About 5 years ago I wrote a post about writer’s block. Granted, the circumstances in my life (as well as with the world) were much different than they are today; and yet I find myself once again unable (or unwilling) to write. One of the “excuses” I cited in the previous post was that my writing was not really of interest to anyone so why bother. Anyone who knows me or has read any of my other posts will recognize self-deprecation as a common theme. I often say that I don’t use that tool as a roundabout means of getting praised or acknowledged. But recently, as I continue to grow in “self-awareness” (yuk!) I have to admit that the desire to be recognized or acknowledged still lingers under the surface of much of what I do.

When I started this undertaking of “blogging” it was with the intention (mostly) of being an encouragement to others; to share hope in the midst of struggles and to write the story of my life in small bits and of what I saw as going from “ashes to beauty”. It’s what I was taught to do in almost 41 years of life in recovery-to share your “experience, strength and hope” and to give to others what’s been so freely given to you. But at some point in this endeavor I think I started looking for measurable results, whether in family, friends, or yes through some sort of recognition. I started to think I was just taking my journal entries and putting them out there for everyone to see and I felt too vulnerable. That old enemy shame crept back in and was bolstered by something I heard in a writing class that essentially no one wanted to read my journals; I should clean them up and resolve my issues before publishing them.

But more recently I started reading the book “Good Writing” by Anne Lamott and her husband Neal Allen (Avery an imprint of Random House LLC, 2026). Allen sets forth 36 rules on writing, and Lamott (one of my writing idols) sets forth her take on them. Rule 33 is “Write the hard stuff” Don’t shy away from the big mysteries of life. Anne’s take is “PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE WRITE THE HARD STUFF- write about life, and death, and loss and hope, and how on earth you survived that childhood or injury or marriage.  Find a way to write about people’s underlying fears, maybe psychological but also mystical- fear of death, of legacy, of emptiness and lovableness. Write about who you think you are down deep, past the persona and curation and the stories you believe about yourself….” (Good Writing pp. 154-155).

I also read today, in the news of her death, this quote by Annie Dillard about writing: “One of the things I know about writing is this: spend it all, shoot it, play it, lose it, all, right away, every time…give it, give it all, give it all now. The impulse to save something good for a better place later is the signal to spend it now. Something more will arise for later, something better. These things fill from behind, from beneath, like well water…Anything you do not give freely and abundantly becomes lost to you. You open your safe and find ashes.” (Annie Dillard, The Writing Life: The Classic Essay Collection on the Creative Process).

The ashes analogy is not lost on me.

So today I will try to write some of the “hard stuff”.

35 years ago today my persona, my identity changed. I went from married, mother of one and expecting, a self-employed attorney, to widow, single parent, sole support of the household. This date falls in a week full of “anniversaries”- some good, some not so good or even tragic: two miscarriages (years apart), the death of my husband, the first date with my current husband, the wedding anniversary of my middle child.

But for some reason this year it’s today’s anniversary that is impacting me the most. I think it’s largely due to the number connected to the date- in a few weeks I will turn 70, so 35 years marks exactly the mid-point of my life (so far). Trying to wrap my mind around the number of years that have passed and all that has happened, how many times my persona, my identity, has changed is overwhelming. And yet, in spite of the years and life events, I can still recall the smallest details of that day in 1991:

• The kindness of my friend Bob E when I received the call to come to the hospital;
• The sweet nun, chaplain at the hospital, who stayed with my late husband and waited for me to arrive;
• My brother, who somehow showed up at the hospital (I don’t remember calling him);
• Going to Bob’s Men’s shop in Boonton (with my brother) to pick out a shirt for my husband to wear and the reaction of the owner (who’s name was Jim, not Bob) to hear of the death of his friend;
• Picking up my daughter from daycare and sitting on the steps outside to tell her about her daddy.

I have no idea why these memories are so fresh, so raw today. But I do know that I’m supposed to share them, to, as Anne Lamott says, “discover the truth of who we are. We’re animal, human, divine. That is the hard stuff to capture but that is what I most long to read: truth. Your truth; our truth.” (Good Writing, p. 155).

So I write to discover and try to capture my truth. And my truth today is that I am still a very fallible human, still seeking love and acceptance from those who matter most in my life. I’m still both excited and fearful about the next chapter of my life as we prepare for my husband’s retirement. (I refuse to refer to it as the cliche “next season” of my life).

In the midst of all the remembering, the sadness, the regret I am also filled with a tremendous amount of gratitude for the life I’ve been gifted. I am looking forward to an upcoming trip to celebrate my husband’s retirement and my milestone birthday; I am excited about embracing the still new title of “Nonni” more; I’m grateful for little things, too, like Anne Lamott’s permission to use semicolons even though it’s against the rules. I have 3 wonderful adult children who have survived my parenting to the best of their ability, a husband who actually wants to spend time with me, and friends and siblings who miss me when I’m not around. If I can offer any encouragement to those who might be feeling stuck or insignificant it’s that there can always be beauty from ashes.

There’s a song by Seth Glier, a young singer/songwriter who is much wiser than his years, called “Everything Beautiful” which says “we are beautiful, My god we are broken. I think everything beautiful comes from broken”

There is always something that can be gleaned from the smallest of incidents or the largest tragedies. So I will try my best to continue to write the hard stuff, and to do it NOW, not waiting for the beautiful in front of me to turn back into ashes.