I have been sorting, filing, tossing, saving, reviewing, repacking. I have been shuffling my life like a worn deck of cards. I say I do it for my daughters, but we all know I do it for myself. Revisiting that which can’t be revisited, not really.
Some of the evidence is easy to see: faded photos and prom dresses and high school jackets and old Barbies and Star Wars figures and love letters recently reclaimed from my dad’s attic, strewn about the dining room that is not a dining room. Some of the evidence is harder to catch a glimpse of.
This is one of the photos I came across:
I think my mom must have taken it. We were on our way back from a trip visiting my aunt in North Carolina—this I know, because there is a photo too of my brother next to me in the backseat of our baby-blue Oldsmobile, his eyes still swollen from an allergic reaction to insect bites.
My father was probably driving, or—judging from the stillness of the photo—out of the car, pumping gas, buying chips, or maybe another pack of cigarettes.
This aunt in North Carolina, my only aunt, is gone now. This happens, as you know.
That’s one scenario.
Another scenario: Some of the people you love stick around, and yet they are gone from you too. This happens, as you know. Of course you know.
There’s grief, either way.
This photo. Let’s talk about it.
There are hundreds, if not thousands, of photographs of my grinning self, but only one like this. One. The sadness in my eight-year-old face is a pervasive, penetrating sadness I know very well—still—thirty years later. It’s an undercurrent, a strong undertow. It feels sometimes as if it is determined to have its way, determined to take its share whenever it can.
Of course I try to remedy this. Some things resist easy fixes.
It’s a particularly difficult sadness to explain when there’s so much photographic evidence—and so much evidence in person and in my writing—to refute it. “You’re so FUNNY! You’re TOTALLY the reason I know I’m NOT READY TO HAVE KIDS AND A HUSBAND! HA HA!” These are the sort of sentiments I hear fairly often. It’s nice to be able to make people laugh. I always wanted to be one of those people, and I seem to have figured out how to do that, sometimes.
But some things are hard to explain, defy scrutiny, don’t like show-and-tell.
I am glad this photo exists. I am glad because I recognize her and know her well. I know what she didn’t know then: that she would make some good choices along the way, choices that would lead to some great happiness, here and there and here and there. I am also sad, looking at those familiar eyes, because I worry I will recognize her in my own daughters. I will watch out for her in them, but if I see her there, I am not sure how I will greet her.
But what of happiness? What of the laughing, head-thrown-back photos, the boxes and albums of them? It’s not that those images are inauthentic. Happiness comes, goes, comes again. I smile more than I feel like smiling (this is true; what are the options?) but I can’t call happiness a stranger, either. I just don’t expect to see her all the time. She doesn’t like the phone, and neither do I. That’s just our way with each other. No hard feelings.
A friend sent me a link to Happiness by Jane Kenyon. A picture is supposed to trump a smattering of words, but this poem more than holds its own. I welcome it like I welcome the photo.
{ 29 comments… read them below or add one }
I truly understand what you’re talking about. I have seen these pictures of myself too. I don’t know if everyone has them…I kind of think not. My mother always said I had an old soul, the sadness of God only knows what that soul has seen seems to show itself in many photos of myself.
My friend and I often remark, “Why does it have to be so hard?” i don’t know…maybe it doesn’t. I don’t have to learn how to feel happy, I have to learn how to invite happiness to stick around for more than the occasional cup of coffee before she’s out the door again. How?
Perhaps you were suffused by some innate awareness of what your mother had done to you with that haircut?
Sorry… between pithy and petulant, I went with the latter this morning. Perhaps I just don’t want to relate too much.
I, too, can see sadness in her eyes. I hope you don’t find that in your own daughters’ eyes, but if you do, I have a feeling you’ll know how to react to it.
I wish I knew what to say in response: something profound. I see wisdom in those eyes, eyes of an old soul.
I hope happiness makes more calls. She’s a good pal to have around.
I had a much longer post, but it was starting to sound like a venting session. I won’t add my worries and past hurts to yours. Just wanted you to know that I too share those feelings. Thank you for putting them into words for me.
I have a picture like that, too. Still feel that way a lot of the time.
Yes. I think I see what you see. It’s in the eyes.
And that poem, it’s one of my very favorites.
In that picture, you’re the wineglass, weary of holding wine.
Some other cultures say that Americans act too happy–that we focus on having a lot of happiness all of the time. And if we don’t, we feel that we’ve failed somehow. So, I like your 8 year old self because she’s a glimpse of knowledge that sadness, too, is important and even ok.
I guess we’re all supposed to just BE the wine glass and hold some wine even if we’re tired? OR just drink more wine until we get a second wind? Hmm…I like the latter…
I see it. In your face, your pretty little face, and in my own reflection in the mirror. Sadness is a harsh mistress. Your honesty helps me cope with my own inexplicable grief.
Jenn, I have been reading your entries for a few months now. I found you through Catherine’s blog when you guys did that reading in the library in North Adams. I actually opened the door for you to get in because it was locked, remember? But, unfortunately, I didn’t know who you were and that sucks because you rock! I was the only one who brought my daughter. You told her she did very well being so quiet. I’m so sorry you feel sadness and don’t have as much happiness… or as much as you’d like. I think you seem so awesome and nice and loving and caring and you have a lot to be happy for. The kindness you showed to my daughter proves it. You didn’t have to say anything to her, but you took the time to bend down and make her feel good. That says a lot about you. But, I too, have a lot to be happy for and sometimes it seems like the sadness is always lurking around the edges trying to find an opening. But, you keep trying and so do we all. I hope you feel happier in the near future and it stays around for a long time. Also, I am loving the frequent entries here….it’s a real treat! You are so cool and I wish I knew you for real. Thanks for writing the things we all feel so often and can’t put into words.
Meg
I see it in my daughter’s eyes and it hurts doubly because I know that melancholie well.
I went to a funeral today. The woman was in her 40′s and left two young daughters behind. I guess I mention this because losses help us appreciate life, and sadness, in whatever form is related to loss. I think sometimes loss doesn’t have to be physical. It can be loss of a dream or anything really. I don’t know you other than these blogs, Jenn, but I know you have shared your moments of loss with us now and again. And perhaps you had similar losses, even as an 8-year-old. I like the thought that you are an old soul. But I also imagine that you simply feel everything very deeply, including moments or joy or sadness. I think artistic people are especiallly prone to melancholy, but it is that very feeling that often drives the person to sit down and begin creating. In other words, it is this deep well of emotions from which we can produce beauty.
This is such a beautiful post.
Jenn, you have a gift you know. I don’t mean your writing gift (which is obvious), but a gift now to look into eyes like that and see what needs to be seen. Having never lived through the kind of sadness you experience (though I have had other sadnesses), I wouldn’t have seen thaT in those eyes, but you having been through it, you have the gift to see what others can’t.
Thank you for helping me, if only for this wee little bit and with your help, see what those eyes mean. Maybe it will help me recognize what it means in another child.
And may I say what a great face it is?
You have the best face.
I think one of my greatest fears is seeing “that look” in one of my boys. I sometimes can foresee it and it scares the heck of me, as I don’t wish those feelings on anyone. I remember my mom being angry at me as a child for being so sullen and not happy, happy smiling happy! I am going to try and at least do that differently. The rest? I am clueless.
I wish you a long walk with happiness for many days.
It’s numbing to pretend to be happy all of the time.
Sometimes I just have to let the weariness in for tea. But I try my best to ensure that it leaves by dinnertime.
I love how honest you are. I have always been a sad type of girl, and now that I am an adult, I have been in therapy and have medication for it. It’s part of who I am, and although it is difficult to be this way, I wouldn’t necessarily change who I am.
Thanks for making me feel normal.
I agree with Mags that maybe you “simply feel everything very deeply.” One thing I do know, your words are very powerful and with them you can speak life into your daughters. You can pass on the ability to feel things deeply without having to fear that they someday may need medication. So many kids today have no emotion. The word most often uttered out of their mouths is “huh?” and when asked their opinion, usually don’t have one. Your daughters will be able to offer much more than that.
I think the photographer caught you deep in thought about something and you, being generous, offered the best attempt at a smile that you could, having been so rudely interrupted.
We are the old souls, my love.
We are wise beyond years from the very beginning.
We look at our daughters and worry – but we already know. We are not women who were built for the easy, the simple.
No. We are the women who muddle into the complex, the murky, the messy.
And on good days, good weeks, good months – that is all right. We have the energy, the humor, the strength to know that these things happen, it will pass, we will persevere.
But on the bad days? The bad year? It feels beyond draining. It feels bottomless and you watch the ink bleed into every thing else in your life.
Jenn, my love – the world needs you – needs me – needs our daughters for how else would they know about this duality and the rich, breathtakingly beautiful and terrifying tapestry we weave?
My 8 year old self would have offered your 8 year old self some Pez. Cause it can’t hurt.
I am also glad this photo exists. And I really loved this post. I like it when you’re funny, but I appreciate these pensive, reflective posts, too.
Another sad kid popping in to add my voice to let you know that we are here and it is ok.
As a mama who has seen it in her daughter and is still in the pain of watching her struggle it is awful, as awful as you imagine. AND I am here and whole and so is she. She is finding her own way and I am trusting in the Universe that she is the way she is as I am the way I am b/c this is our journey and b/c you have felt it you can offer her your unique comfort of the shared experience.
It matters because it is…
And can I just say I love Dawn in the comment above…she said it so so beautiully, didn’t she?
Jenn,
I’ve swum in those waters you so often find yourself in these days, and I know how hard it can be sometimes to keep your head above the surface. It’s something I continually struggle with, and I admire fiercely both your ability to keep yourself afloat and your willingness to write about your struggles with it: it helps keep the rest of us swimming too, believe me, and I think maybe you can’t hear that enough.
On a lighter note, you really need to go listen to Susan Werner’s song “Misery & Happiness”–I think her stuff would really speak to you, but that song in particular always makes me think of you. I tried and tried to find it online but couldn’t–I’ll see if I can liberate a copy to send to you if you don’t already have it.
I understand your fear of seeing that look in your daughter’s eyes, and I hope I never see it in my daughter, even as my mother hoped she never would in me. But we’re stronger swimmers for having made the journey, so maybe we’ll be better lifejackets for them.
Spectacular post. You have me thinking, add that to your “I can make people laugh with my writing” resume.
I feel this way. I thought I was depressed. I thought you were depressed too. But the more I read, the more I wonder if that is just how people are. Maybe this is how its supposed to be? So we can recognize the happiness when it comes?
That look though, the one in the picture, the one you watch for in your daughters? I’ve seen it in mine. I asked my husband if he saw it too. He didn’t see it. She was smiling but it was there. He thought maybe I saw tired. He thinks I shouldn’t ask her about how she was feeling because I’m putting the idea into her head that she was sad. I need to know if she was so I can try to make it better. As if.
I realize more and more these days that I am not the only one who feels this way. I did used to think that it couldn’t be that common – I mean, it would be obvious if it were, wouldn’t it? Of course not, though, because when everyone smiles more than they feel like smiling you can’t tell. I’m the same way.
Perhaps that is just the human condition. Kind of a sad state to find humanity in, but I suppose if that’s our lot, then we adapt to it.
Love to you, my dear. I’m so glad that poem resonates for you, as it does for me.
And should you ever see this familiar sadness on your daughters’ faces? You can hold them, if they’ll let you; you can tell them you love them; you can tell them you understand. It’s all any of us can do, isn’t it?
Ever since I started reading it, your blog has made me feel better about the world in general. Sometimes just knowing that other people feel ‘the sadness’ and go on, and love and live and raise beautiful children, helps. My own sadness has abated over recent years, but I know it will return, somehow, someday. I am heartened to witness your incredibly elegant and lovable writings.
Thank you.
You know (as I stumble from my horror commenting trainwreck on your last post) it took me to have children to recognise that my ‘sadness’ or melancholy as I call it was not new to me. And I realised that those times way back as a child were all part of the melancholy part of me. And the photo of you in the car and the looking for that ‘look’ in your children? I hear you loud and clear.