Trust and the nature of rivers and truth
Recently I’ve talked about struggling with issues concerning disclosure . As I’ve said, the reason for my struggle has not so much to do with secrecy but with wanting to write about things that would make no sense without a back story - a story which contains elements of truth about my relationship with my husband.
My husband and I are very intentional about maintaining a layer of enclosure around the inner territories of our relationship - again, not for reasons of secrecy in order to hide something, but for reasons of care and love, in order to protect what is sacred to us.
On the other hand, he and I believe very strongly that the most personal story is often the most valuable - for the tellers in their process of telling it as well as for those who encounter it and thereby might gain some learning or recognition relevant to their own lives.
Our experience with co-writing Tea and Oranges taught us that there are ways to write selectively about deeply intimate experiences while maintaining respect for and protection of the landscape of our inner marriage.
We learned that it was not the factual details of our "real" lives that were of value. Instead, the value - for both us and others - existed in being able to write about our relationship in ways that allowed its radically truthful but often convoluted process to be illuminated, even if only in flashes and for a brief time.
I’ve realized that part of my current struggle with writing this blog (and there are several parts) has to do with the fact that I am writing solo, not as part of a couple anymore, and yet I’m still writing about things that are profoundly informed by my relationship with my husband, someone whose right to privacy I greatly respect even within the shared space of our marriage.
So, over the past several days, he and I have discussed many things about this whole blogging business, the part it plays in our relationship, and where his boundaries are when it comes to me writing about him and our relationship.
Two very important things came out of those conversations: he encouraged me to write about whatever I feel I need to write about and he reminded me of his trust in my judgment, specifically concerning his belief in my ability to write in such a way that would not damage the inner core of our relationship.
Trust is an amazing thing - to give and to receive. In this case, receiving my husband’s trust is helping me make decisions that will allow me to express myself in a less censored way on this blog. This is not because I need his permission to express myself, but that I can express myself with more honesty and confidence because he trusts me to do so… because, as Rilka described, he is the guardian of my solitude.*
Amid all the explicit words and process-oriented posts my husband and I wrote on Tea and Oranges, there exists a simple little snapshot-in-words (re-posted below) of an evening walk we took together; a brief piece of writing that I’ve always felt summed up the whole universe of our relationship. But, re-reading it after all this time, I realized that it also sums up the way I feel about the concept of "telling the truth."
I feel that truth is a meandering thing which exists in its own realm within each of us. It is governed by its own laws of flow; principles which do not force a choice between mind or body, emotions or logic, and least of all, fact or fiction. The truth within us is simply that which is .
Our task as truth seekers then is not to choose whether or not we should or can believe that which is, but only to take note of it, to trust its existence. And perhaps if we are keen with words, to attempt to tell the parts of its story we can capture in glancing glimpses.
It is this way of "telling the truth" that I want to always aim for here on Vespertine Erotica. That truth within me which is, like a river, always and only true to its constant but everchanging self.
.
Republished from Tea and Oranges, July 2006 :
Life, Study
A few evenings ago, Naranja and I took a walk to the river, which included making our way along trails through fields and woods.
We walked first along a mowed trail which cut through the tall grasses of a fallow field. Little blue and white flowers like stars wavered and winked, wild oats swayed thin and tall with the rhythm of an invisible wind, and the occasional morning glory spiraled its way, in love, clinging, wrapping around a sturdy stalk of weed.
The field gave way to a stand of birch, light in color and years, but heavy with early evening birdsong. A deeper green came next, and faint rustlings of hungry things in the underbrush. Under a canopy of old oaks and towering elms we could begin to smell the river, to hear it clearly, as the leaf cover shut out the noise of the already fading sun. At last we came to the river. It spoke to us in low tones as it meandered its sure way around the bend.
On the sandy edge we stood, shifting our feet, looking into the deepest part of the current where the flow moves fast and unforgiving. We watched for something but saw only the river, that way it has of leaving but staying behind. We held our tongues - in respect of the river’s speech. And then in silent agreement, the intuitive knowing of long years together, we turned to begin our way back, but not by the same way we had come.
As we picked up another loop of trail and settled into a mutual pace, we often switched places. Sometimes he would lead, set a new pace, and I would follow close behind, matching my steps to his rhythm. Then very naturally and without words, he would end up walking behind me and I would be the one with the open trail before me; his strong presence at my back. At one point, the trail widened. And we walked side by side for a time.
And as the light fell and night began to introduce herself, our conversation wove its way through the spaces between us, around us; our voices first soft then a little louder with laughter, then hushed again. And then we heard only the cadence of our footfalls and the fading sound of the river behind us until his voice, or mine again, rose to the work of spinning a new thread of conversation, asking a new question. Or re-mystifying an old one.
We returned home with a few yellow flowers, bright blooms that were sure to wither in a day. Still, I placed them carefully, artfully, in a milk bottle vase filled with cold, clear water.
.
*Rilka on Marriage:
The point of marriage is not to create a quick commonality by tearing down all boundaries; on the contrary, a good marriage is one in which each partner appoints the other to be the guardian of his solitude, and thus they show each other the greatest possible trust. A merging of two people is an impossibility, and where it seems to exist, it is a hemming-in, a mutual consent that robs one party or both parties of their fullest freedom and development. But once the realization is accepted that even between the closest people infinite distances exist, a marvelous living side-by-side can grow up for them, if they succeed in loving the expanse between them, which gives them the possibility of always seeing each other as a whole and before an immense sky.
Between the children and the garden, I have very little time just now to respond to this but — oh! you have provoked a response. *smiles* I just posted something in the middle night, which provoked a query from a reader, which I responded to, which speaks to this self-same issue: privacy vs. revelation. How much can I, will I, reveal when doing so would tell not just my story, but the stories of various men, as well? This is a thorny path indeed. I’ll be back to read more thoroughly, and likely comment again, later.
Beth,
Thorny path is a good way to describe it. I’ll look forward to reading about how you’re handling it, too.
I read your words sometimes and see in them a reflection of my own thoughts … I too have struggled with the dichotomy of “public” journalling and like you, have always been fanatically careful about protecting the privacy and integrity of both the individual who means the most to me in the whole world, but the sanctity of our relationship.
I know my own writing is often somewhat convoluted, confusing but reconciled that with teh reality that my soul was mine to keep and mine to reveal only as I see fit.
I found the excerpt achingly poignant - thank you .
I’m a big believer in the interconnectedness of all things. Perhaps that is one reason stream of consciousness is integral to my writing and my introspective nature and why little snippets of self discovered truth pop up when I least expect them. Those pop ups happened as I read this post, the strongest one that sometimes our real truths, whether as individuals, pairs or groups, are found in what we do not say rather than in what we verbalize.
Your reprint was lovely, a word painting of connection, reflection and quiet joy. What more could be asked of a moments shared journey.
I wanted to let you know that my early thoughts on this got lengthy, and I’ve posted them on my blog — thank you for the inspiration!
Ah, defining Truth.
Whenever I yearn for a defnition for myself, I always return to the defintion I learned from Gay and Katie Hendricks: Truth is that which cannot be argued.
So simple for this pea brain to remember. Reminds me there really isn’t anything to grasp onto anywhere. Quite freeing (for me, anyway).
Selkie,
I know my own writing is often somewhat convoluted, confusing but reconciled with the reality that my soul was mine to keep and mine to reveal only as I see fit.
Yes, exactly. This is exactly it. Which makes this entire dilemma of writing about others while trying to stay true to one’s own soul a rather permanent condition.
Kaz,
…sometimes our real truths, whether as individuals, pairs or groups, are found in what we do not say rather than in what we verbalize.
Absolutely!
Beth,
I’m glad this post inspired you to write your own! I’ve read it, and I loved how you put the idea of protecting certain aspects of the relationship you write about:
…whatever you read here…is only a glimpse though a single window of an enormous house.
What a wonderful way to put that! It’s a bit of a thrill to get glimpse into someone’s warmly-lit living room through the open curtains after nightfall. But the funny thing is, I don’t think that any of us would want to see every nook and cranny of the entire house even if we were invited to! Nor could we understand the memories or emotions held within every single space even if we were allowed to view them all.
Gillette,
Truth is that which cannot be argued.
Damn, that’s good!
Dear Elizavetta:
The art of fiction has been described as telling a lie to reveal the greater truth. I think the same can be said about the art of memoir and her upstart cousin known as blogging. A completely accurate account of a writer’s daily life would be completely boring. As a writer you have to choose. Are you going to write about the annoying series of letters and phone calls to the company who installed the French doors which never close properly? Or will you write about the gust of wind that blew the faulty doors open, forced you to get up from the desk and see a sky of amethyst moments before the clouds consumed it?
I do not care whether you were alone or with Naranja when you walked along the river, whether you walked that path once or many times. What matters is that you used the experience to create something that is beautiful and true in its essence and that is what you freely offered to your readers.
Kochanie
Kochanie,
You always give me so much to ponder *smile*
The art of fiction has been described as telling a lie to reveal the greater truth. I think the same can be said about the art of memoir and her upstart cousin known as blogging.
I’m not sure that I’d agree that telling an outright lie (a blatant untruth) is necessary in order to reveal a greater truth. As Kaz mentioned previously, it’s not always what we say that matters:
…sometimes our real truths, whether as individuals, pairs or groups, are found in what we do not say rather than in what we verbalize.
And as far as fiction is concerned (and, as you say, memoir and blogging), I’m of the opinion that a writer’s judicious omission of certain information while simultaneously highlighting other things can certainly open a path to the greater truth of whatever is being written about. And all without telling a single “lie.”
What comes to mind here is a line from The French Lieutenant’s Woman, by John Fowles; a pivotal line (haunting even, to some of us who love this book) on which the entire world of the story turns and we as readers are ushered into a wealth of truth we didn’t yet know existed within that world, or ourselves… all because of what, we finally realize, wasn’t said:
Language is like shot silk; so much depends on the angle at which it is held.
Trust-the most fragile and most enduring thing that exists. I often think it vys with love as the strongest force in the Multiverse, for love without trust is broken, indeed.
[...] wrote an interesting post here where she explored many of these similar issues that I now find myself writing about, most [...]
Liras,
…love without trust is broken, indeed.
Well said, well said.
To be the keepers of each other’s solitude is the rarest and most precious of gifts we give each other. I will never forget that walk, because it is The Walk. Our Walk. It is always our walk.
Oh, and the truth is just another story.
Dear Husband,
I have no words in response. Only a smile and a nod.