Monday, April 29, 2019
Of course that is the question...In the early days of my blog, sometimes I wondered why I continued to write it. One of the first questions I had as I began to write was: Do I write for an audience? I concluded that this was a question that did not have just one answer.
As I sorted through why I started this blog, I came up with reasons. Here are some of them.
Writing for Writing’s Sake
I have always enjoyed writing and have kept various types of journals over the years. I kept sporadic journals when my children were small as an attempt to just try and keep some sort of record of what life was like during that period of my life. I didn't really have an audience in mind when I kept those journals, but they were often more than just some sort of daily log of experiences.
I wish I had been more disciplined in my journal attempts during those days because now, I do have an audience for what I wrote during those busy, hectic times: myself and possibly my children.
Many young moms began blogging when I began blogging. They created fabulous blogs full of wonderful pictures of their children. They were pretty blogs filled with flowers and flowing designs. They represented the technological gifts that this generation of moms have developed. I envied these young moms and their blogs because they will have a precious record of their lives with their children. What a gift and a blessing. What I wouldn't give to have the same type of archive of my children’s' activities when they were young. I often wondered if these moms were clear on the audience they were writing for. Were they writing to leave a record? Were they writing for other moms? Were they writing for parents living far from where they lived?
Writing for An Audience
When one writes, the audience does not always present itself immediately. We write because we have a need to record our lives. We write to express our dreams, our needs, our disappointments, our heartbreak, our insights, or even as a means of trying to make sense out of what is going on around us. Writing is intensely personal, and for that reason, we are sometimes hesitant to put down our most intimate thoughts and emotions on paper because we fear an unknown or known audience. Audience can intimidate us and cause us not to write or not to write well.
When I reflect back on the time I was teaching high school English, I now see I might have confused my students when I taught about audience and writing. I would tell my students that they did not need to consider audience when they wrote in their journals. In fact, I encouraged them not to think about the reader while writing. I told them that they were just to write. They did not have to worry about punctuation or spelling or any other grammatical rules as they wrote in their journals. I just wanted them to feel free to write without being intimidated by feeling that they must write perfectly if they were to write at all. I told them to focus on developing voice.
Many of my students would write stunning journal entries. They would amaze me with the uniqueness of their individual voices. I would get glimpses into their true selves through their journal writing. Sometimes, I would be heartbroken by what they had to share. Sometimes I would be alarmed. Always, I was grateful that they trusted me enough to write transparently and honestly when they knew I would read what they wrote. I was their audience, and they trusted me enough to write honestly.
Other times, when the students had a writing assignment, I would teach about audience. I would remind them that they should consider their audience when they wrote. Unfortunately, many times, these formal writings lacked an ability to touch any type of audience. They became stilted, boring, and seemed to only represent some sort of stylized writing that came about from trying to follow the form style writing that they had been taught in previous years of schooling. This writing would lack life. It might be perfectly representative of a five-paragraph essay, but it lacked true meaning. The concept of writing for an audience was difficult for many students to grasp.
Can We Ever Fully Anticipate How Our Writing Will Impact Our Readers When We Sit Down to Write?
When I was teaching, my father became very ill and was hospitalized just days before he died. He was hospitalized just as my teaching quarter was ending before Spring Break. Just before I left to drive to his bedside, my students took a quarterly essay test that had to be graded before I could leave town.
On that test, my students had to respond to Li-Young Lee's poem, "The Grandfather." Their audience was: me - their teacher. Their purpose was: they wrote to get a grade. They clearly understood their audience and purpose.
Interestingly, after all the responses were read, the grades were assigned, and I had left my role as teacher to drive to my father's bedside to become a daughter who only had a few more days to spend with her father, I found that my focus as an audience who had read assigned poetry responses shifted. I found myself recalling the poem, and even more importantly, I recalled the responses my students had shared with me about the poem in their responses on the test.
Their words began to comfort me. They gave me strength. They allowed me to peacefully surrender myself to the moment I found myself in at my father’s bedside. I saw these last moments with him in a new way as I reflected on all my students said about “The Grandfather,” and about the poem itself.
I realized the power of the written word in a unique way. The freshness of my students' youthful responses that spoke of the value of caring for the elderly grandfather while treasuring his final stories spoke to me. I will never forget how comforting my students’ words about the last days with a grandfather were to me. Neither my students nor myself had any idea how those words would be remembered by the reader who first read them as a teacher and remembered them later as a grieving daughter sitting by her father’s bedside as he lived his last few days.
Why I Chose to Write A Blog Even When I Was Unsure of An Audience
Blogs that are successful, seems to require audience. One would not continue to blog very long if one did not have some sort of audience. In the beginning days of blogging when I first began this blog, one of the beauties of the blogging was the ability to have a place where one could post something that could generate an immediate response if it was read by anyone at all.
When I first began the blog, for months it seemed the jury was still out on how long the blog would last. I was not sure of the benefit of the blog except for serving as a place where I could create a bit of a history of what was going on in my life at the moment.
I was newly retired. I struggled with my new status at times. I missed the academic life, and yet I was also happy to leave the daily demands of it behind. I missed my students. I missed the interaction. I missed my audience. That is one thing a teacher always has - an audience. As I used to say, "Just give me a stage!"
But, I also thought that my classroom was a place where we were all learning together. I liked to think that I created a more generative, constructivist type of classroom. It wasn't just like the classrooms where I went to school. I always hoped to create a classroom that was interactive and interesting.
Certainly, if a blog is going to be successful, it must be all of those things too. I have loved blogging. I have decided to make a shift in my blogging experience. This shift will occur next month when a new blog is launched.
In the meantime, I am gathering ideas to inform my blogging experience. This is new territory for me, but so was blogging when I first began writing. One thing is for sure, I am learning all kinds of new things about writing, about audience, and about what goes into blogging in 2019. Things have changed since 2008! That is for sure.
Posted by Sally Wessely at 5:45 PM
Tuesday, April 9, 2019
In Memory of my daughter
Julie Ann Christiansen
April 8, 1976 - May 29, 2010
You come and visit again on days like this.
You know the date well because you always show up on this day. Always.
I know you.
I know your name.
I know all the thoughts and feelings that bring with you when you visit.
Sometimes you enter the door of my heart in bursts.
Yes, Grief, your short, unexpected visits are named ‘Grief bursts.’
Other times you come and visit and stay for days, longer than I would like you to stay.
But let me tell you something, Grief. While I am well acquainted with you and your visits, I have learned something about another visitor that makes you seem like a rather simple emotion.
The name of that other visitor to my life is
Bereavement is more complex than you are Grief.
Bereavement speaks of the tearing apart that was left in my soul, in my heart, in my body, in my family circle when my dear Julie left me.
Bereavement left me unable to function, to get out of bed, to cook a meal, to pick up one foot and put it in front of the other.
Bereavement left me feeling robbed. Yes, robbed. When I wonder just what my beautiful daughter would like like today on what would have been her forty-third birthday, I feel robbed.
I feel robbed when she isn’t here for family holidays, for special occasions, for memorable event.
I feel robbed when I can’t call her up and hear her voice. When I can’t hear her speak of her take on events, politics, movies, books, family matters, work, life, and love, I feel robbed.
And, more than that, I think of how she was robbed of a life that, “woulda, coulda, shoulda” been her's to live.
Monday, April 1, 2019
In March and in April, the daffodil heralds the coming of spring. For some, spring is a difficult season.
For some, April truly can be the “cruelest month.”
As I look back over the springtimes of my life, I associate this season of life with daffodils. Today, I’d like to use this flower, this motif for my life, to remind us all not to be fooled by April. It has long been known that the coming of spring also increases the risk of suicide. This is a difficult topic to write about, and to read about, but today, I think as we look forward to warmer days ahead, we also should be vigilant and watch for an increase in suicidal thoughts and behavior.
As a child, I once picked daffodils and pretended they were the mouthpieces mounted at the top of a candlestick telephone. I called them “telephone flowers.” They became a favorite very early in my life.
Yes, I am old. Many of you might not even know what a candlestick telephone is. Google it. You might then see why my imaginative mind saw the bright jonquils blooming in the front yard of my childhood home as play telephones.
As a very young person, I began to think of them as my flower, the one that symbolized my optimism about life. They reminded me that there was always new life that would spring forth no matter how dark, cold, and bitter the winter had been. I lived in the mountains of Colorado as a teen. The snow was deep, and cold, and some years did not melt until spring itself was nearly over. Bundled in winter clothes, leaving the cold mountain hilltops behind, we would sometimes travel to the land of springtime found at lower elevations for a short visit to see my grandmother. I still remember the joy I would feel when I saw daffodils blooming because I knew that surely spring would find us soon, even in the mountains.
When I think back to my first years of adulthood, in my mind’s eye, I see the driveway leading to my parent’s home lined with blooming daffodils when I first met and fell in love with the man I would marry over fifty years ago. Perhaps, that showy burst of bright color was partly to blame for the optimism and excitement I felt that spring when love was new and I unable to see anything but happy possibilities.
One April morning 43 years ago, I was awakened by labor pains. As my husband and I pulled out of our own driveway to head to the hospital, I took note of the daffodils blooming in my yard. Later, in my journal I recorded the events of the day when my fourth child and third daughter was born by writing, “The daffodils blooming as I headed off to the hospital to give birth to this beautiful daughter seemed to say, “You are having a spring baby and all is right with the world.”
Their message to me has always been a message of joy, renewal, rebirth, life after death.
That love affair that began so many years ago when the daffodils were blooming led to marriage, the birth of five children, and a bitter divorce.
My love for daffodils did not change.
Dishes, bowls, vases, picture frames, tablecloths, I have many that are decorated with the daffodil motif. They are brought out every spring to brighten my days and my home.
Once when that springtime baby born in April was grown, she went to Dublin, Ireland, in the spring. While there, she came across a field of daffodils and had herself photographed sitting among them so she could send the photo to me.
There she is dressed in green, her favorite color, a color she wore so well, sitting among the daffodils, and thinking of me as she smiled for the camera so that the moment could be recorded and sent to mom as a keepsake of her trip to Ireland.
I think that for some of us, some symbols, some motifs, some flowers carry powerful messages for us throughout our lives. I think of the happy memories that are created as we collect pictures in our minds of times when those symbols bring us great joy, peace, hope, or comfort. Daffodils have always been that symbol for me.
The symbol, the flower, does not in and of itself hold power in my life, but rather, the power lies in meaning I have assigned to it.
Daffodils always make me think of: newness of life, rebirth, hope, springtime, beauty, Easter, the resurrection.
Indeed, daffodils are often called the Lent Lily.
When, that April baby, the one born when the daffodils were blooming, my beautiful daughter Julie Ann, took her life, it was in May of her thirty-fourth year. She had been with me when the daffodils were blooming for one last Easter celebration just weeks before her death. The family had come together to hunt for eggs filled with candy, color Easter eggs, and celebrate her birthday. The last one she would ever celebrate.
She sat on the grass that was just beginning to turn green and posed for one last photo with her sisters.
|Keicha, Julie, Amy|
I did not know that I would never see her alive again when I snapped another photo, the one I took later in the day of just her with her dog Phoenix.
|Julie with Phoenix|
I snapped that photo, never dreaming that within a very short amount of time, I would have to pick out a headstone for her final resting place and wonder just what I would put on that stone. Her name. Her birth date. Her death date. All of that was hard enough. Still, I wanted something else there on that stone, something that spoke to me. A flower? Would a flower be nice on that stone? Sadly, none of us could remember just what her favorite flower had been. Had she ever said? If we had known, I guess I could have had that flower engraved upon that stone, but I honestly didn’t know what her favorite flower was, and so I had a daffodil carved next to her name.
Daffodils are supposed to have bright color, and they are supposed to “flutter and dance in the breeze” as they are characterized by Wordsworth. They are not supposed to be carved in stone, but I needed some sort of reminder that my beautiful girl had been bright and beautiful and youthful and had always reminded me of spring when I looked at that cold stone that marked her death. I needed something to remind me that there was life after death.
Yet, when I saw a daffodil on her tombstone, it seemed as incongruent with that jocular flower as thinking of my daughter as dead seemed incongruent with everything I knew about her and about life itself. Yes, when my daughter took her life, everything I thought I knew about life no longer fit.
The season of grief is one where flowers do not bloom in one’s heart and soul except when one remembers times when flowers bloomed when the one we grieve was with us.
I am now entering the ninth spring since Julie left us. Daffodils again cheer my heart and bring me comfort. They speak to me joy, and renewal, and hope, and the beauty that comes after a long, dark, cold, winter. They speak to me of life, life for now, and life after death.
I am not the same woman I was when I first became acquainted with unspeakable loss.
One of the first things I wrote after Julie’s death was that I hoped to integrate her life and death into my life in a way that was healthy, honest, and truthful. I did not want to wall of that part of my life which brought me deep pain. I did not want to compartmentalize anything about my life. I wanted to integrate all of the parts into a whole that had meaning and healing and purpose. Julie would want that for me.
Last Easter, I gave a small pot of miniature daffodils as a gift to someone I loved. When I left to return home after my Easter visit, I was told, “Take the flowers with you. I don’t want them.” And so, trying not to be hurt, I did just that. I took the flowers with me.
They didn’t last long.
Soon the blooms were dead and began to dry out. For some reason, I could not throw that plant away. Instead, I marveled at the beauty of the shell of the bloom that was left behind. The color was lighter yellow than the color had been when the plant was in full bloom. The shapes were reminiscent of the blooms when they were in their most beautiful state. I thought they were still beautiful in this altered condition.
I carefully took the spent blossoms from the dried stems, collected the dried flowers, and put them in a glass basket. When spring was over, I left the dried flowers in basket as I put it away.
I took this basket out again this spring. It sat among the fresh daffodil bouquets for several weeks. I kept asking myself why I kept those dried flowers and what meaning I could find in them.
Finally, it came to me.
Spring is hard for so many. If one is suicidal, or depressed, or suffering from mental illness, one just might not see daffodils and the coming of spring the way I do. The depressed, the one struggling, might not see hope, optimism, and happy sunny days ahead when spring arrives.
I knew from my study of depression, mental illness, and because of the knowledge I had learned about suicide, that many are at risk for suicide more in the springtime of the year than at any other time of the year.
Where I see possibilities for happier days ahead where the flowers will again bloom, others see dried out dreams and memories from yesterday and a future that seems fruitless and not worth living.
If I could change one thing, it would be to have been aware of my daughter’s true state of mind in that last spring of her life. I would ask her those hard questions that I had asked her before in times when she expressed suicidal thoughts. I would ask how she was really doing. I would ask if she were thinking of harming herself. I would do anything I could to get her the help she needed in her darkest hour.
This spring, in her memory, I ask you to think of those you love whom might be at risk of suicide. Know the risks. Know the signs. Ask the hard question. Make that phone call. Get help for them and for you so you can best help them.
Please visit the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention and educate yourself about the risk factors and warning signs that someone you know, or someone you love, might need your help.
Don't be fooled by April. Not everyone will experience spring the same way.
Posted by Sally Wessely at 9:06 PM