Struggle stories are embedded in my consciousness and in the culture around me. I was so used to seeing my life in terms of struggle that I nearly drowned the story of my own life. A friend tells me that men are seeking to control the lives of women, even as the men in her life are unfailingly sensitive and supportive. A man tells me he is afraid to bring a child into the awful world, even though he has a rich and loving marriage, and a close and affirming family. Another friend tells me his doctors and medications leave him feeling angry and poorly, yet he makes appointment after appointment, and is creative, productive and active. A relative complains that her vet bills are outrageous and unfair, yet she acquires more and more animals who are sick, needy or aged. A woman tells me God cannot live in a world in which her beloved mother dies at 78, and I wonder if the definition of a loving God is eternal life? If so, we are all atheists.
A reader tells me she mourns her late dog every day, and has for the past five or six years, yet she never mentions his good life or the life of the four dogs she loves and lives with now. I get messages every day telling me how awful it was to lose Rose, how sad it is, yet that lament does not come from me or my heart – I celebrate Rose and am grateful for her, but my life is filled with people, dogs, donkeys and friends and work that love. Why should I be in perpetual mourning? Is that my story, or the one expected of me? Do we mourn every animal that dies? Are we stricken by every one that is hurt? Shocked by every death? I do not feel sorry for myself. I am working on another script.
It seems that the very nature of life is a surprise and disappointment to people, the texture of our lives complaint, argument, struggle. Do these stories match our own lives? Are they surprises, and injustices, or are they the very essence of life itself, inescapable and universal? What do we expect from life? I don’t wish for a perfect life, without loss, death, and struggle. Everyone and everything I love will die, if I don’t get to it first. I am grateful for every one. To me, a life without loss and challenge would be a meaningless life.
I love the stories of people who set out in the world to find themselves. I am reading a good one now, “Wild” by Cheryl Strayed, a young woman who set out to hike the Pacific Crest Trail after her divorce and the death of her mother. I relate so much to this story, as I did another version of it myself, coming to this remote farm in Upstate New York with a bunch of dogs, donkeys and sheep to try and find myself. I don’t yet know what finally happened to her, but as for me, I fell right off the cliff and crawled back up.
My struggle story is not to tell struggle stories any longer, or enable them.