My voice is not for me alone
There are many writers who have influenced me over the years, for sure. I could talk about Barbara Kingsolver, or Sue Monk Kidd, or others, but they would be more recent companions. Madeleine L'Engle was who I read in the years in which I was becoming my adult self, a process which probably took the bulk of my twenties.
I often thought about writing her, to tell her the difference her work made to me (especially her journals), but it just felt too cheezy--as if there was no way I could do it justice with my words. I would sound too sincere, like maybe I was a little crazy or a budding stalker. It felt like the only way for that conversation to work would be if we were face-to-face and she could look in my eyes and see that I was not exaggerating a bit, and that I looked to be perfectly sane at the same time. I was trying not to be a crazy fan, because being a "fan" at all is so cliche. I didn't feel like a "fan". I felt mentored by her work, and that is a very different thing. Living in Colorado, the face-to-face, read-the-God-honest-truth-in-my-eyes meeting with her was not going to happen.
Then shortly after I moved to Brooklyn, Madeleine L'Engle passed away. There was an event to celebrate L'Engle and her work at Books of Wonder, the oldest independent children's book store in the city, and a shop to which she gave her loyal support. I went, not at all intending to speak. I would sit quietly in the back with my sorrow, and we would acknowledge the loss which was all of ours, together.
One of her granddaughters, Lena, was there, and she walked to the front to speak first. I had read about Lena and her sister, Charlotte, in L'Engle's journals. I had read about all kinds of things--the way L'Engle woke in the middle of the night to write when her children were young, the summer her mother died, the story of her marriage and her husband's death. I had read about where she slipped away to, when her house was full and she needed to clear her mind.
Lena began to describe a memory. She talked about her grandmother's bedroom at Crosswicks, and how they called it the portrait room because of the large family portraits hanging on all the walls, and she listed each of the relatives represented there. She told about the way she and her sister would sit on the large poster bead with their grandmother and drink hot cocoa while they read together, and how when they were seven years old, she decided they were ready for Shakespeare. Lena spoke about what it meant to her, during a time in which her parents were busy with their own lives, to have the presence and attention her grandmother gave them.
I sat in my chair and listened, and I could hardly breathe. You see, as Lena spoke, I realized that I already knew this story. Everything about it--from the portraits to the cocoa, to the reading in the covers. I had read it in L'Engle's journals. That moment I was completely present to the profound generosity it is--to take a piece of one's life, even one so intimate that it would be your loved one's fondest memory of you--and put it in a book, and share it with a stranger. That you would invite a young girl half a country away, whom you would never meet, to see your world and know your thoughts, that it would change her to the core in ways in which you would never even hear of--that is generosity. And not just to me, but to the vast ocean of readers that have found her work, or will find it in the endless years to come.
That moment transformed me.
There, in that chair, Madeleine gave me my last lesson. She showed me what's possible when we're willing to do the work that wants to be done through us diligently, what's possible when we're willing to be vulnerable and to be seen, what's possible when we commit words to the page and then share them. We can give comfort and companionship. We can offer the guidance of our own experiences and convictions. We can participate in the growth of each another.
The sharing went a little downhill after Lena. Earnest people told stories that were more about themselves than about L'Engle, and I started feeling like it was a disaster. I could hear the words that were missing so loudly in my ears. But I wasn't going to speak, I reminded myself. Who am I to say anything? We never even met. But in the light of her generosity to me, it suddenly seemed like so little to ask in return--saying what wasn't being said--that I walked to the front.
I don't mind speaking in public, but I very much mind crying while I'm trying to speak in public. There was no way I was getting to say these things without the tears, without having to hold my voice tightly as if I were gripping the reins on a runaway horse. That part was painful for me. But I got to look into Lena's eyes and tell her the difference her grandmother made to me, an unknown girl across the country. The things she taught me, long before I needed to know them, about being a wife, a mother, a grandmother, a writer and a friend. How she wrote about faith in a way that made me think there could be a seat at that table for me.
That day I learned that my voice is not for me alone, and that if I don't stand up and say the missing things, perhaps no one will, and something will be lost forever.
My favorite authors whisper to me through their words, "You are not alone." Writers like L'Engle have mentored me as profoundly as the women I have known in real life. I am who I am, in part, because of them. On occasion I am tempted to look away from the page by one of those reasons why I almost don't do what I do. But it is with terror that I consider the possibility that someone else--someone like Madeleine, who changed me forever--might have been stopped by one of her "reasons why not". So I turn back to the page, as an act of gratitude for all I have been given, and I keep writing. When the work is passing from my hands, I remember that I have been changed by generosity, and that it has become who I am. Madeleine L'Engle taught me that we all serve the work, whether our offerings are a humble stream or a great river, all feeding into the same pool. And so I do as I have been taught.
Monday, July 20, 2009 at 7:13AM
Reader Comments (20)
Jen -
I'm not sure if I did this right, but wanted to let you know that I love this.
Really beautiful. Made me cry. Which is a good thing when you are reading to yourself and not in front of a crowd. In my opinion, that is.
and you do it well. and i sincerely mean that, even though you can't see my eyes.
Wow, Jen, I am so moved by this. I, too, grew up reading L'Engle, but have never had the pleasure of reading beyond her YA fiction. I relate so strongly, though, to your conviction that the power (or one of the powers, anyway) of literature lies in its ability to show us that we are not alone in this world, no matter how isolating our experiences, fears or desires may be. You also remind us (and I was just talking about this with another woman writer friend yesterday!) of the need to commit, with our whole beings, with all our honesty, to our stories and their telling. That commitment is the heart of the community built by storytelling (and other art, for that matter.) Thank you for sharing this. It's an amazing recollection, beautifully told.
oops -
where it said author, I put your name, because I would never think the term author applied to me. Mine was the first comment.
You've expressed so beautifully what I also feel about L'Engle - I've read her memoirs several times, and have learned so much from her honesty, generosity and stubborn insistence on what's important. I felt mentored by her, too, though I never met her or even wrote to her.
Thanks for reminding us why we all do what we do, and how important generosity is. And thanks for being willing to share and be vulnerable with us. You are a true gift.
You have it. There is one voice.
You just inspired me to seek out Madeline L'Engle's journal-books. I haven't read her work beyond "A Wrinkle in Time". And so the river flows. Thank you for your contributions. They mean more than you will know.
Jen, this is beautiful, truly moving.
You are helping me move through a funky, uncomfortable place in my writing these days.
Jen, this touched me to the core. Thank you for sharing your voice and for taking a powerful stand for why it's so important we each share ours. The world is richer, myself included, because of it. Thank you.
Jen,
This was beautifully written and so true. I appreciated your description of your inclination to hold back, not feeling that your input was appropriate to the occasion - and then making the decision to speak. I think it happens to many of us. With some discernment we may need to get up our courage and take that leap. Sometimes we may flop; often we may not know what the outcome of our venture will be. Occasionally we find that our honesty has helped someone else open up and it will feel worth the effort.
Madeleine L'Engle was a wonderful role model to so many of us. Thank you for sharing this bit of your own story.
I had similar feelings about Madeleine, and like you I always wanted to write and thank her for how much her writing meant to me. This was a wonderful story about how intimate we can be with the words of authors we love.
I am so glad I found your blog - you have a lovely writing style.
Thank you so much for this, I really needed to read it today.
My first book will be published this winter, a book more revealing than I ever intended it to be. I've had the proof pages for two weeks now, actively ignoring them because I'm terrified to read the entire thing through. Today I have to start, they're due back the end of the week. I really needed your essay this morning.
In my heart I know you're right. I've been moved, soothed, and healed by reading the work of others—others who pushed through their fear to share a story that touched me and others in ways they never could know. I know this is true. It's just hard when the story is yours.
Thank you so much for this. Today your story helped me push through the fear. I will be printing it out and tacking it up by my writing desk so that it may remind me.
So glad to have stumbled onto your site. I'll be back!
thank you for your words and teachings...my gratitude to you is immense. this post is so resonant as i am now reading and loving, a circle of quiet.
love this . love you!
In Fortunes and in this post, you are a catalyst to shed the light on how incredibly valid our experiences are to others in the telling, in the expressing, in speaking through tears that won't wait. I love that.
Quick story for you: I remember a dear friend trying to sing at a time her heart was so deeply touched that nothing came out and a man (close long time friend) walked up and hugged her and said, "I love it when you can't sing." She is an incredible folky vocalist who can usually sing very well at any time. But not that day, and even in the middle of her not singing her honesty of heart and teary eyes cut to the raw place in my heart. And, there, I learned to value when I can't sing too.
Oh wow. Just wow. Madeleine (or, I like to call her, St. Madeleine) meant so much to me, too. Her journals were a lifeline and also made me feel that I had a place at the table. Her work truly bolstered my faith and helped me enlarge my definition of what it means to be a Christian. I wrote to tell her how much she meant to me and got a letter back - truly a gift.
Just knowing that she was relentless in her work, even when she was besieged with rejection letters, when everyone thought she should just give up and be a normal wife and mother already - it does give one hope.
thank you so much for this Jen.
I have read everything Madeleine L'Engle ever wrote and loved it all. This is such a moving tribute. Your words are powerful. What a gift to her granddaughter and to the rest of us.
This gives me hope that some day I will loosen the log jam and allow my own trickle to enter the pool.
Thank you.
How utterly beautiful is this story you have shared. ; ) I have never read the words of Madeleine L'Engle, but I do know this type of love. The day I sat down with my favorite poet, and was able to pour my love and respect of her, into her accepting hands, was wonderful.
I look forward to thinking of your giving words, when I finally hold the works of Madeleine L'Engle, in my hands.
One love~
Just stumbled over, and was fairly well struck dumb by this achingly true piece. I've always believed I was perhaps the only person who ever read L'Engle's Crosswicks journals -- mine are ancient, used, and looked unread when I bought them. They filled me to the brim. Reading this, I'm reminded all over again of their wonder, and of how differently they would speak to me today. Thank you for sharing, on so many levels. *Molly