Looking Back at Ten Years Ago, and Facing Forward

This afternoon we walked up to our studio; it's about a 25 minute walk through Montreal neighborhoods. Today was chilly, but not freezing, and most of the trees have already lost their leaves. Some of the last to fall are the ginkgos, and now and then we came upon a wet pile of their golden leaves. In front of many houses, people had already bundled their less-hardy shrubs into structures of wood and burlap, or tents of green plastic-impregnated cloth. We had snow flurries a few days ago, and it won't be long before winter actually descends.

I don't like carrying my laptop in my backpack; it's just a little more weight than my back wants to bear these days when I'm on foot. So I had asked J. if he could set up an old computer for me at the studio; I can use my phone for any connectivity or communication needs while I'm there, but if I'm doing artwork and need some photo references, that's when the large computer screen is helpful. After we arrived, he found an old ASUS computer and set it up on my desk, plugged in the power adapter, and clicked the switch. It came on, we both gave a little cheer, and he left me to it.

From the outside I hadn't been sure if this was one of his or one of mine, but certain keys was very worn, as they tend to be on all my keyboards, and I recognized the home screen immediately:  a carved pillar from an English church we had visited. It turned out, though, that this wasn't the computer right before my current one, but two computers ago. As it booted, I remembered how slow it had been. I looked at the programs on the desktop and in the tray; similar to now, but different. The keyboard layout was French, and didn't come back to me right away. Neither did the dated interface. I clicked on the photo archive: what came up were images from 2011. It was a little bit like opening a time capsule from ten years ago -- which, in digital years, represents quite a distance.

One of the first things I saw was a photo of our cat, Manon, on the first day she came to us after having been hit by a car and rescued by someone in our studio building. There were drawings I had done at a concert, in the metro, and in airports; I was just starting to keep sketchbooks and draw seriously again; that was also the year I started making linocut prints.

Olives, watercolor, 2011.

Manon, 2011

There were photographs of trips to Florida to visit Jonathan's elderly uncle, gone now for a number of years; photographs at MOMA seeing the retrospective exhibition of Robert Frank's "The Americans" with dear friends -- one of whom is also gone now, far too young; there are also pictures from the launch of Open City. For that matter, J. and I both look quite a bit younger ourselves - I was still in my fifties then, and taking pictures with a Canon digital point-and-shoot; at the time I was sharing my photos and artwork on Flickr.

On July 14, 2011, I wrote that we bought our first smartphones. Facebook was in the bookmark bar at the top of the screen - I'd joined fairly recently -- and Twitter was there too. That fall, we went to Iceland for the first time, and then on to London to visit dear blogger friends. My excitement and enthusiasm are palpable: in October of that year, I wrote fifteen blog posts, and in early November I started to make a series of huge drawings based on what I'd seen in Iceland.

--

This year, 2021, I wrote one post in all of October, and only 2 in September. Counting back to 15 posts ago takes me all the way back to the beginning of June. I've noticed my flagging attention to the blog ever since wrapping up my pandemic diary last March, after we passed the one year mark. I honestly had no idea what to say there anymore, and didn't feel like adding to the cacophony. In our focus on downsizing and re-organizing our lives, I haven't been doing that much artwork either, which has depleted away another major subject area. And of course we haven't seen many people, or gone anywhere to speak of, except to those often-dark interior spaces of the self, where I've certainly reflected and learned a good deal, but much also remains unprocessed -- as I think it will until this period in our lives feels much further away in time. In 2011, who would have predicted the convergence of social, medical, political and environmental challenges the world would be facing in ten years? Who could have predicted how it would affect each of our lives?

I've felt myself becoming more silent. In the past eight months, I've become even less tolerant of social media, both because of what it is, and because of how I feel after spending time there. FB is now gone from my bookmarks. I check it very infrequently, and have stopped interacting there much at all. I'm almost never on Twitter, while Instagram continues to be a quiet but important artistic community for me. But what about the blog? Readership and commenting are greatly diminished from ten years ago, but there are still some faithful readers and correspondents -- maybe that's you. I ask myself: what is the blog's real function? Do I write here for the readers, or for myself? And when I'm not writing, is it because I'm unhappy but don't want to say so, or because it feels pointless or redundant... or what?

The Cassandra Pages was eight years old in March, 2011; it's now 18, going on 19. But for many years before I started the blog, I had kept a written journal. In January, I usually printed out the journal and all my significant correspondence, and bound them in a book. After ending the pandemic journal this past March, I started archiving my correspondence again, adding some diary-like notes, and any blog entries that I did make. Apparently that's my default: to make and keep, in some form, a record of this life, and to try to learn and grow from the process of writing about it. I didn't stop doing that.

Being neither a voyeuristic person nor an exhibitionist, privacy and discretion are important to me, so I carefully weigh what gets included in any public writing, the same as I weigh what I take into myself from the media and from others. And I also try to be aware of my ego, and the way it affects my thinking, my desires and expectations, and gets in the way of real growth and change. In our internet world of influencers, "Likes", viral posts, advertising, and money, so much communication has become shallow, and "success" cheapened to the point of insignificance when it comes to shaping a human life, gaining wisdom, and helping each other. At its best, social media connects us and allows us to encourage and help each other. At its worst, it both preys upon and actually increases people's insecurities, desire to be liked, and endless need for attention. There's a reason why the sages throughout the millennia have retreated to the desert, to mountaintops, and to wooded hermitages in search of silence and solitude, and why they have always recognized and resisted the marketplace, the crowd, and the allure of fame and the glittery but transient material world. The words that do come from them may be few, but they have meaning.

Over my own life, writing these journals (especially the blog) has changed and helped me, and the bonus is that through the blog, I've met you. For although I value and crave solitude and contemplation, I'm not a hermit by nature, but someone who needs and loves other people, and wants to talk, interact, and share. I also have a degree of healthy skepticism about my own thoughts; it's through reading and conversation and argument, as well as reflection, that we're able to sharpen our ideas and come to a greater understanding of what it means to be human, and also how to be a human in this ever-more-complicated world.

Where to find that balance and space is a question for all of us to ask, and the answers will differ. I do see that, for me, a withdrawal has been necessary, partly because too much noise and too many words dissipate my reserves of creative energy and positive thought, and partly because the companies that control those spaces have become increasingly predatory and toxic; I can't continue to participate and hold onto my integrity. That means accepting less interaction in a quantitative sense, but nurturing and being grateful for higher-quality interaction here, or in letters, calls, or in person.

But there's more to it than that. To be honest, this period of time has been one of the hardest in my entire life. I was OK for the first year, and then things started to feel much more difficult -- though they are now feeling less so. At times I've felt despair about both the present and the future, as have most of us -- but I haven't wanted to write about that here, where I know people often come to feel a little better, or to see something beautiful, or to be encouraged. And also, in real life, I've been responsible for other people and groups, and that has taken precedence. I simply haven't had much creative time or energy, or anything extra to give. Is that an apology? Yes...but it's also a statement about the reality in which many of us have been living. Things changed for almost all of us, and they may not be going back to the way they were. Loss, grief, letting go, and acceptance are all part of that, even as the world seems hell-bent on returning to "normalcy".

Looking back ten years into that old computer was instructive, as I consider the next decade. For me, it comes down to this: if I'm fortunate enough to still be here, ten unpredictable years from now, I don't want to look back and realize I wasted whatever precious time I had, either for myself, or for the people and purposes that go beyond me and give life meaning -- of which this blog and its readers have been one. That means making decisions, setting clear priorities, and cleaning out my spaces so that there is room, both figuratively and literally, to grow and change, and -- one hopes -- to have something to say.

 

 

Comments

[Lorianne]

Oh, yes. So much here that resonates. I've been blogging daily this month after realizing that if I can find something to say on Instagram and/or Facebook, there's no reason I can't find something to say on my blog. But this question of "why" comes up time and again.

I had more to write about (more to share) when I was single, living in NH, and traveling. Now I have a house in the suburbs and spend less time exploring wild places, and virtually no time traveling due to pet and other obligations. I wouldn't trade that life for this one, but I find myself having less to say.

And yet...here we are. I continue to keep a journal, even on days when I don't have anything to say: I continue to keep a journal because I believe that words will *always* show up. Blogging is a similar act of faith, and we continue to keep that faith.

[Siona]

Such resonance, Beth, as always. Hasn't this been such a peculiar time? With so many of us so hungry for connection, and yet at the same time feeling so fragile, and without much to give.

I too had to recently clean out one of my old computers from nearly a decade ago, and was surprised at how emotional it was, this artifact from a time in my life I'd not particularly cared to reconsider. Getting through it made me think of the detritus of our digital lives-- which also feels both so fragile and yet somehow so enduring.

In any case thank you for this beautiful essay, and the solace of it. It feels a little like something dropped in a cavernous room, making you aware of so much space.

[Edward Yankie]

This really speaks to me. Trying to live an aware, balanced life--and write. But silence is the canvas off of which words happen. So big gobs of silence, especially in these times, are necessary.

[Pica]

Beth — so glad to read this and feel the echoes. I’ve been getting into Hildegard von Bingen and it has brought you to mind a lot. I’m planning on a big project, not sure I have the ability or stamina, but we’ll see how we go.

I’ve had occasion to look into the Feathers of Hope archives recently myself — gosh what a long time ago that was.

Sending hugs, my friend, and may your paths lead to new discoveries and insights. Whether you share them with us is entirely your choice. x

[Priya Sebastian]

Beautiful post Beth. It is as if you have given words to all the complicated feeling that were sitting inside me and which I didn’t know how to express. It seems all of us are going through similar emotions in our own unique ways. The tussle with social media, especially Instagram continues for me too. I dislike how much it reduces the richness of life into tiny boxes and terse writing. I miss blogging, where I had to think about what I wanted to say and how to say it. I have wondered if I should resume blogging, if only for myself, but there hardly seems anything to say and the only antidote to a certain bleakness that settles over me at times is walking through nature and recording it in my journal. I hope you will continue blogging. I was glad to read this as I am sure so many of your loyal readers too.

[Jean]

Is poetry enough, enough to sate the
soul, the hungry soul, the soul in times
like these, these evil, ravaged times?
Is this the hope, the poetry amidst
the hopelessness, the momentary
joys – are these, are these still poetry?

Is poetry this sunshine after rain,
the sun now shining, slanting through
the trees, this peaceful resting now
to write it down, to hold it true – is
this the truth, the poetry? Is autumn,
autumn’s fleeting flowers, mellow fruits,

the carpet crackling, rustling rosy pink
and yellow leaves, the enclaves of
indignant singing birds, the preening
cat – oh, glossy, grinning tabby cat! – is
this the truth, the hope, the stillness,
even now enough? Is poetry enough?

[Liz Nestler]

I've been feeling many of these same things. Sometimes all the noise and words seem overwhelming and I crave silent meditation or immersion in music or art, or nature which have no words. And I have felt little inspiration to write for my blog, partly because I sense others feel the same way -- no additional words desired! I do keep up with my personal journals though.
Thank you for sharing -- YOUR words are most welcome.

[am]

"... That means making decisions, setting clear priorities, and cleaning out my spaces so that there is room, both figuratively and literally, to grow and change, and -- one hopes -- to have something to say."

You've given me much to think about while deeply appreciating your November photos, especially the first one and your art work, and then pausing a day before responding. This fall I've been "cleaning out my spaces" as well, making room for what needs an open place in order to appear in my life. Early December will be 15 years of blogging for me. Before blogging my life had become very very small, haunted by a past that I let hold me hostage. I'm grateful to have gradually been able process that past, directly and indirectly, gradually and anonymously, through art work, poetry, writing, music, literature and in opening myself to the joys and sorrows of bloggers near and far. I write far less on my blog than in earlier years, often simply posting things I want to share with blog friends -- music, documentaries, books I've read, poetry or anything that helped me move forward. My blog has been a delightful place to share my art work, which otherwise would be seen by far fewer people.

It is occurring to me that I write more on other people's blogs than I do on my own!

Thank you for your presence for these years that I have been reading your blog.

Amanda (Ella)

[Valerie]

Everything you've said here is so beautifully put. My head has been nodding (yes, not sleeping!) to many of your points, especially about social media and questioning the reason for maintaining a blog.
I have deleted bookmarks to several blogs because they aren't in line with my thinking of late - I'm not interested in buying stuff, fashion, or humble bragging. Lately I have been working on developing a spiritual practice, and have found your blog to be a source of solace and beauty. This is not a plea to continue the blog, as I can understand what a commitment it is. And about your comment about this being the hardest year of your life, please keep trusting that it will get better. This advice was given to me during a very difficult period and I am so grateful to the giver of that advice.

[Beth]

Dear All -- I'm sorry to have taken so long to reply, but wanted to thank you for commenting on my blog post.

Lorianne --I'm glad we've been companions in blogging for so long - it helps to know there are a few others out there who continue to journal and to blog, and you are definitely one of the most faithful to your practice. Even if I don't comment on your that often, I do read what you write and am always grateful for your thoughtfulness and for the fact that you "keep showing up."

Siona -- our "fragile and yet enduring" digital lives - yes, that's it exactly, well put. And, personally, I'd rather have the blog represent me than the even more ephemeral tweets and social media posts. Of course it could all vanish if the platform goes down, too. I do keep a backup, which is not complete, but doubt I'd ever restore it. Oddly, I seldom look back through my old journals. The point seems to be to do the writing, and work things out there, rather than creating something with the intention of going back to it -- at least not very often!

Priya, you write "I dislike how much it reduces the richness of life into tiny boxes and terse writing" and I couldn't agree more. I always appreciate what you post, and one advantage of being artists is that we can let our images speak for us even when words area hard to come by. Yours always speak to me.

Jean, what a beautiful poem, and yes, that is the question, isn't it -- is poetry enough? Is art enough? I think so, but of course we all question this from time to time. We all need love, too, but that can be wrapped inside the art and the poetry. I hope that the love I feel for my readers comes across in what I post, whether it's expressed directly or not -- I find this in your poem too.

Liz, it's good to hear from you, and thank you for mentioning nature, which is the other place where I find so much solace, and where wordlessness never seems to matter or be missed.

Amanda, thank you for what you wrote, and congratulations on your own 15 years of blogging. I'm glad (and not surprised) that it helped you process complicated experiences and feelings. I've found that my blogging always evolves and changes, as I do. It's a fluid medium and I appreciate that, and also a resilient one.

Valerie, thank you for your kind words and the reminder that things will get better. I agree, they will, and we have to trust that, and well as trusting the process of our practices and of life itself. I too have deleted some bookmarks over the past year, to blogs that feel irrelevant or narcissistic, and it feels good to make that decision.

[Beth]

Pica: Thanks so much for commenting. Yes, it's been ages, hasn't it? And I love your new project and hope you'll keep at it! You've got a lot to say and the medium seems perfect for you; I'm also grateful and happy to see the fruits of what you've been working on so hard.

Edward: Thank you, my friend. Yes, the words have to emerge from the silence, otherwise they are pretty empty. A paradox there.

[Duchesse]

So many resonant thoughts from you and commenters. I'm late to this post because I was away, spending time with friends I had not seen for two years or more. Everyone was careful—no groups, carefully-kept distance—yet we were giddy with the pleasure of communion, face to face. I had not realized how isolated I'd become till I had six days of this intimacy, contact I had entirely taken for granted before the pandemic. I feel like a manually-wound watch, springy and capable. And I fear running down.