#190: Beyond explanation
In early July I took a train downtown to write an essay about Charli XCX. If you can believe it, this was the final straw. After two hours of typing and erasing the opening sentence, I called my mom from the roof and told her, in tears, that I’d become incapable of writing. I’m not one to call my mom crying, so she must have known this was serious. We decided together that I needed to take a break. My friends and I chalked some of this up to “media brain”—the deluded belief that you need to write an essay on a trending topic regardless of whether you have something interesting to say about it. Mostly though, I blamed motherhood. This conclusion brought little relief, because it was permanent: I would never not be a mother again. That Sunday I sent out a newsletter that I’d be pulling back.
This isn’t a triumphant return or anything. I’ve been publishing randomly, experimenting with my schedule, and that’s going to continue for a while. But I wanted to write today without a plan, because it’s been a minute since I did that and I’m finally starting to miss it. By the way, the most surprising response I got to my email about publishing less often was also the most common: People were grateful. I heard this a lot, mostly from fellow parents and media brains. They wanted to let themselves say less, too.
Last Sunday Avi and I were in bed, a coldness between us. I’d been depressed all day, home alone with the baby, and when I finally climbed into bed he sat by my feet and asked what was on my mind. I was hesitant, knowing how irrational it would all sound, but his invitation was too appealing, so I unleashed it all—every last unreasonable thought. He endured this well, resisting the urge to counter or solve my bad logic until the last minute, when he caved and he suggested an idea I didn’t like, which of course hurt his feelings, and now we were in a fight. He’d made my sadness about him, I said. I’d asked him to sublimate his humanity by having no emotional response to my sadness, he said. I sat up in bed, facing away from him. “I’m so annoyed at you now! How did that help anything?” I said. We were quiet. Then I felt his hand on my shoulder, a peace offering, and slowly I turned to look at him, and that’s when his face spread into a surprised smile. “Oh my god,” he said. “I’ve never seen you look so angry! You look like Voldemort!” And then we both broke into laughter.
Our conflicts have changed character. Where they used to be tense but polite, now they’re lighter and more blunt. No time for timidity. This was Avi’s directive actually. “I was trying to put it delicately,” I said once, frustrated when he got defensive to what I thought was a mild critique. “Well don’t be delicate then,” he replied, and so I made it harsher, and everything was smoother after that. Directness can be a compliment. You’re saying, I know you can handle this. At one point during that conversation, we paused what we were saying to point out how cute our baby looked asleep in her stroller, then back to whatever grievance.
Avi recently teased me about being twitchy when I cook. I didn’t take this seriously until the other day, when I noticed my hand while scrambling eggs—I was stirring so quickly and incessantly I seemed paranoid. I do this because this gives the eggs an even texture, the yolk indiscernible from the egg whites, every bite identical to the last. I can’t defend my commitment to this method; the result is only fine. I suspect my technique is more pathological than anything. There is a ginger pork and coconut rice recipe my mom made me when I got home from the hospital that I’ve been trying and failing to recreate for months. Last week my parents finally showed me, and it turns out the secret is not touching the contents of the pan for minutes at a time. Inconsistent texture is the goal, they said. You have to leave it be.
It’s fitting in hindsight that Avi suggesting a solution to my problems was what upset me, since my main issue lately has been this same misstep: trying to solve problems that aren’t ready to be solved, then dramatically deeming them unsolvable, thereby inflating their significance. I’m always tending, always stirring. There’s an anstiness to this behavior, generously called “being proactive.” Sometimes you just have to let things be for a while, let them gain a little texture. Be patient, tend later.
Recently a friend was acting in a play with heavy subject matter, and when she grew exhausted by the material, unable to process all her emotions with her normal analytical tools, she finally gave herself over to the physical experience of the play—the room she was in, the people filling it, the lines, the gut feelings that came up in response. I told her this reminded me a bit of what I’ve been going through with writing. I feel called to explain what it’s like to have a baby, to take something emotionally unwieldy and put it into words, but it feels like trying to explain a garden with a calculator. And so I’m pulled back, again and again, to the physical work of parenthood (the room I’m in, the people filling it, the chores, the gut feelings coming up in response). My friend said yes, exactly, in the words of her director: We have reached the end of our intellects.
I like thinking about what comes after all the thinking. When we’re done explaining, categorizing, and solving everything that’s explainable, categorizable, and solvable, what’s left? The best things? The most important ones? This reminds me of Nietzsche’s idea that capturing something in language is the end of our wonder, rather than the beginning of it: "That for which we find words is something that is already dead in our hearts. There is always a kind of contempt in the act of speaking." When we want to say less, then, we should.
After last Sunday, things started feeling better, lovely even (the momentum of low points, etc), which I’m grateful for. Notably, I stepped away from my heady attempts at problem-solving and toward more tangible stuff. I’m not sure how long all this will take, but I’m working on my patience.
My favorite thing I read last week was “Living in a Lucid Dream,” by Claire Evans for Noema. Last Friday’s 15 things also included more reading/listening, the perfect salad, a styling trick, and more. The question of the week was about whether or not you feel “settled” where you live, whether that matters, and how you approach this issue generally (so many good comments on this, I’m still reading through!). And if you missed Dear Danny last week, we covered a lot of relationship drama (thank you, ideal for us).
I hope you have a nice Sunday,
Haley
“Portrait Of Friedrich Nietzsche” via Getty | Heritage Images