In the (k)now
Apparently as an "8" in the enneagram (The Protector, http://www.enneagramworldwide.com/explore-the-enneagram/what-is-the-enneagram/), I excel at being "in the present." That's a big deal these days; there are all kinds of self-help books on "being in the moment," "being in the now," etc. Lucky (?) me, I come by this mindset naturally.
Unfortunately however, as a writer who frequently and intentionally loses myself in the throes of some recollected emotion or event, it's jarring to have both these mindsets existing simultaneously in my skull. It fosters that multiple-personality challenge I've mentioned a few times in previous musings. It manifests both as the choir of my Peanut Gallery, and someone else, (An)Other. Am I now? Am I then? Is this real? Am I dreaming? Who am I? Did that happen?
Of late I'm increasingly enslaved to the story of a boy who died too young. He was a real boy, lost to me and to my heart so long ago it feels like millennia, and I've invoked (and evoked) his ghost in order to write his story. To write our story. I am shocked to find what a demanding presence he is. He is insistent and persistent; he manifests everywhere, constantly. I have always felt slightly haunted by him, but now it's unsettling how often I see him, hear him, feel him. I don't even have a picture of this boy, but his face and the shape of his heart are imprinted on my own like a photo-negative burn.
His story, what really happened to him, could be my story. Perhaps his story really IS my story, and I just haven't written it fully, lived it/died it fully yet. Writing this down, transcribing it out of the void of imagined alternatives, is both cathartic and terrifying. "There but for the grace of God," goes the saying by John Bradford. Why did the grace of God take this amazing boy and not me? That's what I really want to know, John Bradford.
Writing in the now, about the "then" and the "what might be now" has created this weird and hard-to-cope-with space for me. All choices have become loaded. Every detail becomes meaningful, salient, intended. What am I missing? Who could I be saving and I'm not? Where am I supposed to be? WHO am I supposed to be?
I recall the movie "Feast of Love," which I saw recently. It was lyrical and charming (although not as good as the book, when are they ever), and the movie (like the book) is chock full of great dialogue and phenomenal writing about broken, fragile humans. One comment that I keep hearing in my head is" "If you love someone enough, you can save them."
Of course, that's completely untrue. My head knows that isn't possible, that no one can be saved without saving themselves. But my heart is oblivious. And in my world, there is real evidence that love actually can facilitate healing and rescue.
This is the theme of the story that I'm writing ... what can we do to save each other, if anything? If you believe in God, isn't it rational to believe that we are sent to each other as a part of that journey? If you don't believe in God, isn't that the glory of human existence, to be better than the sum of our parts and our innate nature?
Telling this story is bringing me not just back to the Now, but to the Know. It's providing powerful, nuanced insights into the human condition, into my OWN condition, and it's breathtaking.
I hope I am worthy of what needs to be said.