Too long I've been afraid of losing love, I guess I've lost
Well, if that's love, it comes at much too high a cost!
~Wicked, the musical
I come from a family that values rocks. We collected them, categorized them, called them by their geologic names. We owned lapidary slabs and tools. Our family was like the rock: solid, heavy, held by gravity and by the Field.
Bloom where you are planted. Don’t stray from the pack. The stone which the builders refused is become the cornerstone.
At the Field, I was sandwiched between two biological sisters, close enough in age that there were no hand-me-downs between us. We all wore the same clothes, ate the same food, and competed for the same resources, until each of us clawed our way out of poverty and the quiet cycle of disposability into which we were born. Each in our own way.
Christ, the royal Master, leads against the foe
Forward into battle, see his banner go.
God ordained our dominion over the fish and fowl, over all the beasts that walk the earth—including our primal selves, cast out of Eden long ago. We were at constant war against our flesh: managing our weight through daily weigh-ins; resisting cold, heat, fatigue; valiantly overcoming the desire for affection, comfort, and security.
At chapel, we displayed a mannequin, which we dressed in layers of military garb.
Put on the whole armor of God, that ye may be able to stand against the wiles of the Devil.
We ceremoniously placed the helmet of salvation on the wooden head, the breastplate of righteousness on the planked trunk, the sword of the spirit into the rigid fingers of one hand, the shield of faith to quench the fiery darts of the wicked in the other. In this we wrestled not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers of the darkness of the world; against spiritual wickedness in high places.
Hell’s foundations quiver at the shout of praise
Brothers, lift your voices, loud your anthems raise
We girded ourselves with Truth, to withstand the temptations of pleasure. No one defiled their bodies with tobacco, liquor, or other harmful substances. We had white-glove tests and timed endurance runs, hiked in the snow and rain with loaded backpacks, tackled family KP and Police Call at the command of a whistle.
Let this faith of mine be tried, for the Lord is on my side
I am ready, I am ready, I am ready—you can pass the cross to me
The first rule: Don’t call it a cult. The second rule: Don’t leave. The third rule: Don’t identify the cult by name. The fourth rule: Never tell anyone where you come from.
My family of origin created the Field from a desiccated basin of river rocks. No water, no dance. Stay where you are planted. Don’t grow.
You leave, you’re dead to us.
Women at the Field watch each other like hawks, distant and circling, anticipating the faintest movement. Our women keep their hearts stashed in dark corners. If you catch a glimpse of love and dare to speak of it, we close a door, disguised as a smile—because there is no truth beauty cannot hide.
My mother says the Amish are too liberal. She defends this position by pointing to their policy of permissiveness: Apparently, they allow their youth to sow wild seeds of rebellion, turning a blind eye when they drive cars or taste liquor or lose their virginity, so they will know what they are giving up when they join their faith community as adults, not yearn for what they never had.
“It doesn’t matter what they tell those kids,” she argues. “When you do stuff like that, it never leaves you.”
My mother was born to and raised by the Field’s founder, who never let her, or any of his flock, do stuff like that. She and my father stayed with him while she birthed and raised us, so I never did stuff like that, either. At least, not until long after I was married with children.
When I decided to leave the world I knew and move into a college dorm at seventeen, the adult women from the Field sat in a circle and offered injunctions. Around the circle, each woman took a turn telling me I was making a mistake and what the consequences would be. If I left the Field, I would shame my family. I wouldn’t be let back onto the property. If I made my bed, I would have to lay in it. I would be a bad influence on young girls still there, proof that pride goeth before a fall. The women wore flowered dresses, and I felt lost in their foliage.
My biological sister, one year older than me, was part of the circle. “Who do you think you are?” she asked. “Do you think you can keep from sinning without our support? Do you think you are so strong you can lead a godly life without this group? Who do you think you are?”
Around the circle, each woman told me I was making a mistake. If I left the Field, I would shame my family.
Shame is an effective deterrent.
We were taught that God spared those who were humble; that he could turn off his wrath, as he had when he spared Nineveh. In the absence of God, there would be weeping and gnashing of teeth. As a child, when I couldn’t find my siblings or caregivers, I was certain the trumpet had sounded—Jesus had come back to claim his true believers—and I had been left behind, too sinful to hear the call.
When I left the Field, I couldn’t find my footing. When I left, I wanted to become a pillar of salt, but I didn’t know how to stay put. When I left, I couldn’t stop dreaming of flying. For years, I couldn’t feel the ground beneath me, couldn’t stop running. I couldn’t sit still long enough to eat a meal, watch a movie, or fall asleep in anyone’s lap.
When I left, I found that it’s possible to drown in both intimacy and anonymity. Not missing anyone was the closest I could imagine to freedom.
My biological sisters and I can’t spend much time with each other without gasping for air. When we’re together, we remind each other of something we’ve worked tirelessly to forget. We resist getting sucked back into that vortex. We resist drowning by standing apart, on our own solid ground.
In my dreams of the Field, I am always lost.
To fund a spiritual retreat for the Field’s members, my mother gave nature talks in the mountains north of the Field, eventually propelling us into a syncline they called the Devil’s Punchbowl. The canyon and its surrounding rock formations along the San Andreas Fault covered over a thousand acres of recently purchased public land. The basin itself is three hundred feet deep at the vista point. After particularly harsh winters, when the hollow rock bowls were filled with the snow’s run-off, my sisters and I would compete with each other by jumping off the highest rock we could, plunging into the depths below.
When my mother wasn’t teaching teenagers to survive in the wilderness, she wore flowered dresses, nylons, and pumps. She summoned the Lord’s army, applied for grants to support her late father’s calling, and transitioned seamlessly between nepotistic autocracy and feigned subordination. She was adept at everything I saw her try, except mothering.
My sisters and I take damage like a rock. Hurled from slingshots, piled high, or painted as pets, we make an art of being unbreakable. The gaps in our mother’s ability to nurture and protect us left holes like hungry mouths in our skin.
When I was seven, a caregiver inserted his body into my childhood. My mother said it wasn’t personal. Men have needs. I was just the one who was there. In my family, we don’t talk about the collusion of ideas about sex, violence, and God, but it permeates the air like a virus.
Silence is conspiracy, just as it is consent. The female body can be taught to hate itself.
My biological family is trapped in a mobius strip of their own making; we swirl in an ecosystem of unmet needs, a drama in which we are all collateral damage. Our mother’s unwritten rules move like grooves along the riverbed of our neural pathways.
That didn’t happen.
And if it did, it wasn’t that bad.
And if it was, that’s not a big deal.
And if it is, that’s not my fault.
And if it was, I didn’t mean it.
And if I did, you deserved it.
Before we form our own memories, our family fills in the gaps, tells us where we come from, who we are. These origin stories create a powerful narrative.
But stories can be rewritten.
There is a story in which hunger and satiation merge, and family is more than a word; I feel small in my new story, and sometimes safe, wrapped in good fortune as if in wool.
Shared blood isn’t the only way to make a family. There are rocks, and there is the water that flows around them, softening their edges. There is gravity, and there is buoyancy.
And sometimes buoyancy is stronger than gravity.
Thank you for being on this journey with me. I am grateful for the gift of your presence. Walking this path, knowing so many of you are walking it too, gives me hope. May we recognize our interbeing, with one another and the anima mundi, supporting each other in growth and recovery, like a mycelial network.
First week of our Artist’s Way check-ins are offered below the line…
Art is what we call it when we’re able to create something new that changes someone.
No change, no art.
~Seth Godin
Thank you for being part of this Artist’s Way cohort!
The comments section below is designed as a way for you to share your experience this week with other members of our group.
Please answer as many of the following questions as you have time for in the comments section, and feel free to respond to one another as support in our shared journey.
How did it go for you this week?
How many days this week did you do morning pages? How do you feel about the process so far?
How about your artist date? Will you share what you chose to do?
Did you practice a creative affirmation?
Have you experienced any resistance to any of the above activities? Do you know why?
Did you do any of the tasks? If so, which ones? Any discoveries there?
Can’t wait to see all your faces on Zoom on February 1!
1. I skipped morning pages twice: Wednesday and Friday, both due to thinking about and reacting to the fire
https://storiesbyjanus.substack.com/p/not-just-another-fire?r=28rbmj
I love the procedure. I'm all in.
2. I took myself to a walkabout in Barnes and Noble. What a feast for my eyes and my imagination, from magazines to cookbooks to journals and calendars. Oh my, my eyes smiled, and my heart fluttered.
3. Alexis, I, too, want to borrow your "I am worthy...." affirmation. Thanks for sharing.
4. Resistance? a little, always, but that is a signal something big is about to happen.
5. Tasks? next week!
Loved the Wicked quote!
Artist Way responses:
1. I enjoyed the morning pages and was able to complete them every day. It is a refreshing way to focus my mind in the morning and a great way to start the day.
2. I haven't completed my artist date yet, but will do so either this evening or tomorrow. I haven't decided what it will be yet, but there are a couple of options like the Pomona Art Walk or writing at a wine bar in Claremont.
3. I didn't practice an affirmation either.
4. No resistance, quite the opposite. I look forward to the writing and artist dates. I feel these times as opportunities for personal growth and a time for myself. I don't feel I get a lot of that these days.
5. Have not read my chapter for the week yet and have not completed any of the tasks. I have been without power due to the winds since Tuesday and am working remotely, so it's thrown my life off a bit.