As Good As Bob Ross
Casey Wilson and Ruthie Lindsey: helping us hold our own stories
The other day while describing someone’s artwork, one of my kids said in complete seriousness: They are as good as Bob Ross. Be still my little public access heart.1
Now I’m about to tell you a story that feels a little uncharacteristic. Will it sound petty? Am I being petty?? And yet, I feel like sharing it. Maybe to model what I’m always saying: that disappointments can be good for us. Stumbles can be information for further greatness. And maybe just to share what’s on my mind, which is the whole point of this newsletter. Who knows and here goes!
I recently submitted Under a Spell for a round-up of sorts for which I felt like a shoe-in. It was for newsletters written by people who identify as female writing about their middle years. I am custom-marked for this thing! I didn’t doubt for a second that Under a Spell would be included, that’s how confident of a match I thought it was.
Well, I didn’t make the list.
From this vantage point, I see some arrogance on my part, a lack of research (sadly somewhat typical), as well as a lack of intention. Did I even like this list? With whom was I trying to be in the same room, anyway? Do we have anything in common besides a sexist system that would shove us into gender categories??
At the time, however, I was shocked to discover my absence on it.
Moments later I had the thought: This happens to me A LOT. I am misunderstood all the damn time. What’s one more time? I suspect, however, that this is also why the exclusion stung. It struck some past notes that are still a little tender (and, to be honest, may always be tender. This is not a bad thing, just what it means to be human). I also have spent, like, zero brain cells on marketing this newsletter other than tell my friends so some of this is on me. Guilty-face emoji.
So after a little cry, I had a little chuckle at the whole circle jerk of ego and assumption and finding myself here again: a kid peering into windows wondering why everyone wants to be inside a steamy basement when it’s so glorious and cool outside. Then I had a thought that really calmed me. Rather than contort myself into something crownable, I’m going to keep doing what I do, because even if other people don’t understand it (or worse, don’t care (that one hurts)), I know what I’m doing. Emphasis on I . . . eye . . . EYE see me, which is half the battle, eh?
Also: whatever this is **waves arms, points to journals, motions to pots of love bubbling on the stove** it may not be appealing to everyone. But it’s also not, like, an accident of fate, which is how I think a lot of people view women writing about their lives. This whole thing is deeply intentional. I know what the rules are. Put your best foot forward. Impress us with your credentials. Make yourself look great! But I don’t want to do that, because I don’t believe that brings people closer and, also, it doesn’t really interest me. You know what interests me? I SCRUBBED two bathrooms this week, top to bottom de-filthed those bitches, and it made me feel like a million bucks. You’re not supposed to brag about that but guess what? This is what I care about! How I’m taking care of myself and my space(s).
So this newsletter is also somewhat insistently counter-cultural. Why would I be waiting to get a stamp for that??
Yes, it would be nice to be recognized for what I’m trying to do, but being rejected by this (totally made-up and very human) list makes me see that, no matter what, I am here first and foremost for YOU - your individual, sweet, funny, curious, and open minds. I hope to be a flag or a mirror in the very real struggle for mental wellness that exists both because we are alive on the earth and also because the global messaging around happiness and success is - how you say? - not so balanced. I am here to counter whatever threatens to capsize our own inner and collective wisdom.
But have wisdom and mothering ever really been that popular? Hmm. DON’T ANSWER THAT. Also, to return to an important piece, Kara has done very little to spread this newsletter beyond the halls of her friends! So . . . maybe it’s not a case of being judged worthy as much as a case of the universe saying: Not Right Now, Girl which is, frankly, something the universe says to me a lot. *shrug emoji* *frown emoji* *zen emoji*
Anyway, what I’m trying to say in all of this is that, on the submission form for nominating my own newsletter, I described part of what I’m doing here with the words: I want to show off my book report skills, lol.
After my “rejection,” I recalled those words. Had I been sloppy? Too casual? I had thought I was amongst friends. But almost immediately after examining my words I had the thought, That’s still funny! Even better, I liked myself **more** for having written that, especially for including the little lol.
If I were a comedian, would I be the kind who heckles audience members who don’t laugh at my “best” jokes? Maybe. Because I am constantly thinking some variation of: That was a good joke. I can’t believe so-and-so didn’t laugh. And then I’ll check with Tim. That was funny, right? And we’ll conclude that yes, it was funny, and no, people are not ready to laugh at themselves all day every day like we think everyone should (lol).
This is all to say thank you, beloveds, for consistently rewarding me with your attention and humor. I do not take it lightly! **Throws roses at audience, brings tutu’d pig onstage** And, not to get all weird or anything, but one reason I like hanging out with kids so much is that most are all just elbow deep in making stuff while being silly and auditioning THE BEST lines for each other.
Anyway, anecdote and manifesto aside (never), I really came here to share two books!! The first is Casey Wilson’s collection of essays called The Wreckage of My Presence, a terrific title taken from something someone said to a group of people after a business meeting. (Motioning to coffee cups and various ephemera around the room, this person reportedly said: Hey, don't forget to take with you the wreckage of your presence. Such a good line. 100% approve of lifting it for a title.)
Speaking of lifting things from people, Wilson’s book was recommended, I do believe, by one of our greatest living writers Meecham Whitson Merriweather who writes a pop culture column called Now That I Mention It. I really appreciate when intelligent souls turn their lenses on celebrity and comment wildly/with perfect moral gravity + electric wit. When Meech said something about Casey’s book being underrated (or under-read), I sat up and took note.
But I didn’t dive in right away, I warmed to it slowly, afraid it would have the worst vibe a book can have which is: A Celebrity Wrote This. But by the end of The Wreckage’s pages, I had definitely laughed and cried, and cried while laughing (she writes a lot about her mother’s sudden death), and I closed the book extremely grateful.
The Wreckage itself is very voicey so I’m only going to quote one section, otherwise I’d have to quote the whole book, because all the various stories gel in Casey'’s humor. The following made me laugh and also reminded me of my old friend (they of the Gave-Me-an-Accoustic-Guitar fame as mentioned in my 9/11 post).
In an essay about things to do and things not to do, Wilson writes:
For my brother and best friend, Amanda: Please don’t answer every phone call with the amount of time you have to talk. “I’ve only got five. What’s up?” Or “What is it. I have two minutes.” Or “I can’t chat.” Then don’t answer! Sometimes they’ll call me and immediately announce they only have three minutes to talk. Why call at all? It’s like you’re bragging about how little time you have for me!
My friend used to complain when their roommate did the same thing: called their cellphone and then urgently, theatrically got off the call. I also like how Wilson gets down the dynamics of both cellphones and close companions. I love when writers are close enough to their subjects that they can roast their friend or sibling’s worst qualities without making anyone look bad - when the love shines off the page, you know? By the end of the book, I felt like I’d had many dinners with her brother, which is how I always want to feel when reading about someone’s family.
Looking for more background about Casey (with whose screen work I’m not overly familiar)2 I came across this Variety interview in which she answers the following question about her writing process for the essays:
What happened with the things that were still a bit raw, that maybe you didn’t want people to laugh at or even know about?
Wilson: My therapist always says that when you can make something into a funny story is when you’ve processed something. And I try to do that quickly, in a way, and almost be an outsider to certain experiences — to step out of them and say, “That’s wild that’s happening to that other person.” Yeah. But I also think it comedy is the best way to make a point that doesn’t feel like a lesson. And so, I just tried to be true to myself. I certainly wanted to tell darker things, but I also think it doesn’t mean you can laugh while you’re telling them.
I really like that comment - comedy is the best way to make a point that doesn’t feel like a lesson. It’s one I take seriously, too, because who the hell likes a lecture? I also want to highlight this here because of the sting of Not Being Chosen. My partner is constantly lamenting the fact comedies count below dramas in the film world. I’m bringing it up because as a female whose aim is generally some form of levity, whether spiritual or comedic (or both), I think it stung twice to be passed up.
Grow up! Get Serious! Um, no thanks, sweeties.
Anyway, we hardly see you. Only men belong in the comedy space! Ouchie.
This is reminding me of something Tim also said in a discussion this year about choices we’ve made in our lives. He said, somewhat bewildered that others don’t feel this way, I am deadly serious about play. Well, I am, too.
Martha Beck has a new book out called Beyond Anxiety: Curiousity, Creativity, and Finding Your Life’s Purpose (which I have not read, fyi). One of the reasons I trust Martha’s methodology so much is because I’ve lived first-hand what she preaches and know intimately the saving power of creativity, of following your own individual genius in this life. Creativity really can save your ass. Play can save a life.
And now, I will swiftly yet gracefully move right on :) Before getting to Wilson’s book, I dog-eared even more pages of Ruthie Lindsey’s memoir There I Am (though thankfully didn’t defile it with a whole cup of coffee like I did Leslie Jamison’s memoir Splinters).
Lindsey’s book also feels difficult to break into pieces. I marked half of it up but these passages feel useful for my personal enjoyment, not necessarily as things I need to share here. Overall, I admire Lindsey’s honesty, but I also just like her word choice. At the beginning I was like, Okay, this is a lot of words. The author’s talent for description is STRONG. During the first chapter I wondered, “Do I really need to know the color, texture, AND smell of whatever object you’re describing?” But then I fell under the Ruthie Lindsey spell (see what I did there) and really lapped up the viscera of her tale: how she describes weather and food and clothing and friends, and then takes you through her domiciles while discussing the import and heft of her relationships.
It’s a trip, is what I’m saying! Lindsey’s story, which I mentioned before, includes medical emergencies, painkiller addiction, and extreme physical pain. It’s a dramatic one, and I don’t necessarily prefer memoirs with so many Big Events in them (see also: I couldn’t get through the second page of Matthew Perry’s book. Sorry/not sorry). But the subtlety Lindsey brings to her tale, her devotion to being truthful - mostly with herself - is really beautiful.
To make it through the days weaning herself off painkillers, she starts making lists to guide her through the hours. They are humble, these lists. Writing about some her first days, she says:
To fill the gap between “toast” and “shower” one morning, I decide to make another list to help me navigate. I look at the pictures on the dresser and the one of my daddy beside the bed and I try to remember who I am and what it is that I like. I try to remember what my joy looked like before the accident and the medicine and all the shit. I squeeze my eyes shut and see Amos the mule hauling our plow across the dusty red garden, daddy in a cloud of dirt behind him. I see the big pink sun melting behind the farmhouse at the end of the day and spilling its colors all over me. I see the rocks at Camp DeSoto, where I learned what it was to be loved wholly and accepted fully. I think as hard as I can, pushing ink into the paper of a fresh section of notebook.
Ruthie writes a lot about sunsets and I’m here for it :)
Speaking of Camp DeSoto, a special place to her, Lindsay describes giving a talk there once after her life-altering car accident:
On Friday morning, I stand with the big cross in the background and talk about what happened to me. I know the words are romantic and I like the way it sounds when me, God, and Jesus are the main characters in my story, three divine musketeers. . . I’m fully exposed, imperfections and fears strung up and flapping in the wind, but instead of shame, I feel so much love. I don’t know it yet, but this moment will serve as my anchor in so many ways. Later, when I’m lost, unsure, or alone, I will learn to look up and around for those journeying with me. I will learn to let them carry me when I’m weak and I will learn to hold their weight when I’m strong. The power of community will shape, astound, and sustain me.
I love this idea so much - looking around for those who are journeying with you, letting friends carry you when you are weak, taking your turn with their weights when you are strong. In her author’s note at the end of the book, Lindsey says this:
Because pain is universal, I believe that healing is possible. I’m not talking about perfection, about waking up one day in remission, sober, or pain-free. I’m talking about finding peace and acceptance within yourself, a sense of home in your body and spirit. I have days where I forget everything that I’ve learned, where I crawl back into bed and sob. It isn’t all peaks - there are valleys and there are deep, dark pits. I don’t believe that our pain has to be wasted, though. I like thinking of all my painful, sorrowful moments as thought they are not happening to me, but for me. Every breakdown is another opportunity for a breakthrough - another invitation to explore deeper, to journey further, to help someone along as they start on their own path. We need each other. In therapy, they say that the opposite of addiction is connection. We were not meant to do this on our own. We need to heal in community, to be mirrors of truth and love to each other when the crazy person in our head is telling us so many limiting, effed-up stories.
I really love this idea that community is where we heal. Tara Brach says that as we were harmed in relationships, we have to heal in them. (Not necessarily within original ones that harmed us, however.)
Bottom line: we cannot do this work alone. The older I get, the more I believe this. We have to do the work within ourselves if we want true liberation (and what I think of as happiness - for me, that is right relationship with reality) but we do not have to do that work alone.
And perhaps more boldly, I am starting to believe that we are not *able* to do some of this work alone. I’m starting to understand how deeply we need each other, on a soul level, if we’re going to travel as far as we have come here to travel.
Finally, I love this concept of breakdown as breakthrough. I have heard it put in lots of different ways. First, there’s the comical AFGO (Aother Fucking Growth Opportunity) - where you’re going through things you hate and have the grace or humor to say, Somewhere in all of this is SOMETHING good for me!
I also remember highlighting the idea of breakdown as spiritual breakthrough in one of Brene Brown’s books a few years ago (it might have been Atlas of the Heart). This was right around the time I had been referred to an ENT for diminished hearing and had been told by them that I needed to go see a neurosurgeon ASAP. I remember sitting on our old side porch, at this sweet little table I got for my first apartment after college, reading a book I found a little dull but also helpful (gasp, she did not just write that about Brene, lol), telling myself: Have patience. Take it in. See what’s useful here.
I was saying this to myself about the book in my hands, but also yes, about scenarios in my life, too. I agree with Ruthie that our pain is never wasted. It can be good for our own life, our coming to adulthood, our making amends with and to the world; barring that, I believe it can be good for others. Pain can soften us, make us more available to understanding other’s journeys. With time, we might better witness and help handle (and therefore heal) another’s pain, too.
What do you think? Are you signing up for my Grief Retreats yet? We’ll bury ourselves in blankets and stuffed animals and sing loudly off-key.
Okay, my friends. Enough of my vague summaries of the books on my shelves. I’m sending you lots of love and lots of patience: softening for the things that are hard. If you need a vitamin from GNC to get through your days, I am confident that American culture has you covered. If you need some tissues, or a journal, or a crystal, or a friend, we’ve got you covered over here, around my small but mighty crucible of herbs and teas and hopes for your safe passage.
From my hearth to yours, with a special bit of cinnamon sprinkled in for good measure!
XOXO
K
As an aside, I did once watch the strangely Bob Ross-esque movie with Owen Wilson called Paint and it made me (occasionally) chuckle. Sadly, I can’t find my post about it right now *shrug emoji* but I liked the set for that movie a lot
When my babes were young, I really lived with the podcast Homophilia inside my ears and am now putting together the fact that one of the hosts Matt McConkey would always talk about his “best friend Casey.” Well, that’s who this is: Casey Wilson. Got it! Homophilia is also hosted by Dave Holmes, one of my other favored culture critics. This particular podcast interviews LGBTQ+ celebs while generally dishing about life.
Your words today made me drink a third cup of coffee 😉! Also, here's to sentimentality... treasuring my connection to Aunt Treva. Wouldn't she have loved this one!
Thanks for sharing your disappointment with us— it takes courage, and it’s also so very relatable and comforting to read how you processed it.