THE MEMOIR NOTES #12: Why I still haven't bought a desk

How I discovered a family pattern buried in plain view

Photo by Tamanna Rumee on Unsplash

I discovered a family pattern on the surface of my writing space.

Photo by Thom Milkovic on Unsplash

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I still haven’t bought a desk.

I use a makeshift setup of two black plastic folding tables pressed together in a spare room. It works for me. It feels flexible. I can move things around. Change things up. I can even pack it all up on a whim if need be.

Right now, a real desk feels heavy and intimidating. Immobile. Permanent.

It is not what it might seem.

It is not that I do not value the process of writing or take seriously the self-exploration and healing work that happens in my writing space. I have no plans to set up shop somewhere else or switch spaces by moving rooms.

So I’m curious as to why I keep putting off getting myself a proper desk.

I pause and take a breath. I observe my Tetris-like combo of folding tables and my messy, over-stacked and overfilled writing space.

There are piles of books, empty water glasses and tissue boxes, coffee cups, scribbled notecards and papers. There are stacks of manila folders- like hungry mouths gobbling up notes on various aspects of my life, attempting to organize the chaos of paperwork corresponding to all my activities and interests. Chaos, followed by order, was the rhythm of my childhood.

I notice that there is a sense of “too-much-ness” on this writing table. Things feel like they are about to fall off the edges.

There was a too-much-ness in my young life. Mama, sometimes too much.I couldn’t hold it all. I couldn’t keep things from falling apart. I never knew when I might have to drop everything and run away with Mama somewhere. I learned that everything important needed to be mobile.

This makeshift desk of tables, and what is stacked upon them, hold the stories of my life as I write a memoir. It’s messy, and cluttered with memories. It is where I write and revisit my generational trauma stories and where I have been painstakingly piecing my life back together in words. It is not surprising then that this physical space, more than any other space in my home, echoes with unconscious patterns of my childhood.

My therapist told me that she is pretty sure that Mama was bipolar.

I have never written those words until now.

Interestingly, this is the only space in my home that feels like it might need to be in flux. Ready to pack up and go. To duck and weave. To stay loose. As if to affirm that no matter what, these things need to be ready to come with me. Leave no words behind. Leave no parts of myself behind.

Once, when we left Daddy in the middle of the night, I didn’t have time to bring anything but a pillowcase of clothes and my blanket. Everything happened in a wild rush, and my priority that night at Mama’s urging, was to get my little sisters out of bed, slide their still-warm little feet from under the covers into their untied tennies, and guide them more asleep than awake to the car. I passed by a note that Mama left for Daddy on the green Formica kitchen table. I wanted to leave him one, too. No time. We have to go.

I recognize that even now when Ron wants to jump up and do something spontaneously, it sometimes activates an immediate and quiet undercurrent of panic in me. I need time. I’m not ready. Can you give me a warning so I can be prepared?

As a teen, I sometimes followed in Mama’s footsteps by creating dramatic situations similar to what I had witnessed Mama engineer. I didn’t realize then, as I do now, that I was recreating the drama and upheaval, the chaos of my childhood, in order to try to bring order, heal it, with the hope that this time there would be a different outcome.

Upheaval and calm. Chaos and order. The pendulum swing. A learned pattern. It is familiar. A deeply worn groove.

While I no longer actively seek out or unconsciously create the kind of drama I did as a teen, I see microscopic reflections of this childhood family pattern in my messy desk. Chaos and order. Too much, too little. Over and over the pattern repeats itself, even if less dramatic, thank God.

I still struggle with my lifelong pattern of overfilling my calendar. Don’t leave any space. Fill it up. Then the predictable physical and emotional backlash of overcommitment and exhaustion. Emptiness and not knowing sometimes still frightens the very young one inside of me.

I also notice how right now in my life, I am running again from my contemplative practice. And it has been confusing and upsetting to me. Why am I running from the very thing that I know I need? That I know nourishes me? Running from letting go and trusting that I am held. Running from sitting in the stillness with the Divine.

Running from something hurtful makes sense, running from something beneficial doesn’t. It wasn’t until I realized that running from something was normalized. It’s the act of running itself, not the particular thing I am running from. This too is a pattern. Present and still, or running.

But I catch myself much sooner than I used to. I am quicker to notice and I am becoming better at returning home to myself. Home within myself. The place that holds both/and not either/or.

This is the space I come to for myself, with myself, to learn to be myself.

I notice with compassion these patterns still exist in my life. I give myself tenderness in these moments.

I clear the chaos and begin again. I see the patterns and it’s okay. And I mean that.

These makeshift tables may not be much, but they are sturdy enough to hold what matters. Stories of pain and stories of hope. As I heal.

I mean, I could buy a desk.

But I don’t want to. Not just yet.

Instead, I clear the surface omce again and I buy myself flowers.

I bring color and beauty to these portable tables.

Photo by Rikonavt on Unsplash

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The preceding piece was my first attempt at using a writing prompt by Tina Wells. Although I often steer clear of writing prompts, this particular one struck a chord with me. You can find her prompt below, and for more details on the process, refer to the accompanying article.

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WRITING PROMPT

“Write a paragraph with a deliberate in/out rhythm of attention. Begin with place. Write a sentence describing the room in which you sit or the natural world surrounding you. Follow this with a couple of lines that express inner mood, body sensation, emotions, or thoughts. Then repeat.

This is to practice becoming conscious of the natural inner/outer pulsating attention we engage in normally and to become aware of writing in a rhythm that reflects the aliveness around us and our engagement with it…” - Tina Wells

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3 THINGS WORTH SHARING:

1. This poem by Jeff Foster.

Photo by Melissa Askew on Unsplash

Be gentle.

You are slowly bringing light and love

to the dark places inside.

Go slow.

You are getting to know forgotten parts of yourself.

There’s no rush.

You are meeting energies you spent your life pushing away and denying.

Healing is not a destination.

Forgive yourself each day.

You didn’t know how to slow down

until now.

You didn’t know how to meet pain.

You didn’t know how to face yourself.

Breathe.

That’s it.

Healing doesn’t happen all at once.

It’s only moment by moment.

It’s only now.

And so you can always

begin your life again.

2. Richard Rohr and Brene’ Brown? Oh, yes, please.

3. I love this snippet from Austin Kleon:

“Something I learned a long time ago is that it is a great help to the artist to believe that there are no coincidences. One way to boost your curiosity is to just assume that everything in life is a clue left from the universe for further investigation. Follow the clues the universe drops for you, and you will almost always learn something interesting. Take everything as a sign and you’ll be less stumped about what to do next. “

Photo by Austin Chan on Unsplash

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