After my meeting with Ruth*, I walked towards San Francisco Bay, searching for a good view of the Golden Gate Bridge. The clouds dissipated as I headed north, leaving the sky an awesome, vibrant blue. A lovely spring afternoon in San Francisco.
I was happy to be walking. I saw more of the city, and also more of myself—that brave, fragile, uncertain girl who just wanted to know she was safe. That someone was watching out for her, even now she was all grown up.
The convent was a safe place for you.
My editor Ruth had surprised me once again, with her unique perspective. She encouraged me to write about my trauma, but she did so with compassion.
Ruth was an author, too, and her first book was about the trauma she experienced as a small child. My own trauma was probably a drop in the ocean compared to Ruth’s experience. Yet through therapy and her writing, Ruth had worked through her pain and confusion to become the compassionate, insightful editor I had met outside Saint Dominic’s Church.
A New Interpretation
“So, when you went down to your basement to write this part of your book, what happened next?” Ruth had asked me, when we were brainstorming scenes.
“I started having very dark thoughts.” I said, grimacing. My mind had closed off into blackness. A night like nothing I’d experienced before or since.
“What did you hear?”
I didn’t meet her eyes. There was no way I was going to tell her what I really heard in my head. Like the Black Tongue of Mordor, there were some words better left unsaid.
“Basically, that I shouldn’t be here anymore,” I said.
Ruth nodded. “Well, that seems to match up with what happened to you in winter 2000. You were told to leave then, too. That you shouldn’t be there anymore. So that thought may have been sent to a different part of your brain, where it keeps intruding on you now, outside of its original context.”
“Wow.” I was stunned by Ruth’s interpretation. “I’ve never made that connection before.”
Her words gave me hope. Maybe I wasn’t crazy after all. Maybe there was some logical reason for the repeating words in my head, whenever I made a mistake.
I sat up straighter, remembering something more. “Those words…they’re like a wall. But sometimes, if I can get past them, they go away.”
“Write that down,” Ruth commanded me. “That sounds like a good opening for your book.”
A Fresh Vista
I was still musing on our conversation when I reached the Bay.
A stiff breeze whipped my hair about my face, and drops of saltwater splashed my skin. The afternoon sun radiated warmth onto my travel jacket.
I made a video on my phone for James: the Golden Gate Bridge, the northern shore, the infamous Alcatraz prison to the east, and the city of San Francisco to the south.
After making the videos, I returned to Marina Boulevard, which ran along the Bay. Seagulls shrieked overhead, and the scent of salt and seaweed filled the air. All sorts of people were outside: locals and tourists, recreational bikers and parents with prams.
To the south, a long line of elegant city houses graced the adjoining street. Most had picture windows overlooking the cerulean Bay and Bridge. While these windows afforded their owners some of the best views in San Francisco, they also gave me a glimpse into their sumptuous homes. Huge chandeliers set over a grand piano and elegant antique furniture; floor-to-ceiling paintings and expressive sculptures; breathtaking interiors and tiled entranceways.
It’s as if the Bay itself has inspired all this beauty.
The houses stood like human faces, contemplating and reflecting the Bay’s splendor with window-eyes. I studied the houses and waters both, praying a little inspiration would rub off on me, too. I’d spent the last two years staring at the same four walls, the same few faces, the same sidewalks, parks and streets. In order to produce new writing—new art—I needed a fresh vista.
I fished my iPhone out of my jacket and raised it to take a picture.
That’s when I realized my phone had died.
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Thank you so much for reading! Please join me next week for more adventures and insights! 🙂
