Chamonix

What the..?

One year and three days after my first (nearly only) post to raison-detre.me, my father passed away. I’ve written other entries, but the impetus for that blog was about finding a place, and a way, for me to process the ravages of illness and loss. As it turned out, the other entries were too intimately entangled with others’ lives for public exposure. Ultimately, I didn’t think it was fair to go there, like that, then.

The journey through the degrading stages of my fathers health, and transformation of our family dynamic, was one dimension of my existence over the past few years. The most significant and agonizing — yes. But there were others. Fundamentally misconstrued relationships. Evolving love, and work, landscapes. Crossed signals and boundaries. Misplaced passions. The death of a much beloved big dog. Terribly broken hearts. Physical issues of my own. Darkness and rough, rough roads led to a kind of paranoia, and what felt, at times, like madness.

I was talking with a friend before my dad died about — everything really, and in an unguarded moment I let slip that

“I have no more muscle memory for joy”.

It was a startling revelation. One that rendered both of us sort of speechless (which, knowing both of us, is sort of astonishing). I was so embarrassed. Not for having admitted it. But for realizing I was without that particular capacity. It seemed like saying “I don’t do math”.

Around the same time as that conversation, a podcast aired with Krista Tippett and Maria Tartar on The Great Cauldron of Story. (Sunday strolls, 5 miles or so, listening to On Being and Design Matters are a ritual). At the time I thought “I needed to write my way through this” because, as Maria explains, “no matter how horrible … the hero survives.” That’s how I could survive. And so I wrote. A little. Certainly not enough to be considered “my way through”. But I did write. All were personal essay-ish. Creative non-fiction. Nothing to overcome the monsters. More just a recording of them. And all — kept behind an authorization wall or in hand written journals, safely tucked away without risk, or benefit, of connection.

After dad died I started writing, and sharing, more. I wrote this piece, 2A . Then, there it was. Staring me in the face. It was time. Time to regain the muscle memory I was so ashamed I had lost. Or more accurately, feared I hadn’t learned at all. Time to make the most of my time. I added 2A to raison-detre.me , to keep His company. I also penned another piece about “why I write”. A cheeky little number I hadn’t thought much of at first. In it was

a riff on the Cinderella story and my belief that common lore about why the story works is, well, wrong. In the end I don’t believe she was ‘saved’ by some guy bearing a gift of fancy slippers (though one should never underestimate the value of quality footwear). Rather, it’s that she scrubbed, and scraped, and — with the help of crafty workmates, survived. She survived. She did it. She was made of something simultaneously sensitive and strong, both humble and brave. She was, she is, a fundamentally inestimable survivor. With or without him, she would have found her way. That her freedom came in the form of a prince was just lucky — for princes, who now bask in the glow of that ‘good messenger’ halo. Don’t get me wrong. I like princes. Love them, in fact. But hinging your happiness on anyone — it doesn’t work. It’s an awful burden, even for a prince. In that same piece I also mentioned that finding the right phrase to express a thing is, for me, like the release of a long over held breath. So the piece really was more than just cheek. It is why I write. To seek understanding. To give context. To make (new) meaning. To connect. And find release.

So, there I was. Processing my catalogue of griefs. Writing more. Or, trying to write more. Thinking more about writing more, really. While work, at that moment and that place, was feeling less, and less, like the right thing.

I left Corbis and applied to a writing program with Michael Dahlie and Cheryl Strayed, in Chamonix (it being held on mountain in the French alps has absolutely nothing to do with my interest). Luckily, thankfully, I was accepted. So here I am. I rented a little apartment just outside of town, 10 minute walk to/from class. My landlords, Claire and Jean-Claude, live downstairs. He’s climbed Mont Blanc 12 times. They speak little-to-no English. I speak little-to-no French. The key hand-off was an awkward moment made oddly comfortable by their pantomime gestures, and their genuine warmth.

Class starts tomorrow. Trying my hand at fiction this time. Terrified. Little bit. Truly. But a reassuring note from Mike reminding me to simply focus on the story I want to tell, helped. Little bit. Truly. (Though, admittedly, I’m still figuring that part out).

The Maria Tartar talk was rebroadcast, just before I left. That same friend and I were discussing it — again. Our conversation reminded me of the origin and power of Fairy Tales, as much for adults, as for children. And that they were started as communal narratives, meant to evolve to help us face, and make sense of, our lives. There is something to that, for me, I think. Fairy tales give me license to explore themes I have been reticent play with before. Learning to shape stories from within the safety of invention is a way to make new meaning, and breathe. That, and some alpine hiking. Ways to find some joy and connection, and build some of that muscle memory. (I suspect there may be some new shoes involved, too). That’s what I’m doing in Chamonix.

PS. Because a LOT of people have asked: no I have not left Design. I would never. Could never. This is — Sabbatical.

NOW…