As I suggested in my most recent Blog entry writing (of various sorts) has helped me to make connections between
my own life and that of others. Laurel Richardson turned to life writing
following a car accident. She wrote:
Although
I could not bring into speech what was happening in my head, I found that I
could write about it. If I could not find the word I wanted, I could write its
first letter or leave a blank space. In writing, the pace and the issues were
my own . . . Writing allowed me to record little thoughts, to revisit them and
fill in the blanks, to piece them together, thought-by-thought. Writing gave me
a feeling of control over time and space, and a faith that I would recover.
Writing was the method through which I constituted the world and reconstituted
myself. Writing became my principle tool through which I learned about myself
and the world. I wrote so I would have a life. Writing was and is how I come to know. (Richardson 2001: 33
original emphasis)
When I discovered sociology in the late 1980s I was
aware of the auto/biographical power of the discipline although was unable to
articulate this then as I am now, not least to agree with Irene Karpiak (2010:
47) who argues that auto/biographical writing is one way in which
‘adults can come to enlarge their perspective on themselves and others, and
even to heal’. As such it
represents, as Paul Eakin (2008: 148) suggests ‘the art of the
future’: a prospect of what might still be ahead as possible and worthwhile.
In recent years my writing has
moved beyond the academic. Here is a piece of auto/biographically informed ‘fiction’
(which I write in single quotation marks
to highlight the fact that fiction draws on fact, just as fact often/always
contains an element of fiction) that I wrote following my husband John’s death
in 2010.
Thank You
For The Days
The birth
was hard, mirroring the effort to conceive. Reporters waited outside to take
snaps of babies born on the first day of the year. They went away disgruntled.
He was born 20 minutes after midnight on the 2nd. It was a Monday.
Although
raised in the Jewish faith the boy’s parents were practicing atheists. Yet,
they wanted to mark the birth of their longed for child, to share their joy.
The baby naming took place on the second Tuesday in May.
The child
grew happy and strong and weathered all of the usual childhood ailments and
adventures. School and university a challenge he embraced. On a gap year,
before full-time responsibilities began, his marriage took place on an
Australian beach. Some called it a shotgun event but the bride and groom were
blissfully happy. They exchanged rings at midday on a Wednesday in
December.
Years
passed, the man worked hard, the next generation grew up and the usual ups and
downs of a life-course took place. He was happy but sometimes tired. After a
long day at work or an exhausting family outing he’d pour himself a beer or a
whisky. They’d drink wine with their meal, followed by a nightcap. He never
kicked the 20-a-day habit he picked up on his travels. First he noticed a
change in his gum at the back of his mouth. Soon it became uncomfortable to
chew. He told the dentist at a Thursday appointment.
Radiotherapy
lasted three months. He felt lucky he’d avoided an operation. There was only a
50/50 chance of survival to five years but he approached this as optimistically
as he had the rest of his life. He dressed smartly for his first appointment
and chatted and laughed with his wife on the way. She waited while he went for
his treatment, glancing at, but not taking in, the news and gossip in Friday’s newspaper.
On his
deathbed he reviewed his life. It had been a good one. He’d even got his five
years following the cancer diagnosis but now it was his time. He squeezed his
wife’s hand and smiled. Elsewhere in the ward a radio was playing, he could
hear Big Ben chime in Saturday morning.
The funeral
celebrant was thorough. She captured the man and many tears were shed during
the eulogy. An old friend and one of the man’s children retold anecdotes that
made everyone laugh. Favourite songs were played. A cremation followed. A
smaller group – immediate family and close friends - assembled later to bury
the ashes under the tree at the bottom of his beloved garden. A few words were
said, a few more tears wiped away. His wife led the way back to the house for
Sunday lunch.
****
63 Years Earlier: As the
pregnancy is confirmed Rachel and Ethan Grundy wonder what their child’s life
will be like. They’ve already chosen names. If it’s a girl Sarah and for a boy
Solomon is a good, strong name. . .
Reading, as well as writing, has helped me
significantly in my own grief journey(s). In a novel I read shortly after my mum
died I found a reference to a poem called The
Summer Day by Mary Oliver, the last three lines of which are:
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?
For me training to become a
Civil Celebrant was one of the things I felt that I needed to do with my life. More of this next time . . .
References
Eakin, P. J. (2008) Living autobiographically.
How we create identity in
narrative. Ithaca: Cornell
University Press.
Karpiak,
I. (2010) After
life review: Autobiography as ‘art of the future’. Studies in Continuing Education, 32(1)
Oliver, M. (1990) ‘The Summer Day’ The House Light Beacon Press: Boston
Richardson, L. (2001) ‘Getting Personal:
writing-stories’ International Journal of
Qualitative Studies in Education 14(1)