I need to apologize. You know how I’m always going on and on (and on and on) about vulnerability and transparency and stuff? How I yearn for us to love one another deeply, sharing ourselves freely, holding nothing back because of fear or defensiveness or shame? How I want so badly to be that way, and how desperately hungry I am to live in the midst of others who are too?
Well, I have some unfortunate news. I’m not as free as I thought I was (this is where, if we were sitting in the same room, you’d see an ironic little shrug of my shoulders). I feel silly, really. I guess all this time, I thought vulnerability was my way. And transparency? Well, I figured glass had nothing on me. But I am learning that I am not yet what I thought I was. And since you played such an integral part of this little bit of self-discovery, I want to tell you the story. It starts just a little while before you entered the picture, though, so bear with me as I back up just a wee bit.
I am not, by nature, comfortable with emotional nakedness. In fact, I can remember having a painfully difficult time sharing my most tender thoughts and feelings as a child. There were countless bedtime conversations when I, as a five or seven or nine year old, sat in anguished silence (and my parents sat in befuddled, loving patience), finally bursting into tears because I could not voice whatever happened to be on my heart at the time. I often lay in bed, just moments after they left, dying to cry out, “I LOVE YOU!!” but the fear of just speaking out my sacred thoughts was too terrifying a thing.
As the years passed, I found that music helped me put those emotions into expression. I could sing out the secrets of my heart and satisfy a longing to be known. So, I spent the better part of my early teens playing my flute. I grew into adulthood thinking that I was a musician. And it wasn’t until my mid-twenties, after I had poured myself into pursuing a degree in music, that I realized I didn’t really want to be a musician at all. Music had simply been a tool to help express what words could not give me.
This is when I began to experiment with writing. I had received little affirmations here and there that I could write, and it was a great way for me to process thoughts and emotions without the complications verbalizing them brought. My early journals are full of prominent identity crises and trying too hard. I was caught between the need to nakedly express my truest self, and the vanity of hoping that I might hone my skills enough that these early writings might be posthumously discovered and celebrated (I’m cringing now and laughing hard as I share this). But ever so slowly, I began to ease into just being there, on the page, as tangibly and honestly as I was living in the flesh. And it became a fulfilling endeavor to write melodies with words.
So, several years later, it only made sense to me when several of our friends encouraged me to combine my love of cooking with my love of writing. And, you’d think that after all theses years, I’d have no trouble living plainly on the page. But apparently, I still have much to learn (oh hey, this is the part where you come in!).
So, when I began to share my recipes, and the silly little thoughts that went with them, I relished each tiny encouragement that you were enjoying my recipes and thoughts, alike. It was marvelous. It satisfied my longing to be known. Your texts and comments and private email and letters were delicious food for my soul.
Then one day, I decided to share my story about Edward Harris. It wasn’t much. Actually, I began writing it more for me than for you. I had some thoughts regarding loving others that I needed to work through and I figured it couldn’t hurt to lay them out for us to chew on together. So, in true Andrea fashion, I turned a simple query into a lengthy story… which needed a proper set up … and a bit of flair for interest. It got to be too long for a single post, so I decided to finish the narrative in the following week’s post.
I was completely, utterly, decidedly unprepared for what happened next. Email, phone calls, texts, drop-in visits and inquiries flooded my world. What had happened to Edward? Do you still talk to Edward? When are you going to tell us more about Edward? The response was bewildering.
This is why I have to apologize. To be honest, I was incredibly intimidated by your interest. What had begun as a little quip about learning to love, suddenly carried with it the anxiety of disappointing you greatly. I hadn’t realized I had crafted a tiny novella — albeit a modest and amateurish novella — but something like it just the same. The scary part, though, is that I knew there was no story arc, no hero, no antagonist. It was just a simple little piece of my life I’d wanted to think through.
So, the days passed. Weeks, even. Again and again, I sat down to write the middle and the end to my story, and suddenly I was a little girl again, hopelessly unable to share what was deep inside my heart. I felt foolish and afraid. I was terrified of losing your interest. I was caught up in the vanity of needing to have something valuable to share. And I let go of what has taken me a lifetime to learn: I have everything I need. I am safe, with nothing to prove or become. And because of this, I can love you deeply, share myself freely, holding nothing back because of fear or defensiveness or shame.
So, thank-you, dear friends for teaching me this in a new way. I realize it took several months for me to learn, so thank-you, as well, for your patience. Thank-you for the warmth of your love. I needed time to let these thoughts stew a bit and take on the flavors of my mind. If you think about it, you have become the slow cooker for my heart. And for that, I am grateful.
And, oh yeah, there’ll be more about Edward in my next post!
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