I need a ritual to throw off the habit of melancholy, to jetison it, chuck it in the river.
In this story I need such a scene. I need to release myself from the duty of sadness carrier. I must refuse its mantle. I must reject its seductive overtures. I must release its grip on my psyche, say no to the habit of sadness. I must reprogram the default position in my brain from sad face to ready-to-smile face.
I don't have to believe in the sad mother story any longer. Ok, so she was sad, but she is gone now, she's been gone for a while. She is no longer sad, no longer suffering, her suffering is over. And I don't have to languish in it any more.
Seems hard, seems cruel, like tough love, like I'm not playing the game any more, I'm not saying—oh poor little mother, always sad, how awful that must be. How I wish I could make you happy. Well it is not a child's duty to make their parent happy and besides in case I haven't noticed, I am not that child anymore.
But if I jetison the sadness, the wound, the pain, the melancholy, does that mean I must also jetison MD? Will it mean I no longer find the endless pages of pain and suffering in Blue Eyes, Black Hair, so tantalising, so seductive, so affirming? Will I become one of those people who on reading her work, say — oh its a bit depressing isn't it? Not really my cup of tea...
I will perform this ritual in the afterword, on the way back in the boat from visiting Sadec, in the long shadows of the setting sun, while the others are not looking, I scribble down some words like the ones above. I decide enough is enough. I don't have to carry my mother's sadness anymore. I don't have to wear it as my story. I don't have to give in to the hopelessness like she did. For her there was no way out, but times have changed, my position is not hopeless. I have choices she didn't have, freedoms she wasn't allowed. I don 't have to be unhappy. It is not a predestined disposition. It is not something I have to carry on. It can end here. On this river. For her and for me.
The others are sitting in their cane chairs, some are writing in their notebooks too, others contemplating the view, the beehive shaped brick kilns, the jumble of houses along the river bank, the golden light of the setting sun.
I rip the page out of my notebook and casually leaning my arm over the side of the boat let it trail for a moment in the splash from the bow, then let it go. My promises seem to float on the surface for a second or two and are gone, replaced by a flotilla of green water hyacinth.
The setting sun slips towards the horizon. A voice drifts across the water, an old woman singing as she washes dishes on the deck of her river boat, a pumpkin strapped to the mast.
In this story I need such a scene. I need to release myself from the duty of sadness carrier. I must refuse its mantle. I must reject its seductive overtures. I must release its grip on my psyche, say no to the habit of sadness. I must reprogram the default position in my brain from sad face to ready-to-smile face.
I don't have to believe in the sad mother story any longer. Ok, so she was sad, but she is gone now, she's been gone for a while. She is no longer sad, no longer suffering, her suffering is over. And I don't have to languish in it any more.
Seems hard, seems cruel, like tough love, like I'm not playing the game any more, I'm not saying—oh poor little mother, always sad, how awful that must be. How I wish I could make you happy. Well it is not a child's duty to make their parent happy and besides in case I haven't noticed, I am not that child anymore.
But if I jetison the sadness, the wound, the pain, the melancholy, does that mean I must also jetison MD? Will it mean I no longer find the endless pages of pain and suffering in Blue Eyes, Black Hair, so tantalising, so seductive, so affirming? Will I become one of those people who on reading her work, say — oh its a bit depressing isn't it? Not really my cup of tea...
I will perform this ritual in the afterword, on the way back in the boat from visiting Sadec, in the long shadows of the setting sun, while the others are not looking, I scribble down some words like the ones above. I decide enough is enough. I don't have to carry my mother's sadness anymore. I don't have to wear it as my story. I don't have to give in to the hopelessness like she did. For her there was no way out, but times have changed, my position is not hopeless. I have choices she didn't have, freedoms she wasn't allowed. I don 't have to be unhappy. It is not a predestined disposition. It is not something I have to carry on. It can end here. On this river. For her and for me.
The others are sitting in their cane chairs, some are writing in their notebooks too, others contemplating the view, the beehive shaped brick kilns, the jumble of houses along the river bank, the golden light of the setting sun.
I rip the page out of my notebook and casually leaning my arm over the side of the boat let it trail for a moment in the splash from the bow, then let it go. My promises seem to float on the surface for a second or two and are gone, replaced by a flotilla of green water hyacinth.
The setting sun slips towards the horizon. A voice drifts across the water, an old woman singing as she washes dishes on the deck of her river boat, a pumpkin strapped to the mast.
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