Edition #54: Weaving Webs and Turning Over Stones

Creating The Webbd Wheel: When We Do Not Love Ourselves

The old story of La Llorona, the One Who Weeps, is described as coming out of Hispanic-American tradition. It’s a well-known story where I come from in Southern Colorado. Like all oral traditions that survive generations, it’s multi-layered and speaks to the soul. Some versions are heavily religious. As a storyteller I often shared this old tale, and over the years the Weeping Woman, whom I’ve always thought of as Maria, became a friend.

Like Maria, I raised two sons alone. Like Maria, my love for my children did not erase my physical and emotional desire for a lover. Like Maria, I am an artist who turned away from her art.

Murder, the deliberate taking of a life, is a terrible crime. For the victim, however, the suffering is soon over. The possibility of losing one’s children, having them torn away without one’s consent and being powerless to prevent it, is another kind of murder, and the suffering in this case goes on and on. When the power taking our children from us is someone we love, the trauma of betrayal and disillusionment increases the trauma of losing our beloved children.

Many individuals and institutions set up false choices. A woman can be a “good mother,” but not a passionate, sexy woman. A woman can be a “whore” (engage in sex outside of marriage in this case), but not a good mother. La Llorona finds herself in a cage welded by cultural expectations and limitations. She turns her rage and despair inward and makes a terrible choice to destroy her children and herself rather than suffer their loss and the pain of her betrayed love. In every version of the story I’ve ever read or heard, she also destroys her art, the work of her hands, her livelihood, her pride and joy, which led her to her lover in the first place.

The depth of suffering and rage involved in the destruction of the most precious things in our life is beyond words. Can there be mercy for such an act, taken in the context of such suffering? Should there be mercy?

Questions attached to this old tale have kept me engaged with it for years as I struggle with my own choices while parenting and my own self-loathing. Can we, will we, forgive ourselves for our passion? For our desire to be loved? For the terrible love we feel for our children? For I have found love to be terrible. The power of it, the pain of it, the loneliness of it, are all terrible. Most terrible of all is the loss of it.

If my back was against the wall, if I was alone and powerless because of my social context and biological sex and someone tried to take my boys from me when they were children, what wouldn’t I have done?

Maria and I, together, have made a choice to come to peace with ourselves. It’s a long road, and I don’t expect either one of us will reach the end during our lives.

When we are raised in such a way that we never learn to trust and nurture ourselves because others are unable to model it or love us appropriately, we become emotionally crippled. The cure for that maiming is community, but a child who feels unlovable hides. To such a person, others are threatening and unsafe, untrustworthy at best and dangerous at worst. Some people spend their lives rejecting what they most need, the chance to connect with affection and support, the chance to be loved.

Maria, in a further act of self-hatred, resolves to tell everyone she meets about the terrible thing she’s done when she leaves the Underworld to search for her children. Her willingness to be honest, to hide or excuse nothing, to mingle among others (though reluctantly at first), is the first step in her healing, though at the time she only seeks the punishment she feels she deserves rather than redemption. She discovers not rejection and hatred but acceptance. It’s the first ray of light in her self-imposed solitary torture chamber.

But not the last.

When we do not love ourselves the first thing we need is for someone else to love us and show us how. When we do not forgive ourselves the first thing we need is for someone else to forgive us and show us the way.

Image by Albrecht Fietz from Pixabay

Weaving Webs

Substack has many features I love, but the most important one is the sense of safe community. I have yet to come across the kinds of exchanges that have kept me far away from social media on Substack. I’m not the only one who feels this way. Many people do not want to be involved in conflict, hateful exchanges, and rancorous debate. We want to be authentic, explore our art, and interact with others. We want to be peaceful, inspired, intrigued, and connected.

For a year I’ve lurked on Substack, gradually subscribing to other writers, watching, listening, reading. It wasn’t until the last couple of months I began liking posts and commenting now and then when I felt I had something to add to the conversation. I’ve watched others put paid subscriptions in place and begin conversation threads with their readers. They look so confident, so easy with themselves! I’ve hesitated, uncomfortable with the idea of trying to engage readers. I’ve never been popular. I’ve always lurked on the edges and in the shadows, convinced nobody would want to engage with me. I was the straight A kid in school who didn’t work and play well with others.

But the thing about being a writer is it never leaves you alone. It pushes and pulls, demands honesty and expansion. It’s an irresistible current going into bigger and bigger waterways. It compels me so inexorably it wears out my fears, my lack of social confidence, my tendency to self-sabotage in various ways. So, I’ve begun to make changes, to expand my Substack, and to solicit comments in a way I’ve never done before, either on my blog or here.

It's hard. I hate it. I’ve always avoided holding my hand out into the void because I don’t believe anyone will clasp it. Someone might cut if off, but more likely it will simply be ignored and I’ll look like an idiot, my vulnerability visible to everyone. Ugh. Oddly, it’s the non-response I fear more than the cutting-off-the-hand response.

But my stubborn streak flexes and I tell myself writing is about the long game, not a particular outcome or destination. If I want to be a better writer, I need to challenge my fear and perceived limitations. I need to challenge the voice in my head assuring me I will fail and I’m every bit as weird and unattractive as they told me I was when I was a child.

I’m nearly 60 years old. So far, I’ve survived all my many “failures” just fine. The people who told me who I was don’t know anything about me and never did.

So, fuck it. I’m going to turn over stones anyway.

This week I’d like to highlight Winston Malone’s

The Storyletter

, Michael Estrin’s

Situation Normal

, and

Write More with Simon K Jones

. All three are good examples of writers building healthy community on Substack. They engage with readers and writers. They ask good questions. I can’t resist a good question!

Turning Over Stones

• Share something you can’t forgive yourself for.

• Share something you can’t forgive someone else for.

• If you love yourself, how did you learn to do that?

• If you don’t love yourself, why is that?

• What do you think is the most unlovable or lovable thing about you?

  Introduce yourself and leave a comment below!

  

  Photo by Matt Walsh on Unsplash