Freedom's just another word for nothing left to choose
It's great to have options in our writing lives. And yet, an unexpected series of events has led me to the conclusion that unlimited options may not be as beneficial as they might first appear.
This past September, I became a single mom. This reorientation of identity and circumstance has dramatically limited my financial and logistical options–it would appear for the worse. The choices I once had about leaving the house in the evening–to attend readings, lecture, teach, and have fun with friends–have evaporated. The money I once spent on books, workshops, travel, dog food, is instead funding my new, primary relationship with a divorce lawyer.
Bummer, right? Yes, and.
Something rather incredible has happened in this interpersonal limboland: spaciousness. I am no longer burdened with the decisions of which events to attend, which of my many dear friends I'll be able to support as they read and perform publicly nearly every night of the week. Nor am I burdened with the decisions of how to invest in my writing life–or where to designate funds for anything, for that matter…as there are no funds to designate. The simple fact is that I can't do any of it right now. Period.
Now, I'm not advocating being broke and stranded at home as a productivity practice or a way of life. But I do want you to know that, in my own life that has been quite abundant with options and opportunities since I started working for myself in 1997, such deprivations have facilitated a rather surprising liberation. In the absence of choice, peace is filling the open spaces.
The other day as the sun made one of its brief appearances between avalanches of hail, my son stood in a beam of light, marveling at the floating specks of dust that were ignited like diamonds all around us. This is the new wealth of our life together: diamonds of dust, necklaces of ABCs. No rush to do much of anything in a life that was once scheduled with hour upon hour upon hour of to-do's in a precarious tower like the ones my son builds of blocks, far above his own head. We giggle as he smashes them down, tells me that his voice sounds better than Mommy's as we sing The Farmer in The Dell, his longtime favorite.
These days, I spend evenings cooking for my son, writing, making my home beautiful and dining in with friends who show up with meals, stories, love. I have dug out from the tornado of clothes, paper and toys that seem to have been spontaneously birthed alongside my son. I am writing a business plan for my writing life, simmering five or so new book ideas in the back burner of my consciousness, and doing what I need to do to get the dogs walked, the mortgage paid, and my grief and rage transmuted to grace and forgiveness. My life and heart are full–in completely different ways than they were a short, eight months ago.
And despite the fact that I don't sing as well as my two-year-old, I've been singing a lot. Today, it's been Janis Joplin's "Me and Bobby McGee," which has morphed into Sage Cohen's "Me and Theo Doodle Do," Windshield wipers slapping time, I was holding Theo's hand in mine, and we sang every song that toddler knew. Cause freedom's just another word for nothing left to choose. And nothing don't mean nothing honey if it ain't free…yeah.
