June 9, 2015 – The gift in our unlived life

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It was the summer of 2003. Joe and I had spent the weekend at a little beach house in Stinson Beach – on the coast of Marin County near where we live. He went home to work on Monday and I stayed two more days by myself. It was a tender time – we were in the middle of sorting out whether or not to do a course of in-vitro fertilization. It was a cool late afternoon – the fog was coming back in. I wrapped the little blanket I was sitting on up over my bare legs. The cell coverage was better out on the beach than in the beach house. So, it was there I talked to the fertility doctor for the first time. He was very gentle but matter-of-fact. This was going to be expensive, not covered by medical insurance, and at my age – (then I was 41), we had a far less than 50% chance of success. I remember getting off the phone with the fleeting thought: this might not work – I might never have any children. It’s remarkable how protective denial is. I was so emotionally ill-prepared to handle that very real possibility that I had the capacity to just put it out of my mind – like it was an awful sight that I could avert my eyes from. I just couldn’t go there. Buried in that denial was the fear that the disappointment, the grief I’d feel, would completely devastate me.

You know how this story came out. We did IVF and I didn’t get pregnant. Four eggs were harvested from my ovary, one four-celled embryo was implanted in my uterus (we have a Polaroid picture of it – labeled “Greenwood-Brown”). It didn’t take. And the grief came. I felt it and avoided it and then it stalked me, until I felt it some more. I’m nowhere near as raw as I was then, but if I go looking for it, it is right there. I suspect that it might always be. As a woman, I have all this amazing physiology that I will never use, never feel my baby kick inside me, never endure the agony of childbirth, never look into that brand new little human’s eyes or ever be called “Mommy.”

If you are wondering, yes, we thought about adoption and yes, there are plenty of other children that I could have given (and still could give) my love and attention to. And, I completely get how parenthood brings with it a whole lot of hard work and even grief of its own. Neither of these places are where I’m going here.

There’s a book in my collection by Dawna Markova called “I Will Not Die an Unlived Life.” She awoke in the middle of the night, the exact moment when her father died. What came to her in this moment was: “I will not die an unlived life. I will not live in fear of falling or catching fire….” It goes on. The message of the book is powerful – “Reclaiming Purpose and Passion” is the subtitle. I’ve read this book through, have shared from it and quoted from it. It’s been part of my unfolding.

But, the thing is, I think we all do have an unlived life. My dad recently told me that he missed out on the going-away-to-college experience. My mom has always loved technology – she had the domain name niz.com in 1995! But, because someone at IBM in 1959 told her she had no aptitude for it, she shied away. Can you imagine what my force-of-nature mother might have done if she’d gotten involved in tech when it was in its infancy? Two of my spiritual mothers have lived each other’s unlived lives: one the sensuous marriage to her soul mate, the other a life of contemplation and spiritual exploration. My unlived life is motherhood.

It may not be so for all of us – but I am still very conscious of the life I didn’t get. On the practical level it left space and time to focus on something else. But it also brought with it a well of painful emotion that has fueled me to persevere. The circumstances in my life and my internal wiring were such that going back to a “real job” retained a serious pull on me for many years. This immense disappointment has sat right over my shoulder, waiting to come barreling through if I were to cave in on living a more fulfilling life.

It has done its job. I could not have made this up. I had no idea this art was in me and would end up saving my life – or that I had the capacity to accompany others in the process of their art saving their lives. But now it’s hard to imagine there’s anything else I am better suited for.

Sunday afternoon I had a two-hour talk on the phone with Brenda, my friend of 30 years. It was a fierce conversation. In the most loving way she admonished me to care for my endeavors – art, teaching, my work – as if it were my child. She said that my allowing myself to be pulled away by other demands upon me was like neglecting to change my baby’s diaper. It was Brenda who watched me pull a plastic bag of unframed paintings out from the dark and dusty space under my bed. She told me that I had to get them framed and hung for people to see. I had been afraid of spending the money to do this – didn’t know they were worth the investment. She said I must. The paintings above and here were the ones that were in hiding.

It’s long since time when having a baby has even been possible for my body and I am at peace with that. Sometime last year I spent a few hours with my dear friend Julia’s toddler. We had the best time, reading books and drawing. When Julia came to get her, as they left, I noticed that I was ok, I was good. I no longer longed. That part of life had passed by. I felt like a grandma – in the sweetest way.

I believe that this unlived life has wrapped itself around and through my lived life. None of this would have come to be without what I did not get in this life. Unlived lives have energy and power. They call upon us to honor them, to listen to them. Mine is very real and clear to me. It has demanded my attention. With the help of my dear friend, it reminds me to fully inhabit what I got instead, and points out the incredible richness of the life I am living. You are part of this richness. As I write this, I am washed over with a wave of gratitude that breaks me open.

Love,

Cara