Several weeks ago a person came for the first time to the Zen group I lead. When I introduced myself, he explained that he’d found our group on the web and had followed the links to my blog. “I feel like I already know you,” he remarked. “In fact, it feels kind of funny, like I might know too much about you.”
The remark was, I’m sure, innocuously given: I met this person, after all, on the heels of posting a somewhat personal entry that honestly admitted the pain and loneliness I’d felt for years in my marriage. Although I felt comfortable sharing those emotions with my long-time readers–those of you I “know” either by name or anonymously who have seen the various and sundry stages of my personal life–I can imagine how uncomfortable it could be to be a newcomer at the party only to discover the hostess getting Up Close and Personal about her emotional life. If you arrived on the scene expecting casual chitchat, it might be somewhat alarming instead to encounter Emotional Nakedness. Pain is something many folks aren’t comfortable talking about–pain is something many folks aren’t comfortable admitting–so encountering a “virtual stranger” who’s willing to put her pain out there in cyberspace is probably, admittedly, quite odd.
Compared to some of the other blogs I read–compared, in fact, to much of the literature I read–I don’t consider my blog to be very “confessional.” In my mind, the focus here is always on my writing, my photos, my so-called art, whatever the heck that is: the focus isn’t me per se. Yet this newcomer’s comment reminded me of something that not just one but three friends of mine have admitted on separate occasions: they feel a bit guilty (voyeuristic, even) reading my blog even though I put this “out there” for anyone to read. “It seems unfair,” one longtime friend remarked, “to stay informed about everything in your life while I keep all my business to myself.”
This comment surprised me. I don’t feel like I’m sharing “everything in my life”; in my mind, I still maintain clear boundaries about what I’ll share and what I won’t. At the same time, though, I realize I can’t exactly articulate these boundaries because I seem to make them up as I go along: what last month I never thought I’d share turns into the blog fodder of today.
As writers, we always write about ourselves, and as a long-time journal-keeper, I’m used to there being a direct connection between my feeling heart and my writing hand. In writing classes where I read my free-writing aloud as a way of breaking ice with students, I’ve sometimes found it has the opposite effect: faced with the nonchalant candor with which I address some subjects including my own pain, some students panic, feeling their writing has to reach a similar level of emotional courage. Truth be known, we each decide as we’re writing what we feel comfortable expressing. I’ve never, for instance, written in any detailed way about sex here on my blog, I rarely write about it in my handwritten journal, and I certainly don’t write about it when I’m in a classroom with students. Although I don’t have a problem with other people blogging their sex lives if they choose, in my mind that’s something personal, so I don’t go there. It’s not that I can’t write about sex–one of the shocking realizations I had while writing my so-called novel was that I can quickly and easily crank out lurid (and entirely fictional) sex scenes. But when it comes to my own actual bedroom, the blinds are drawn, thank you.
I’ve been thinking with particular fervor about this question of what to share and what not to share now that I know with certainty that my ex-husband occasionally reads my blog. Although I don’t have a problem with Chris reading “in theory,” I have to admit I was a bit taken aback when he was the first to comment on my entry about meeting his new girlfriend. There’s nothing I’m ashamed of in that entry: you’ll notice, in fact, that I said relatively little there about Chris himself and even less about his new girlfriend. If Chris (or anyone, for that matter) came to Hoarded Ordinaries looking for the juicy, catty details of what Lorianne “really” thinks about her ex-husband’s new girlfriend, they’ll go away sorely disappointed.
Although I worried in retrospect that I came across as too pious and self-righteous in that entry–my insistance that “all is well” completely ignored the fact that I had a good long cry in the solitary privacy of my room after Chris, etc. went to the shared comfort of theirs–in the end I wouldn’t have wanted to use my blog to vent my catty first impressions, petty jealousies, etc. Yes, these feelings are there: if you’re a living, breathing human, you’re going to face an emotional rollercoaster of contradictory thoughts as you face the prospect of “my ex’s new love.” But just because a catty emotion arises doesn’t mean that’s the last word: if I judged myself on the basis of what emotions arise (especially in the aftermath of divorce), I’d have to diagnose myself as a hopeless, helpless schizophrenic, my perspective entirely scrambled and contradictory. Instead, I prefer a Buddhist perspective: thoughts and feelings arise, pass, and return without logic or predictability, but these thoughts and feelings aren’t who I am. They arise, but they too shall pass.
Part of why I’m comfortable sharing any of this rests on the fact that I don’t have to share all of it: in the end, it’s me calling the shots in terms of how much I care to disclose, and when. One benefit of meditation practice is it helps you strengthen your “looking” muscle: whereas many normal folks, I think, shy away from their own pain and vulnerability, what you “do” while you’re meditating is look at it, whatever it is, with a quiet, nonjudgmental acceptance. This pain I’m feeling: what is it? These catty feelings: what are they? This loneliness or anger or confusion or joy: what are they, and who is this “I” who thinks she can “have” much less control her emotions? At the end of the day, any pain I feel isn’t truly “mine” because that would imply there’s some unchanging, constant Self who can contain this pain. Instead, while meditating I’ve come to realize that “my pain” is simply Pain: it comes and goes, blowing in and out as it swirls and eddies at my feet. If I either cling to it or try to push it away, it will control me; if I simply let it be, it will rise and then fall away of its own accord.
In other words, there’s no need to chase snowflakes, and I really needn’t push the mountain either. If my semblance of self-disclosure here on Hoarded Ordinaries is extraordinary, it is so only because we live in a world that specializes in Denial. Got a problem? Bury it in work. Facing pain? Take a pill. Confused about your life’s direction? Have a drink. Although I’ve done my share of working, medicating, and drinking, thank you, I realize the efficacy of such approaches is temporary. At some point sooner or later, you’re going to have to look at it, whatever it is. Whatever’s wrong with your life–whatever is your life–one day you’re going to have to stare it straight in the eye: “Hello, Life, what are you?”
Meditation gives you the courage to do such looking, and so does writing. Sharing my emotional bumps and jostles with “any and everyone in cyberspace” is easy: the difficult audience is myself. I remember a remark from one of the teachers in my Zen school: “We become what we practice.” If we spend our lives hiding, ignoring, and denying our own and other’s experiences, we’ll become oblivious; if we spend our lives looking without judgment, we’ll become perceptive, wise, and compassionate. With much looking comes insight, and with much looking comes courage. Facing your emotional load–the heaps of white stuff you have to dig through to find your way–is the difficult part. After you’ve faced it, sharing seems easy. And after you’ve shared it, the load seems miraculously and unaccountably much lighter.
- And amazed “thank you” to my upstairs neighbor, who unbeknownst to me dug out my car–and shoveled our driveway–while I was writing this post. I don’t know what I did to deserve that, but it’s nice to see my car again.
Jan 23, 2005 at 2:05 pm
Lori, I think there’s a big difference between facing your pain and putting it out on the Internet for anyone and everyone to see. Could it be that you’re pleased that your ex-husband reads your blog and now knows you’ve got a new man in your life, albeit halfway across the country? I understand what the fellow at the Zen group and the other folks mean when they say you’re putting too much out there. I don’t think their discomfort comes from that fact that they won’t face pain and don’t feel comfortable facing someone who will. I rather think it’s kind of like looking into someone’s window before they put on their clothes and then meeting them.
My feeling is that your blog is a way for you to deal with the pain and confusion you feel as you “re-invent yourself”, if you will, after being a part of someone else for so long. You’re now alone and who are you anyway? Someone who buys rubber ducky shower curtains and shops at Wal-Mart, much to everyone’s surprise and you want everyone who reads your blog to know this. You’ve said your blog is about a place, Keene, and the pictures and commentary are superb and I have enjoyed them the times I’ve checked in, but I must admit to feeling embarassed (sp?) at some of the other things you’ve chosen to share. I feel I want to cover my eyes and look away. I think those are for your friends and not for strangers who come across your blog. And this is not a value judgement. It’s just a way for me to give you a perspective that I don’t think you hear from too many people. Your comments about the fellow in the Zen group gave me “permission” ,so to speak, to do this, although your blog is an open invitation in itself.
It seems to me that what I’m reading about the person you’re becoming or the things you’re trying out, or perhaps the person you really are, are not what I’d expect from the Lori I had been getting to know. I wish you luck in your search.
LikeLike
Jan 23, 2005 at 3:04 pm
Callie, this is a very interesting, thought-provoking comment. It reminds me of a time when I went to see a performance artist in Boston & then talked to her later back stage. As part of her performance, she had gotten completely naked & danced around in heels while she talked about feminism & female self-image. As I was talking to her backstage after the show, she started changing clothes right in the middle of our conversation even though lots of people (male & female) were backstage as well. I was completely shocked that she felt so comfortable disrobing in front of everyone…yet minutes before I had watched her disrobe on stage & wasn’t (too) shocked by *that*.
Later I talked to a friend about this, and they remarked that all the dancers they knew were so comfortable with their bodies that they didn’t feel embarrassed about changing clothes backstage, etc. To them, their bodies were a tool they used to express themselves, so their naked bodies weren’t any “different” from anyone else’s naked body. With that knowledge in mind, I had to investigate my own embarrassment. Where did it come from? What made me embarrassed, and why? *She* obviously wasn’t embarrassed by her body, and no one else seemed to be, either…so where did my feeling come from?
I think we’re *all* struggling to re-define ourselves…we each just do it in different ways. As a writer, I write & re-write who I am, and there are many writers out there who write & re-write themselves with an honesty that makes *me* embarrassed. (!!!) If you see something and want to cover your eyes & turn away, that raises a couple of questions. Why do you have that reaction: where does it come from? And given that reaction, why do you come back and keep looking?
That last one is the million dollar question in my mind, because so much art makes *me* want to turn away, but I can’t. Why is that? What is that?
I’ve always been troubled at the notion that this is a “place-blog” because it’s also a very personal one. In the end whether I’m exploring internal or external spaces, I’m writing with one question in mind: “Where, right now, am I?” Sometimes “where I am” is a geographic location; sometimes “where I am” is an emotional state. If readers prefer one over another, they have the choice to choose which entries they like & which they don’t.
If I didn’t talk about pain & other emotions I experience, what *would* I talk about? Would you believe a teacher who spoke eloquently about joy but never offered a word or two about pain?
LikeLike
Jan 23, 2005 at 4:05 pm
A very worthy blog entry, and very good dialogue between Callie and Lori.
As a reader, I have found Lori’s writing – even at its most personal and ‘naked’ – to be compelling and non-invasive. There are people who have their windows open, so to speak, in a way that can be very invasive to the beholder; but there is also a difference between being naked and being “sky-clad.” You can be nude in a way that TAKES from someone else, or you can be nude in a way that cares for the audience.
Callie and I may experience Lori’s writing differently at times, and that is entirely valid. I wanted to share, as a reader, that I have consistently felt that Lori does have her audience in mind as she writes, as she chooses what and how much to share with us. As a reader, I feel I am in good hands and that I can follow this writer where she’s taking me, look at what she will show me, and that she will not abuse that trust. Even in the darkest and most naked entries, I feel the writer’s nakedness as being, so to speak, clad in the sky. There is an unflinching dignity in her writing about being with how it is just now, and being able to put that into language and imagery. That’s the work of a good writer, and a good Dharma Teacher.
LikeLike
Jan 23, 2005 at 5:01 pm
“we live in a world that specializes in Denial”
Hoo boy, you can say that again! I agree that people have a hard time observing pain, or any of the so-called negative emotions, in others and in themselves. (The same applies to illness, and possibly for some of the same reasons–shame, fear of weakness, fear of dependence, vulnerability, etc.) It seems that the presence of pain (or illness) arouses either fear (and its tributaries, loathing and judgement) or compassion, without much in between. To my mind, it separates the goats from the sheep.
Baaaaa!
LikeLike
Jan 23, 2005 at 7:03 pm
Thanks for your comment, Mu Mun: it’s always good to hear from you.
You’re right: Callie’s point is a great one. As “online journals,” blogs are very curious: sometimes it’s fun & comfortable to take a peek into someone else’s life, and other times it’s uncomfortable or even embarrassing to see “into” someone’s life.
I don’t expect everyone to like everything I write. Some folks come to Hoarded Ordinaries looking for nature & place-based writing; others come looking for Zen insights. Some are interested in my literary abilities, others are curious about my life as a prof, others enjoy the pictures… Depending on why you come & what you’re looking for, on any given day I’m likely to disappoint. 🙂
Regardless of what I’m writing, what I aim for at any given moment is plain & simple veracity: at the moment I wrote & posted something, that was what it was like to “be me in my shoes.” People may or may not understand that; people may or may not be comfortable with that. At the end of the day, the highest praise someone can give me (in my opinion) is “You’re honest.”
When someone says that I/my blog/a teacher should be “more this” or “less that,” I have to wonder where those “shoulds” come from. All I try to do here is describe what’s wholly true from my perspective (even though that isn’t necessarily the “whole truth,” some parts being left out for my own privacy). If honesty doesn’t match a person’s concept of how things “should” be, that’s a big cognitive problem!
One of my literary heroes is May Sarton, who lived right down the road from Keene during part of her life. I can only imagine how embarrassed her neighbors were to read her poems & journals, which describe with unflinching honesty the highs & lows of her inner life. Whether or not she “should” have lived her life as an open book, she continued, and the prose gains much of its power from the unabashed honesty of her perspective.
Sylvia, I think acknowledging someone else’s pain, weakness, or sickness comes too close to acknowledging one’s own vulnerability & mortality: we’re afraid to face the realization that “There but for the grace of God go I.” Sadly, I think that Denial is a form of (self-)deceit. If we can’t be honest with ourselves, how can we be honest to & supportive of the people around us.
These comments are wonderful: keep them coming! 🙂
LikeLike
Jan 23, 2005 at 9:36 pm
Your blog is unique among those I browse periodically; the closest to it would be Beth’s Cassandra Pages, I guess (again, among those I read regularly).
What keeps me coming back is the obvious excellent craft used in the writing. Given your background, this is not surprising. With good writing comes good editing, whether it happens before or after the words are entered. In addition, as I was reading this entry, it occurred to me that part of the excellence is *what is left out*. Forgive me for this, but I can’t think of a better analogy; but, scantilly clad is more erotic than stark nudity.
I’m reminded of Haydn’s claim to Leopold Mozart about the latter’s son Wolfgang: “He has taste and, what is more, the most profound knowledge of composition.” That is what I see here.
LikeLike
Jan 23, 2005 at 9:37 pm
Reading this post, Lorianne, causes me to want to rethink my approach to blogging. When I changed locations some months ago and started a new blog, I desired at the time to regain a bit of privacy. I felt that perhaps I had revealed too much of myself in my last incarnation. Or rather, that I had revealed too much of others. But reading this post, I am struck by your fearless honesty, your willingness to expose your own raw nerves, and how that makes you both more human and more interesting. The truth is I’ve been struggling lately, but have made a conscious decision not to blog about it. I’m just not comfortable going there. And now you’ve challenged me to ask myself why–not so much from a writing perspective, but from a contemplative one. Are there things I’m not being honest about with myself?
I’d like to say also that in reading your blog I’ve never felt that I’ve been reading someone about whom I feel I know too much, but rather someone I’ve only wished I could know better. I think that says something positive about you as a writer, but more importantly, it says something about you as a person.
LikeLike
Jan 24, 2005 at 5:31 am
This discussion aroused so many thoughts and feelings! I’ll try and keep it to a couple of these.
The first is that one reason why I and other readers have strong feelings, including uncomfortable ones on occasion, on reading your blog, is not just because you sometimes talk about very personal things, I think. It’s because you talk about these things so lucidly, elegantly and evocatively and therefore really touch us. If your aim was self-exposure, not self-expression; if you wrote in a throw-away, chattering on tone (as many bloggers do) about what you did last night with whom… well, I wouldn’t be interested, I wouldn’t be touched, and so I wouldn’t have anything to be uncomfortable about.
The second thought is that most of us present ourselves so falsely most of the time, are so hung-up and repressed about sharing what’s really going on with us (even if we’ve been striving for a long time not to be, in meditation, therapy, or just plain old living), that anything else makes us uncomfortable.
LikeLike
Jan 24, 2005 at 7:07 am
Lorianne & commenters: Thanks for a really thought-provoking post & discussion! I come to this first think in the morning with all (both?) of my neurons firing – and thus end up with a whole mish-mash of reactions that I won’t bore everyone with here. But for the record, Lorianne, I’ve never felt as if you were too revealing or confessional. (Perhaps our respective backgrounds in PA and OH are similar enough to give us approximately the same comfort level with these sorts of things – i.e., somewhat more open than New Englanders, but not as easily nekkid as stereotypical Californians?) I like the common-sense wisdom about writing and practice – can’t comment on meditation, since I’m too lazy to meditate more than once in a blue moon.
O.K., here’s one, semi-relevant reaction: Honesty as a concept in American culture is something that really interests me. I have observed so many people – often but not invariably unrepentent members of the birkenstocracy – who wave their own purported honesty about as if it were a battle standard, or perhaps even a weapon. (“I’m just being honest with you; this is how I feel.”) It can so easily become a cover for callous disregard. Of course, I am by no means suggesting that *you* do this; you have what those sort of people seem invariably to lack – a strong sense of humor about yourself! Which is maybe another idea worth exploring at some point… But I often wonder how it is that this cultural predilection we have toward “honesty” leads many to, for example, vote for politicans who turn out to be champion liars, simply because they are better than their opponent at sounding down-to-earth and full of candor about their values and convictions. Like any touchstone word – freedom, love – honesty admits of so many, mutually exclusive interpretations!
But as I say, that’s neither here nor there. Just an example of some of the directions this post & its comments are taking me this fine, frigid morning. Peace out.
LikeLike
Jan 24, 2005 at 8:56 am
Further thought. A first principle of creative writing for beginners: be specific. If you wrote in general terms about lost loves, new loves, letting go, moving on (and a lot of blogs do that, too), well it might be very beautiful. We might admire. But we wouldn’t be grabbed. And you can’t be specific without, well, being specific, can you?
LikeLike
Jan 24, 2005 at 11:05 am
Great discusion about this issue. I read your blog for your photos and observations of nature. But I think it would be far less enjoyable to me if there were not a lot about you as a person that comes through also. I have never felt that you revealed too much.
In my own blog I have struggled with the issue of how much to reveal. It is hard for me to write personal details. And when I do it is sometimes painful when family or friends bring up having read it. There are times when I want to write anonymously for just that reason.
LikeLike
Jan 24, 2005 at 9:33 pm
My goodness. What a lot of strong opinions. In my opinion, personal material is blogworthy if it is interesting to the writer, likely to be interesting to some readers, and not invasive of the privacy of the writer’s friends and family. As a private person, I am careful what I put out there for public dissection, but that is just self-preservation. As a person who lives alone, I find community and connections with bloggers, so I write about almost everything–even if in a guarded or disguised way.
I admit that there were aspects of Lori’s famous post that made me uncomfortable, but not because I thought she didn’t have the right to put something so personal in the public forum. Rather it was because there was pain and disappointment between the lines–my heart went out to her. Not pity, but empathy. I’m sure some of my posts have had the same impact on my readers–it’s closer to the bone than they want to know. But like Lori, I believe that to name an ill is to begin to leave it behind. We are all just thrashing along in our personal journeys and it is productive (maybe not comfortable) to wave from the deck as ships pass in the night.
There are blogs I don’t read because they are too personal and disturbing–an example that springs to mind is one of a girl who cuts herself. And there are blogs that are not interesting to me because the bloggers don’t show much in the way of wisdom, perspective or personal development.
I can’t fault Lori for the occasional post in which she doesn’t wrap everything up neatly; rather I find her more human and like her the better for it.
I guess the interesting question is if you find something disturbing, why not just move on? Why the need to edit? Doesn’t this say more about the reader than about the writer? The reader is the consumer…and can opt out. The writer’s motives may not depend on attracting specific readers, large numbers of readers or anything at all outside the writer beyond the knowledge that someone is touched.
LikeLike
Jan 28, 2005 at 10:35 pm
I love coming here because I know I’m going to learn something. I’m going to share something. And I know I’m going to want to come back again.
Personal? Place? Descriptive?
I guess all of it combined. The ones I invariably am stunned into silence on are the ones that stand back and point with a keen eye, saying “see what this looks like?”. Those are the ones that make me step back, even as I lean in closer.
And I keep coming back.
LikeLike
Feb 4, 2005 at 5:11 am
What an interesting comment thread this post has inspired! I’ve been simmering these thoughts in my head and suppose I’ll revisit this issue at some point in the blog…
This practice of “simmering” an issue or question is what differentiates my style of blog-disclosure from the purely confessional, “raw” style. In my mind, there’s a huge difference between blogging something “in the heat of the moment” and carefully crafting a reasoned response. I’m sure I’m not always “reasoned” in my blog…but I try not to post anything that’s purely knee-jerk. So in my mind, I’m never “naked” in an emotionally vulnerable way: the stuff I reveal is stuff I *chose* to reveal, and it’s stuff I’ve sat with & have presented in a way that I hope is helpful, not reactionary.
I don’t think anyone should feel they “should” reveal either more or less about themselves in their blogs (or anywhere, for that matter). Ultimately each writer owns her or his writing: the decision about what to reveal is ultimate the writer’s, and if readers don’t like what they see, they can read elsewhere. This being said, there are definitely ways that “honesty” can be used as a form of aggression, so I’m always careful (if not infallible!) when it comes to talking about others. Revealing my own emotional reality is one thing; invading the privacy of other folks is another.
With all the memoirs & first person narratives in books & magazines, I find it interesting that a *blog* should arouse such discussion of shoulds & shouldn’ts. Maybe it’s easier to read a published author’s self-revelations because their fame makes them anonymous, whereas I’m just an ordinary person being oddly honest.
Strangely, I feel comfortable telling “virtual strangers” tidbits about my life that I haven’t shared with family: ultimately the audience that I’m the most embarrassed in front of are the people I actually know. Maybe this is common among writers; maybe you *always* feel most awkward around the people who actually look you in the eye. Maybe blogging is one way of articulating thoughts that we wouldn’t otherwise be comfortable expressing in the “real world.”
Whatever the case may be, this has been a wonderfully thought-provoking comment thread, so thanks for participating. I’m closing comments on this post due to comment & trackback spam (ugh!), but I suspect this is a theme I’ll revisit in the future!
LikeLike