Editing the Past — Writing My World

There are times in my life when two events coincide with such accuracy that I ponder their meaning & connection. Recently it was a book I’d just finished reading and a package of letters that I’d written long ago.

The book was Ann Patchett’s novel, Tom Lake. It is a mother’s story of her first love. Lara was acting in a summer production of Our Town & quickly found herself caught under the spell of her talented co-actor, Peter Duke. She tells her story to her adult daughters as they work furiously to harvest the cherries on their farm in upper Michigan. Patchett deftly weaves Lara’s present and youthful past for her readers. At times letting us know more than what she reveals to her curious daughters about her summer with Peter Duke. We see the foolishness and naivety of her youth juxtaposed to the wisdom of a middle aged woman looking back.

I just finished the book, and it was still simmering in my thoughts when I received a text from my younger sister, Ann. She was “decluttering,” and found letters from me. The letters chronicled my early years in college on into marriage and early motherhood. Initially, I was amazed that she saved them. Out of an abundance of curiosity, I readily accepted her offer to send them to me. A few days later they arrived neatly wrapped and bound with a yellow ribbon.

As I worked through the stack, it was a bit like walking back onto Furman University’s campus. A time when the trees were small, the Southern Baptists made the rules, and I chafed under them all. After enduring Freshman hazing, I was filled with indignation and condemnation for the upperclass women and the administration that condoned the hazing. The shy, quiet girl I was in high school was gathering strength under the guise of anger. It was easy to see who I was not, but I was fumbling to discern who I was. The letters revealed not only my anger but also my determination to leave Furman.

Maybe it was malaise or just the fear of starting new all over again that drew me back to Furman. Whatever the reason, I am grateful because I met John during winter term. As our relationship strengthened, I noticed a subtle change in each letter’s tone. Many of the letters proffered advice to my sister as she navigated high school, looked for colleges, and began her first year at Purdue. There was a generosity and compassion conveyed to my younger sister as she experienced all those “firsts” in her life. As Ann said when we talked about the letters, “You were a good big sister.”

As I thought about Patchett’s tale in light of my own reminiscing, I noted how she edited out some of the things she experienced. Things she did not tell her daughters, but wanted readers to know. I wonder if I, too, edited my memories of those tumultuous years in the 1970’s. I was not perfect by any standard yet, nor was our country. We were fighting a war that could not be won. Students who protested the war at Kent State were shot down by our own troops; the Pentagon Papers revealed harsh truths; and the Watergate tapes proved that Richard Nixon was indeed a “crook.” I was simply young, idealistic, and making my way to adulthood. Like Lara, I was finding a path to myself imperfectly at best.

I suppose in some ways I have edited my story to my own children and myself. Until those letters arrived, I thought of my younger self as open minded, perhaps even principled and certainly passionate. Maybe that is why I was somewhat appalled reading my odd back slanted cursive. Like my penmanship, perhaps I could not lean into what I thought was a fraught future. Yet, I did not realize how cavalier, over confident, and judgmental I was. Things were black & white in my youthful thoughts. I was right and the adults and my fellow students were wrong.

Age and experience taught me that things are often more nuanced. As Fr. Richard Rohr states we order and re-order again and again. Hopefully, we grow spiritually with each re-ordering. Now that I am in my seventies, I pray that I am giving myself and others a bit more leeway if not grace. I am an imperfect Christian who is simply trying to find her way, help more than criticize, and guide those who come next. Our stories are our own, I am simply trying to write the best one I can until I, too, am called home.