I love the practice of writing because it chronicles life. Actually, there are many reasons I love writing, but that one stands out. It’s why I’ve always loved memoir: I want to read about the small, seemingly ordinary moments that spark a new understanding—a shift in how someone sees the world, or themselves. I want to feel that connection with other writers, with other human beings.
“We read to know we’re not alone.” That’s my favorite line from Shadowlands.
Lately, I’ve been working on a book about writing and spirituality. And in the process, I’ve returned to some of my older pieces—dusting them off like old letters in a drawer—to see if they still have something to teach me. What I’ve discovered is a map of my own inner growth—those turning points that might have seemed small at the time, but meant everything.
Moments that changed me.
Here’s one of those pieces. It’s from around twenty years ago, after I remarried and moved to the country with Bob. I was taking a writing class at the time, and the drive to and from home gave me long stretches to think.
This is one of those moments when I saw myself in a new light. I’ve included the questions I asked myself afterward. Maybe they’ll stir something within you, too.
I’m driving to town and talking to my spirit guide Ralph again. It’s early October, and the jury is out about what kind of color autumn will bring. We’ve had little rain, and temperatures have been mild, but there’s a golden light that I saw in the lecture hall on campus that keeps sliding into my periphery. I drive the S curve on the way to the interstate, past a bare feedlot where cows lay in the dirt. Then past the small cemetery, past the point where I can see off to the far hills in the west.
I have been weepy since late July. I cry at spaghetti sauce commercials. My hormonal balance is out of whack, I’m sure, and I feel like a walking nerve ending. So while I drive, I give myself a pep talk, a reality check, a “Give me a break” talk to think about what I’m grateful for and get over myself.
What am I grateful for? My health is right there at the top, along with my marriage, friends and family, my home, my writing. In the back of my mind, though, I’m hearing a voice from another time and place. It’s the voice of my first husband.
We’re at his grandmother’s house, in the bedroom on the second floor, and we’re arguing. He leaves the room, goes downstairs to the kitchen, which is just at the bottom of the stairs, and says to his mother three simple words: “She’s never satisfied.”
This has stayed with me for 20 years. A million other things have been said in that span of time, but “She’s never satisfied” has stayed with me, and it’s surfacing now as I drive.
“It’s true, you know,” a voice in me says. “You never are satisfied.’
“But I’m content,” I think. “I’m grateful.”
“But those things are different from being satisfied. Say it to yourself. Tell yourself you’re satisfied.”
I tried to do it, but I could feel blocks in my chest. I could say the words, but I knew I didn’t mean them.
I tried again. Same thing.
I said to myself, “I’m content,” and it felt like crystal water flowing through me. I said, “I’m satisfied,” and it felt like sludge.
So why can’t I be satisfied? I ask myself. Because it feels like settling, giving up, giving in. I don’t want life to stop, for this to be it. It feels like giving up ambition, potential, desire.
“But what if,” Ralph answered, “it’s like eating a meal, pushing away from the table, and saying, ‘I’m satisfied?’ It doesn’t mean you’ll never eat again. It just means that, in this moment, you’re full. Could you say that about life?”
I practiced, driving down the road, merging onto the interstate, passing the fields, and crossing the river.
“I’m satisfied,” I said to myself. And every time I did, it felt like a little more sludge disappeared. Maybe I could be full after all.
Try saying to yourself, “I’m satisfied.” How does it feel to you?
What does being satisfied in life mean to you?
Do you feel satisfied with who you are and the life you’re creating? Why or why not?
With blessings,
Deb
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A NOTE TO MY READERS: I write “A World of Your Own” as a member of the Iowa Writers’ Collaborative, which is led by Julie Gammack, of Des Moines. I’m honored to be part of this group, featuring the diverse voices of more than 70 professional writers and journalists across the state of Iowa. I encourage you to check out their columns.
Wow! Thank you, Debra. I needed that perspective today.
Much of life happens in our minds. I’ve learned to find joy in the small things born from the challenges I’ve faced. That’s the kind of satisfaction that stays..