sideways
The last time I posted was in late August, on my twentieth blogging anniversary.
This milestone made me think endless words would keep pouring out.
A quick glance at my draft pile shows my last attempt was at the very beginning of October. My thoughts have ebbed, flowed, stewed, and been tucked away.
So many factors go into publishing my thoughts. The main reason behind my current hesitancy is whether my thoughts make any sense, and whether they relate only to me and should stay with me.
Sentences begin to materialize as I fall asleep, the beginning of writing, while horizontal.
It can be an annoying habit, as sleep is sacred and a refuge. I want to silently recite the 23rd Psalm and drift away. Despite my qualms, I have been slumber-writing parts of this post from October for the last several weeks.
It’s not letting go of me.
I remind myself that after twenty years of writing, not every reader has resonated with every post, and that shouldn't be the goal. But my prayer has always been for one person to be encouraged or helped, and I've consistently heard from at least one person.
Always.
Glory.
I am a mood reader.
I am easily influenced when hearing praise for a book from other readers.
I started a book in August based on hefty bookstagram love.
The book was hefty as well, nearly 700 pages.
It was a book in translation, which might be why I felt it could have used more editing. I liked the book enough, and even though it's the first in a series of equally long books, I doubt I will continue.
I love recommending books, and that may be why I am not endorsing this book, even though a quote within its pages sparked this post.
“The priest who’d supervised me when I was a student had once said to me that a person only has to turn sideways for everything to look different.”
The Morning Star
~Karl Ove Knausgaard
I read these words and snapped a photo. Although these words were not unfamiliar to me, I exhaled in acceptance, then quickly inhaled in disbelief.
The last six years have been life-altering for everyone. This time has felt filled with daily hardships, bad news, tragedies, and violence rippling outward from our front doors to the world.
It’s hard to catch one’s breath.
It’s a challenge to keep up with the list of prayers I need to utter.
This is specifically why I have left my draft unfinished because there is no possible way to tell anyone to turn sideways and expect everything to look different when life has been turned upside down with diagnoses unwilling to budge, job insecurity or loss, the depths of grief, the price of gas, or the fear of sending your children to school or onto a campus.
Sadly, this list is incomplete.
Yet this quote has stayed with me, even though I can't offer a weighty paragraph to solve the tender and hard places in each of our lives. It would be like trying to transfer a palmful of sand into your hands.
Perhaps any intention in writing is the hope that a few grains of sand will cling to your fingertips, even when the vast majority falls to the ground.
I want to share two examples of how turning sideways has been helpful and instructive, not for my current life but related to a childhood belief and story.
Neither example is hugely dramatic or traumatic, but they show how often we replay aspects and events in our lives from our perspective and carry them forward as we recall them.
We all possess stories, especially from childhood. We repeat stories around the table with family and friends.
Some stories get debated, while others are accepted as fact. Other stories aren’t shared widely; they become part of the fabric of our identities, even when we are unaware.
My name is Helen Lelia (rhymes with Celia).
I was named after my paternal and maternal grandmothers, respectively.
When I think about my name, there is a great sense of pride in being named after women I deeply loved and admired.
I think about how my father never called me Helen with the correct pronunciation, but he called me Hal-len. If I think deeply, I believe my grandfather called my grandmother Hal-len as well. This further deepens why Dad and my uncle followed suit.
After I was born, a woman stopped my father in a store to congratulate him. She asked what they had named their daughter, and he proudly said, Hal-len Lelia.
She replied, Oh, Hallelujah? That’s a beautiful name! (giggle from me)
As a child, I was surrounded by girls named Debbie, Laurie, Cindy, Cathy, Susan, Pam, Julie, and Karen. My name stood out and rarely appeared on a bike license plate or any personalized item. Helen didn’t seem like the girl who liked to run fast and do cartwheels. Helen felt more likely to be hunting for her knitting needles. I had a classmate named Helena and another, a few years older, named Helene. Both of their names seemed exotic and pointed less toward the old-fashioned.
To further emphasize this belief, when I married and took the last name Washington, I cannot tell you how many times people didn’t recall my name and assumed it was Martha. It made sense to take my last name and combine it with another old-fashioned (yet famous) first name.
The name Helen has had a comeback. I have been reading the name in books and hearing it on screen. I have heard parents call their little girls by my name.
Over time, I began to hear how my name sounded. I heard it from different voices. It didn’t sound like the endearing way my father said my name. It didn’t sound the way it had made me feel different during my youth.
I heard my name with new ears and in many ways for the first time. I heard how soft the name Helen was when it was ushered into the air.
I loved how my name sounded after all the years of wishing it away.
This is how my name had always sounded; I just never knew.
I turned sideways and allowed my ears to take in a new sound, one that had always existed, but I had swept it away.
In 1975, a television movie called The Queen of the Stardust Ballroom aired.
Our family was visiting out-of-town friends and the evening grew long. My brother was tucked into a bed, and I was allowed to have the television to myself.
I happened upon this movie, and I was entranced. What I remember most was the dancing and the film's ending. It’s been over 50 years since this movie premiered, so this can’t truly be a spoiler. The main character dies of natural causes at the end.
This movie stayed with me for quite a while. When I finally mentioned the movie and its plot points to someone, I didn't get the response I expected. The neutral response didn’t match the emotions I'd been carrying.
This isn't a story I have been haunted by; it was simply an occurrence, and it held memories I escorted from the past. Every now and then, something would remind me of that occasion, and only then did the memory surface.
Recently, I read a few books where partner dancing was a significant plot point. This made me recall the story I just shared. Carl and I talked about it, and I couldn’t remember the movie title correctly. He did a bit of sleuthing and found it.
The next day, I watched the movie over lunch to see if I remembered the content correctly. It was definitely a movie from the 70s, but I remembered the plot from beginning to end.
I hugged the Helen of 10 or 11, who was justified in having strong emotions.
As an adult, I felt a part of myself heal as I watched the movie again.
This was only part of the healing because I could also look at the unanticipated response with a new perspective.
I found myself listing many possibilities for the response, and none of those reasons had to do with me.
I chose my own reason and turned it inward.
I turned sideways and released a long-held story only known to me, embedded in my history.
I wonder whether many of the words we have heard were not meant to wound or mislead us.
I wonder if we have misheard our names.
In this time of turbulence, it is important for me to be and remain Helen within it.
I am a person of prayer.
I am a person of hope.
I am a person who believes in reflection.
I am a person who believes in paying attention.
The photo above is of a broken candle from a trip to a monastery two years ago. I hadn’t known what to do with it. I couldn’t dispose of it, as despite its appearance, it was precious to me.
At first, when I lit the wooden wick, it sputtered and smoldered out.
This candle has sat unused for years.
This week, I lit the candle on a whim, and although the flame isn’t large and vibrant, it burns.
The fragrance is exquisite.
The wood wick still makes a slight flickering sound; I'm surprised to hear it as I move through my home.
May this be a grain of sand for you today.
If you find yourself broken and bruised by the things of life, may you remember you can still be a fragrant offering to others.
A deep, burning glow remains about you despite the pain.
You may look different.
You may feel different.
The place you are placed may feel static and unusable.
You are still immensely beautiful.
