It could be because of my early years of Catholic schooling or the fact that I have had to find a way to excuse and forgive my own encounters with pain. But in my special, warped way, I have chosen to view adversity as a necessary evil as well as a necessary good, insofar as the crucible it provides us to hone and refine the base components of our humanity.
I bought all those sayings, "No pain, no gain." and "Good things never come easily." I have been cowed by the guilt factor which argues that unless something is labored over and suffered for; unless blood is drawn and courage is required, it will always be substandard.
Is anyone buying this?
I've found I must. If I do not, I may have to do away with my entire family. And if not that, then most certainly, I will have to leave home.
But as long as I stick to my theory that abrasive conditions and contentious attitudes are an asset to me and actually improve my artwork and my writing, then I can remain legally free and keep my backpack in the attic.
What is it about husbands and offspring that challenge the soul and require the patience of Job to survive?
Outwardly, they seem harmless and friendly enough. Husbands can be invaluable on garbage pick-up day and once they learn how to boil water, there are a myriad of foodstuffs they can concoct when you are unable to start supper on time.
And the kids? Well, they're just cute as buttons at birth, aren't they? After that, we learn to see the good in them; and during their teens, well...we just stand by and pray a lot.
But I've found after long years of being heavily vested in the livelihood of both that they are truly at their very best when you are taking care of them. As long as their individual needs are met, the love really flows.
I've also learned that when attention is diverted away from them, there is not a human alive who can withstand the petulant onslaught of familial umbrage that results.
Over the years I have been able to imbibe the precious nectar of creative self-indulgence sporadically. I had time to myself during school and work hours and there was always the refuge of deep night in which to secrete whatever creative juices from my cerebral container onto a page or canvass. It was manageable.
Right now I have only one remaining child still roosting in our cozy coop of clan dysfunction, but she is a tough one. She is the baby of the three, and it is obvious that in her ranking as caboose, she has become the bloodhound of familial deficits. She notices them all and has no qualms alerting you to her findings.
In the two weeks that I have been salivating over my discovery of O.S. and slaving to insert myself into this heady mix of word sculptors, I have heard from her only that I am wasting my time, that "Trust me, Mom. No one is interested in hearing about your life." and my personal favorite, "Oh my God, Mom! You are just SO overly-attached to your laptop!" This, mind you, is coming from a nineteen year old who goes into apoplectic shock if she is separated from her Blackberry for more than sixty seconds.
In a couple of weeks I am doing a three-day road trip with the child as I drive with her in her little Nissan from Kansas City, Missouri to Scottsdale, Arizona where she will attend culinary school. Please pray for me.
As for my husband, I think his long years of chronic sports watching and participation have rendered him completely unable to comprehend any life circumstance that does not involve some sort of ball and a jock strap. He resents the time I've recently dedicated to writing and when he sees me tickling away at these computer keys, he'll holler out to our daughter, "Uh-oh. Mom's BLOGGGING again." in a way that converts the word into a close-sounding facsimile of the fog horn in the harbor on Hudson Bay.
I've tried to share some of my blogs with him, naively thinking that it will somehow enable him to become supportive of my efforts, but to no avail. I don't think he's gotten more than two paragraphs into one before he intones, "Look, I know you're a good writer because I don't understand it. But can I read it some other time? I'm missing the game."
If my theory is correct, one thing is certain: I've definitely suffered enough for publication.
I figure another four or five years and I'm good for The Pulitzer. Perhaps Poet Laureate? (Hardships spawn a tendency to aim high.)
However, I'm keeping my options open..... and my backpack ready, just in case.
