that it doesn’t stop, this necessity to sometimes hurt and disappoint
people, even through the best intentions.
I won’t quote Abraham Lincoln here, but you really can’t please everyone. If
you try, you’ll end up pleasing no one, including yourself.
So, the door is closed, my phone is off, and I
write. And there are people who want me
to do otherwise.
Our next lesson, class? How to avoid the guilt that comes with meeting
our own needs and as a result, disappointing others.
There will
be a test after. Multiple choice. Unfortunately, none of them perfect.
~~~~~
