A State of Grace

If I am not, may God so put me there;  if I am, may God so keep me.  

I spent two weeks completely alone in the woods of Northern Wisconsin to focus on draft two of my novel. Accompanied by only the sounds of the lake lapping, the wind whistling, and the fire crackling, I found myself enraptured by a kind of quiet I’ve never known. It allowed my mind to roam freely and unencumbered while my body kept very, very still.

 The night I arrived, my uncle picked me up from the airport and together we drove three hours to his lakeside cabin where he gave me a refresher on how to chop wood and shovel snow, as well as ensure the under-loved Honda Pilot he kept there still ran. I hadn’t seen my uncle in well over a decade. Even with both our heads and all our fingers we couldn’t remember the last time, or count all the years that passed with cruel indifference. My uncle is a graduate of the Naval Academy and served as Lt. Col in the Marine Corps. He is the father of wonderful twin boys, the CEO of a large company, and a devout Catholic. More importantly, he is a good man who listens when people speak and shares pieces of himself that matter to hear. On the drive up, we pulled over at a roadside dive for cold beer and greasy food. The conversation turned to Joan of Arc. He told me the story of her trials, and how the judges, when deciding whether or not to burn her alive asked if she was in a “state of grace”, to which she responded: “If I am not, may God put me there; if I am, may God so keep me.”  

I came prepared to, as Mary Karr so aptly put, “willfully enter a state of mental illness” alone in a cabin in the woods to focus on the second draft of my novel (all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy). But what I really wanted more than anything was to find a “state of grace”. Thanks to my uncle and good ‘ole Joanie, I finally knew what to call it.

30,000 words, 40 cadavers, two blizzards, a tornado, and one 36-degree surf in Lake Michigan later, I am pleased to report this elusive “state of grace” was very much attained. In fact, it was the most rewarding time of my year so far. Two more weeks and I would’ve finished the book. In the meantime, I’ll keep writing in the thin spaces and states of grace I find, making note of the lessons learned or remembered when it was all around me…

What I learned is that grief is a temple. It brings us to our knees. And in my temple, Pink Floyd and Black Sabbath loop ad infinitum in the background.  

What I learned is there is a relentless succession of memories I am trying desperately to hold on to, bargaining with no one but myself, the same tug-of-war voice that says: yes, go there — no, don’t go there.

What I keep learning is that we are the stories we tell ourselves. Draft one bored me — it was a story I no longer lived by, cared for, or felt needed to be heard — so I crossed it out and wrote a new one. Just like that. Draft two reads like water. It’s flying from my fingertips to the page with no resistance. The minute it leaves it doesn’t belong to me anymore, and that helps me remember that I possess a very special skillset, which is to take what I am given and to turn it into something else.

After all, the only way out is through — ideally in a place where time that stretches long and drips slow. Slow enough to watch a bullet tear through flesh; slower still to lick the wound clean.

And as it turns out, I’ve grown rather comfortable with cold. So much so I find myself jumping right in. Apparently it’s in the middle of a frozen world where I can most easily get to the bones of it all, sit down, and really write.