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A.R. Stanley

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A Year on The Porch

My blog about life, grief, finding my way, and everything in-between, A Year on The Porch. Follow the blog here or snippets and posts on Instagram @ayearontheporch

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#onedaymay began, you know, nine days ago, and I’ve yet to join in. I saw the first post by @laura.tremaine , “post a selfie,” and I thought, “I’m gonna join this one!” Then life. It’s ok. I'm not going to try and catch up; I’m just going to start where I am.

Today is National Tell a Story Day. Did you know? I have a lot of stories. Stories about my childhood, stories about going to shows and following bands around, camping stories, love stories, heartbreak... I like to tell stories about this kid and me, though. They have all the best qualities, a hook, conflict, heartbreak, victory, questions. He's only been on this blue planet for a little over 11 years, but he's touched a lot of lives. Resilient. It is the only word to describe him best. He fought back to life when he was two weeks old. He could have gone quietly in the night, but he did not. He let me know. Sick, broken, tired, he fought. I've been by his side for each seizure, brain surgery, hospital stay, victory. Me and him. Him and me. We go together. He fought for himself, and he saved me. He saved me from depression; he saved me from apathy, he saved me from giving up. If he could fight and smile and rarely complain, I could too. He showed me the way to Jesus.

I found a beautiful dogwood tree bent and broken under the weight of a tree that had fallen on top of it. It bloomed despite its circumstances. Still, it hung heavy and broken, supporting a load it was not created to carry. I found myself in the woods pushing, pulling, tugging until I freed her. She still hung broken and bent. She still bloomed, she was free. In time that little tree will heal. So will you. So will I.

It’s amazing what we absorb from our environment. Remember to keep your soil rich in love, kindness, empathy, and grace to give. You are colored by what you inhale.

It has been a month of avoiding writing. For a few weeks, I felt like I was herding cats when I sat down to blog. My mind felt connected and filled with ideas. When I would sit to write, they would all come out sideways and upsidedown. I decided to journal more, which would help me find the answer, root around in my mind, and work through my stuff. It was helpful, but not in the way I wanted. I was hopeful my mind would organize, and my thoughts would come together cohesively in a manner worth sharing. They did not. I kept telling myself I couldn’t write, I couldn’t share, I didn’t know what it was I was doing. Perhaps I was right—an imposter after all. Still, the nagging in the back of my mind tells me I’m wrong. It isn’t that I can’t write. It’s that I won’t write. I make up excuses to do the very thing I need to do.

I've struggled with my writing since the fall. I can feel it simmering below the surface, but the words themselves have felt hard to find. Going from writing a novel a year for 4 straight years to a complete creative lull for about 8 months spanning 2019-2020, blogging every morning as if it were my religion, and going to save my soul for 5 months last summer, to back to a lull... Well, it's easy to say it's felt like a rollercoaster. Grief, divorce, special needs, a pandemic will do that, I suppose. I've been working on myself, and with that, I've been trying to find my creative voice again. I'm not a whole person without these pieces all playing their part. Tara-Nicholle Kirke would say human evolution only works when we are all participating and giving the world our gift to give. I know mine is writing, creating, sharing. Even if that is only for one person, who would they be if I didn't share? Who would I be if I never let myself? When I say the struggle to find the words has felt hard, that feels like an understatement. I've cried real, hard tears more than once. What is this thing inside me that I can't let out? Steven Pressfield calls it resistance, and I'm trying to find what it is I'm resisting in this season. I have an inkling. I'm trying to pay attention to the tears and when and why they come. To see if they are the arrows pointing my way out of this. I've been reading Allison Fallon's new book on writing, and she tells us time and again to get out walking, to move our bodies, to get into our limbic brain. OK, Allison, I'm hearing you. I felt like I couldn't find the time to walk enough. I did the other things, cleared my writing space, got a new journal, remembered the essential oil I used to diffuse while writing, making a map back to my creativity with the things around me. Damn the walking. Then Serendipity showed up. I like to think the Holy Spirit and Serendipity are the same. She brought me a puppy. Hmm... suddenly the walking felt easier, the getting up at 5 a.m. felt easier, the limbic brain awoke. I'm still wrestling with those words, ideas, and frustration, but something is slowly working out in me. Perhaps it's Serendipity.

blog

becoming a student
living the drama
pictures, characters, names
coming back after two years
2:2

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