Eve Marko says on her blog that she agrees with me on one thing: “…in the face of hardship or setbacks, you can’t afford not to write. This is not easy, especially for women like me who were told that first and foremost they are caretakers, so that even if they have other skills or talent, the minute something happens they should put themselves aside to take care of others.”
Eve and I began a dialogue last week, a collaboration on the role of voice and creativity in crisis and suffering. She had messaged me that she had no time to write in the wake of a family crisis. We agreed to talk about it and she came to see me, Maria and the farm.
In my class, I teach that writers write, they find a way to do it, online or offline, in books or blogs, in journals or poems. Artists make art, it is never an interruption of the work, it is the work. And Eve is a very gifted writer. “My answer doesn’t lie in what I write but in the actual doing of it, the day-to-day stubborn commitment to keep on saying/writing/expressing/creating without stop. It’s the same for dancers who never miss a day in the studio even when they’re sick.”
As Eve is experiencing, writing is about voice and identity, writing tells us that we are important, our stories are important, and that even when we are called to caretake or drawn to crisis, writing and creating keeps us from losing ourselves, it keeps the essence of us alive. It keeps us from getting lost in sorrow and pain.
And there is nothing more healing or grounding than that.
In my teaching classes I have seen that what Eve says is true, many women are taught to subordinate themselves to the needs and identity of others, they are often taught that this is what is expected of them, this is what it means to be a good wife or mother. Women are often writing to protect people, and often not writing in worry about what others might think. They often forego their adventure to take care of others, they sometimes slip into substitute lives.
I have also seen many women find their voices in art and writing – I am married to one.
Men are almost never taught to give themselves away to care for others, and do not often see that as their destiny.
When I had my open heart surgery more than a year ago, I was helpless for some days, and Maria cared for me, helping me to get dressed, take my medicines, eat and keep myself clean. I needed her and appreciate what she did for me, It was not a role I wanted for her, not a role she wished for herself. She did a wonderful job of caretaking, but returned to her art as soon as possible and as often as possible to find herself again. We were both so happy when she returned to the studio and her life. She makes no apologies for not wishing to be a caretaker, I have no desire to have her care for me in that way, not ever.
Eve has used her writing in the best possible sense, to find herself again as she struggled to figure out her role and life in the wake of her husband’s stroke two months ago. She feared losing a sense of who she was, thought I doubt that is really possible for her, a Zen teacher, social activist and writer of fiction and non-fiction.
She is a truly wonderful writer, there is nothing more unnatural or dehumanizing than a gifted writer silenced by self.
In her latest beautiful piece, she wrote of a photograph taken at a council training for Serbs, Bosnians and Croats in Sanski. Everyone in a group photo was smiling and wearing a red clown nose. For several days they shared memories of the horrific war 20 years ago, memories of “hiding in cellars, being put in concentration camps, losing family members. And still they posed and put on the clown’s red nose, to find the seam of laughter and gladness even in the place of grim memory.”
And Eve added this:
“I remember being in love. The sky is bluer, the sun sunnier, people warmer, the light more radiant, and I love them all. Happiness has the same capability to splash all over the place. It becomes a vehicle for something bigger than itself, bigger than my own state of mind, it reaches outwards. I feed the birds and squirrels not out of a sense of obligation, but because they[re part of this circle of happiness. I sweep the kitchen floor because I can see a shine there, and I laugh and fool around with my old dog Stanley because I can see that same shine in his cataract-filled eyes. The space I discover is so big that I no longer worry about what’s mine or his or hers, it’s just presence everywhere.”
So it is true, it seems, that Eve could not afford not to write. Neither could I in my darkest and loneliest hours. Writing told me how I felt and who I really was, it tied me in a life-saving knot to the rest of the world when I wanted to sink beneath the water. I don’t know what I think until I write it.
Writing and creativity and art is not an interruption of life, it is in many ways life itself. It is not something to be squeezed in when possible, it is the point. Eve has not yet chosen to write more about her husband and his illness, except perhaps she is writing about her husband and his illness.
We all express ourselves in our own personal and individual way. We see in the shine of others a mirror of ourselves, and of the crisis and mystery and glory of life. Not something, I submit, to be put aside in time of need.