New Words
In the fall of 2017, I was in a desert, devoid of creative impulse or self-kindness. I had had a sprinkling of published writings, a small following online, a few commissions for my paintings, and some sales at various artshows, but it all drained away when my heart broke. After four years of shared avowals, secrets, plans, and lovemaking, someone I adored wildly stomped my faith in him, in us, to death.
E. Marmer | Free to Navel Gaze His telling me I was a mere vampire in my writing, feeding on the experiences of others and not able to create anything new, didn’t help; nor did his sending me a famous writer’s essays on writing with a note exhorting me to learn from them.
I had believed so fully in the idea that, despite the challenges facing us, being apart was unacceptable. Not only did I learn he felt otherwise, but also that he wasn’t a very nice person. That should be fodder for an outpouring, yes? And I did have one, gut-wrenching poem after poem, maybe twenty in all, a fine booklet of anger and sorrow. But I came to a dead halt afterward, the poison successfully sucked out, the damage remaining. Grief is not a creative force. Rather, it hijacks creativity, like a virus hijacks a cell, converting it to a singular purpose and then killing it.
The unfailing love of another person, my ex-husband, amazingly, saved me. His unflinching kindness, his simple witness to my unmooring and his wordless moving closer in my everyday life (a sweet parallel to how, at the beginning of our first courtship over 30 years ago, he stayed close to me at a party, always eventually appearing at each conversation group I moved to) proved that some people are solid as rock. Through eventual words and embraces we conveyed mutual forgiveness of everything that had gone wrong in our marriage, and our willingness to let it float away.
upshot.com But in the face of my mother’s pancreatic cancer, the ten months that I nursed her, her difficult death making everything I did to reduce her suffering useless and silly; in the face of our daughter’s suicide attempt six months after that, her battling hallucinations in the hospital while the doctor said that the only thing preventing her from seizing was the fortuity of one of the drugs in her death cocktail being an anti-seizure medication, that sweetness of my now-again husband’s love wasn’t enough to water me to fertility. I managed to squeeze out some writings about my mother’s death and get an old story published, but grief, only so recently conquered, regained a new hold on me.
In 2020, with our daughter on a course of medication and therapy that seemed finally to offer her a way forward, my now-again husband and I moved in together, hopeful at last to find some peace. But a month later Covid erupted, and my house became a sort of kibbutz for family and friends sheltering. They brought all their problems and fears, and I, already so porous, soaked them all up. Though they left one by one, the pandemic became part of our everyday lives, injecting a chronic sense of dread.
Edvard Munch The Scream
I endured one last further sapping. We sold our house in 2021. It was far too large, seven thousand square feet of architectural interest that never quite felt authentic or homey, although I had tried so hard to cozy it up. And when my husband and I were separated I had hated it as a symbol of how we had gotten so far away from ourselves. But it was where my mother spent her last year, where my extended family visited week after week, in loving gatherings. It was where I reunited with my husband, where my family once again felt whole. If I left it, would all that stay behind? And being so drained, how could I manage it?
Belief in a better tomorrow carried me; that’s the only explanation. Finally, now in this sweet, magical country house, next to a horse farm and across from a lovely meadow, I can take in the light as I sit at my kitchen table. After such a long drought, this writing is perhaps the first bubbling up of a new well. A welcome greeting as I move forward.
E. Marmer | Free to Navel Gaze 
You are such an unbelievable talent. Anyone who feels the need to critique another’s work so harshly is clearly only trying to compensate for their own emptiness, insecurity, and lack of originality. I think we all know who the real vampire was. Time and time again, you prove your impressive skill and depth as a writer, painter, and human being. I am truly proud and humbled by your growth and compassion. I sincerely hope things get easier for you now that you are more settled, and, hopefully, happier. <3
Thank you honey. We’ve been through a lot, you and I! It means everything to me that through it all we have grown even closer and more understanding of each other. And you know, I am always in awe of your passion, authenticity and commitment to your ideals. You are an inspiration and you mean the world to me.
I’m so happy you are feeling creative again.
Sending love to you all.
Thank you for your support, Alison, as always. I managed to get a painting done as well and I’m working on another. I only hope the juices keep flowing.
My darling Elisa, reading your thoughts is always a pleasure. You are so eloquent. And what a joy it was to be with you a few weeks ago. You know I will always love you and be there if you need a listener. Honey, you are one terrific person. May the good times roll on. Much love, Claire
I loved seeing you too! We will do it again. Thank you for being a very important cheerleader all these years. Love you Claire!
Since we were single digits in age, you have always been a warm presence and beacon of light to your friends. Sometimes when others gaslight or project on to you, it is difficult to recognize those qualities in yourself or see yourself as your true friends do. I am sorry for the unrelenting obstacles that life has thrown at you but am relieved that you have come out of these hardships and circumstances at Peace and ready to share your creativity once again. I look forward to enjoying your witticisms, observations and interpretations, firsthand or otherwise, flowing forth at your personal, natural pace. Best of Luck always
Danny, wow, what lovely and supportive words, they mean a lot.
Sending ❤️ – you have touched so authentically into it ALL – thank u for this sharing…
Thanks for the love, Jackie. I hope all is well with you and your loved ones. Being told I have communicated authentically is a great gift. Thanks for that as well.