Over all this their good manners, their expression
of grave respect, their ‘tributes’ to one another’s
invaluable services form a thin crust. Every
now and then it gets punctured, and the
scalding lava of their hatred spurts out.
-C.S. Lewis, preface to The Screwtape Letters (xi)
I’d much rather brainstorm and design than repair. Still, I’ve put in my time weeding gardens, tidying landscapes, and painting old wood. I even put up a blue shelf once. Still, the topic of both creating and repair falls far from remodeling, plumbing or super gluing, and lands squarely on relationships today. I’ve introduced friendships, started churches, designed studios, and nurtured long-distance communities. I’ve counseled, nudged and cajoled. Argued. On days like today, what a futile undertaking that seems to be.
Oh, this thin crust we tiptoe across with sharp scissors.
I’m surprised at the negative emotion this question bubbles up in the middle of my page! My heart white knuckles the corners, tugging and pulling hoping to close the gap between whatever relationship we might be speaking of, whether it’s with my extended family, languishing or strained friendships, clients, kids, church, James…
Repair connotes—nay, requires—the acknowledgment that something is wobbling, torn or broken. Who gets to decide just how broken, or how it got broken (who broke it), what needs to be done to fix it? And at what cost? It’s much easier to be busy, to be financially strapped, to be obligated to employer demands, to go silent.
I’m crying now as I write these words because repair feels left to consequence and timing and misunderstanding and others’ preoccupation with themselves, and misguided assumptions and poor communication and my hate of confrontation. But mainly my tears spring from a well of self-doubt, which angers me. I loath nothing more than the possibility of having botched this up, or disappointing someone I love.
I’d rather lose a digit on my right hand.
Time doesn’t heal all. It just doesn’t. Maybe we can start to forget the raw pain, but then when the pain resurfaces the next time we’re shocked and angered, and sometimes we don’t even remember why. Without allowing the conflict, without intentional truth-telling and forgiveness, relationships get more troubling, not less.
And you ask if I’m possibly over-thinking this? Sure, that must be it. Because everyone else around here is so healthy, and mindful, considerate of their neighbors. [A minute left to write on this prompt and I just wish I had something tangible to repair. I can sew that button back on the duvet. Maybe work on getting that ink stain out. Maybe lose these seven pounds.]
I suck just as much at repairing physical things as I do relationships for the same damn reasons: I’m clumsy, impatient, and not very resourceful. My tendency is not to keep and restore broken things. How much easier it is to toss and start over.
What if it’s my own breaking heart that needs repair?
***
We talk about how writing is dialog with one’s soul, prayer to God, therapy, resolve, vision…surrender. This is one of those therapy sessions brought about by a good writing prompt with a timed sprint that gets beneath the brain and taps the center of one’s chest. This one prompt set into motion a much-needed season of confronting, trimming, tossing, and repairing. Again, the brilliance of this question originates with Natalie Goldberg in Old Friend from Far Away: The Practice of Writing Memoir.