(This post originally appeared in December 2016.)
Last week, I wrote about how we must write, no matter what, in the middle of things, despite circumstances . . . that we must make time to write. I was resolute in my instruction, adamant in my advice.
I am still numb from the loss on Christmas Eve of my second father, the man who became my stepdad when I was five and has been a rock in my life ever since. For almost 28 months, he fought the cancer battle, so a turn, at some point, was inevitable. But we have a way, sometimes, of vehemently denying what we know to be unequivocal truth.
Unthinkable—yes. Unexpected—well, no.
I was prepared to write during this visit home, every day, just as I advised you to do. My laptop, notebooks, and favorite pencils were loaded into my backpack. Of course, I would write. No matter what.
Both ways lead down a meandering and sometimes lengthy path of getting our questions answered, grasping for the purpose of things, seeking to explain, longing to understand, exploring the unthinkable in ways that make it bearable.
Writing is a significant instrument for making meaning in this world, a mighty hammer in our human toolkit which we too often dismiss or diminish in its importance for that purpose. I hold that all writers, no matter their genre, write to make sense of their lives and of this greater existence that we all share.
Every one of us asks, at some point, “What is the meaning of life, of this life, of my life?” We often talk about seeking meaning, finding meaning, looking for meaning. The idea of making meaning in life is far more appealing to me, though. The former posit that meaning is external to us, not of our own doing, completely outside our purview, that we must search outwardly to discover it. The philosophy that we make, i.e., create, the meaning in our lives is empowering and, at once, exciting and soothing to me. It gives me the sense that this is up to me—a huge responsibility, for sure, but also a satisfying understanding that I have some measurable control here.
Using writing as a tool for making meaning in life is a theme I am committed to exploring. I want to dive deeply into 12 keys that I feel are essential for meaning-making and how writing fits into that endeavor. I hope you will join me on this journey, much of which will unfold here on this blog.
As this year comes to a close, I extend my deepest thanks to all of you who have supported me and Around the Writer’s Table. The connections that have come out of this are the truly enriching piece for me. The year has been filled with rich, new, rewarding relationships and I am grateful beyond measure for every single one of you.
Yours in gratitude and service,
Gina
Then the unthinkable happened.
I am still numb from the loss on Christmas Eve of my second father, the man who became my stepdad when I was five and has been a rock in my life ever since. For almost 28 months, he fought the cancer battle, so a turn, at some point, was inevitable. But we have a way, sometimes, of vehemently denying what we know to be unequivocal truth.
Unthinkable—yes. Unexpected—well, no.
I was prepared to write during this visit home, every day, just as I advised you to do. My laptop, notebooks, and favorite pencils were loaded into my backpack. Of course, I would write. No matter what.
And then I didn’t.
Trauma sends me inward in a sheltered, reclusive, and self-protective way that does not allow for writing. At least not at first. I process loss and grief in much the same way that I learn. I soak up everything. I experience and live into all the bits and pieces. Then I step back and parse, embracing the useful, helpful fragments until they become part of me, and then I release the remaining shards. Only then can I write about it in a meaningful way. Others writers literally write through their pain, putting words to the page in the midst of their still unfolding, raw, and ragged grief.
Both ways are right.
Both ways lead down a meandering and sometimes lengthy path of getting our questions answered, grasping for the purpose of things, seeking to explain, longing to understand, exploring the unthinkable in ways that make it bearable.
Writing is a significant instrument for making meaning in this world, a mighty hammer in our human toolkit which we too often dismiss or diminish in its importance for that purpose. I hold that all writers, no matter their genre, write to make sense of their lives and of this greater existence that we all share.
Every one of us asks, at some point, “What is the meaning of life, of this life, of my life?” We often talk about seeking meaning, finding meaning, looking for meaning. The idea of making meaning in life is far more appealing to me, though. The former posit that meaning is external to us, not of our own doing, completely outside our purview, that we must search outwardly to discover it. The philosophy that we make, i.e., create, the meaning in our lives is empowering and, at once, exciting and soothing to me. It gives me the sense that this is up to me—a huge responsibility, for sure, but also a satisfying understanding that I have some measurable control here.
Using writing as a tool for making meaning in life is a theme I am committed to exploring. I want to dive deeply into 12 keys that I feel are essential for meaning-making and how writing fits into that endeavor. I hope you will join me on this journey, much of which will unfold here on this blog.
As this year comes to a close, I extend my deepest thanks to all of you who have supported me and Around the Writer’s Table. The connections that have come out of this are the truly enriching piece for me. The year has been filled with rich, new, rewarding relationships and I am grateful beyond measure for every single one of you.
Yours in gratitude and service,
Gina 
Gina Edwards is a retreat leader, a certified creativity coach, and a book editor. She is also a writer, so she’s intimately familiar with the challenges and elation that come with being one.
She supports all writers—published and aspiring—who want to write as an act of courageous and necessary self-expression.
Walking the writer’s path hand-in-hand with her clients and students, she helps them establish a writing practice and define a creative life on their own terms.
So well put. Thank you, and my sympathies for your loss.
I am grateful, as well, Gina, for your guidance and council. I have found that writing can be a saving grace. I work at it to let myself know that no matter how bad things go, or how good things seem, there is profound meaning in the undercurrent. I seem to discover these things when I write about what’s going on; good, or bad.
As for your loss, all I can offer is this prayer written a long time ago by a poet priest:
“And when she buries a man, that action concerns me: all mankind is of one author, and is one volume; when one man dies, one chapter is not torn out of the book, but translated into a better language; and every chapter must be so translated; God employs several translators; some pieces are translated by age, some by sickness, some by war, some by justice; but God’s hand is in every translation, and his hand shall bind up all our scattered leaves again for that library where every book shall lie open to one another. As therefore the bell that rings to a sermon calls not upon the preacher only, but upon the congregation to come, so this bell calls us all; but how much more me, who am brought so near the door by this sickness.
No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main. If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as if a manor of thy friend’s or of thine own were: any man’s death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind, and therefore never send to know for whom the bells tolls; it tolls for thee.”
John Donne
Peace&Love!
Bill
“all mankind is of one author, and is one volume; when one man dies, one chapter is not torn out of the book, but translated into a better language.” That is my solace. Thank you, Bill.
Well said. And felt. This writing in itself is cathartic.
I feel that most writing, to some degree, is cathartic. And an author’s greatest reward is when her written words are cathartic to readers as well.
Beautifully written Gina. My prayers are being sent to you and your family during this time.
I am so grateful to you, Judy. Thank you.
I find it difficult to directly respond to someone who is grieving. Fear of causing the pain to resurface? Fear of being in their shoes? I’m not sure.
I’m sorry for your loss, and the heartache that comes with it.
Responding respectfully to the grief of others requires us to be vulnerable and most of us don’t like to be vulnerable, so the resistance we feel to vulnerability can show up as fear. Or you may be so strongly empathetic that you could be internalizing the pain and loss of others yet interpreting it as fear. “I’m sorry” is often enough. I appreciate you and your kind words!
So sorry for your loss, Gina. And, as you are doing, so am I…trying to make meaning out of the life I live. Be well and keep writing. Sue TK
It’s so nice to be in the company of other writers like you to make that meaning with! Thank you, Sue.
I invited about ten women to each write a chapter in an anthology I was creating, that was later titled “Shared Stories from Daughters of Alzheimer’s” and the project that I had thought would take about a year, took about 6 years. Each was to write about their experience with the parent and how it impacted her life– to serve as a “support group in print” for others. Part of the problem was that over half of of the writers were still in the midst of this highly emotional experience and were so emotionally engaged in the challenges that the thoughts were jumbled, confused and repetitious, necessitating numerous re-writes. When each writer turned in her chapter, she remarked about feeling that a huge weight had been lifted from her shoulders – not because the task was done, but because the process had helped them process the emotions and heal. That prompted me to read a number of works about the healing value of writing – specifically journal writing. I particularly like Kathleen Adams’ book “Journal to the Self – 22 Paths to Personal Growth”. So much of Adams’ writing explained and validated what we writers had already experienced. There’s something not only emotional and intellectual that goes on, but also something physical when you write the words, and some of the benefit, authors say, is derived from the physical activity of writing the words. Sorry to be so long-winded, but just reading your comments swept me back to that experience.
Thank you for sharing this, Perky. This is just the type of experience I want to hear about! And thank you for the book recommendation too.
Yes, we process our emotional lives through our writing, but not usually immediately. Experience takes a while to pass through us before it produces the echo of writing. And then it returns over and over although often so disguised we can’t even place the source material, enriching our words because we have lived and therefore have the authority to write of love and loss and life itself.