The Gentle Art of Learning to Drown

The case for sadness.

When I was a very little girl, I would often sink to the bottom of the pool. In the deep end, beside the diving board ladder, I could weep with abandon. In high school, I was drawn to Kate Chopin’s Edna Pontellier. And years later when I returned from Antibes, after studying with the Her Majesty’s chandler, the first candle that I dreamt of pouring was one that could capture the final, sea-soaked, passage:

“She looked into the distance, and the old terror flamed up for an instant, then sank again. Edna heard her Father’s voice and her sister Margaret’s. She heard the barking of an old dog that was chained to the sycamore tree. The spurs of the cavalry officer clanged as he walked across the porch. There was the hum of bees, and the musky odor of pinks filled the air.”

To this day, when I’m near someone in pain, my ears are filled with (what I can only describe as...) the steel-on-steel sound, from the bottom of the lake - just off the dock, of a boat passing above. I’ve often waited, when I’m with friends or family, to cry in the shower. Alone. The impulse to conceal sorrow, whether learned or instinctual, has been as steady as a heartbeat. As natural, to me, as breath . The one thing you won’t find 5 feet beneath the pool ladder or just off the dock on the sandy bottom of the lake. I can’t remember a time when I didn’t know how to swim.

But it took me 43 years (and the respiratory fight of my life) to learn how to drown.

I learned to swim before I learned to walk.

“I got it from my Mama. I got it from my Mama.”

Driving home from the Acupuncture Clinic, my chest was drenched. I hadn’t cried that hard... maybe... ever. It was a bottomless wail that came from a place in my mind, or in my body, that I can’t even give a name to. And it came involuntarily out of me with the force of every heartbreak, every loss, every abandonment I had ever suffered.Unlike waves of grief, that ten minute ride home is comparable - only - to the current that once swept me half way round a Bahamian island. It was the eighteenth day of suffering symptoms I assumed were related to a positive test for influenza A. In hindsight, I can’t help but wonder...

On the seventh of January, I had hit a wall. I was bathing up to six times a day, to keep fever and nerves at bay. And, by night, I was coughing. It was an inescapable cough, a relentless cough. The cough was sovereign. And my thoughts raced back and forth from the whimsical but dead-straight wish to leave my body for a minute to the absolute panic and fear of knowing that “this” was worse than anything my body had ever battled. I could only sleep, once I piled five or six pillows behind me, sitting straight up and for no more than twenty or thirty minutes. A steam inhaler worked for a few minutes here. I convinced myself that weeping onions were going to save the day - there. I took acid reducers and allergy meds. Nothing REALLY helped. My sardine had started to “slip off the cracker.” So, knowing I would be unable to take the steroids an MD would want to prescribe, I contacted an Acupuncturist. Luckily, she was able to see me the next day. I went into her office dangling from a tattered and fraying thread.

I only felt one of the many pins that she used. The one placed in association with phlegm. It coursed it all the way up and down my leg. And during the session, I felt it with every single cough. Up and down my leg. In a follow-up, I told her about my experience on the way home, and in the days that followed. I tried, albeit feebly, to accurately describe the depth and vigor of my sorrow. And she shared something with me, in response. “In Chinese medicine, different emotions are said to be stored in different parts of the body, and grief is stored in the Lungs. So as we released your Lung energy with Acupuncture, it makes a lot of sense to me that you would be experiencing that emotion as it comes up and, hopefully, out. As uncomfortable as it is I see it as a positive sign of things stuck in your Lungs starting to resolve.”

Chew on that one more time. “As uncomfortable as it is I see it as a positive sign of things stuck in your Lungs starting to resolve.” Allow it to sit with you for a moment.

The gravity of her words has, in the past few weeks, become a touchstone for me. As soon as I heard them, I got it. I softened to the idea of embracing my grief. I began to sit down so that it might have a moment of its own. And in those moments, I opened up to being present with my sorrow. It became an unexpected kindred. A treasured relief. And I all but cold-turkey stopped hiding it. By the time a Covid-19 case had been confirmed in the United States, it all seemed like a distant memory. An awful dream. Until several friends sent me an article from the Harvard Business Review entitled “That Discomfort You’re Feeling Is Grief.”

The article, as it was intended, is a lovely piece. But, given my recent experience, I couldn’t help but wonder if its poignance was even more deeply rooted than it appeared at first glance. The physical discomfort that I felt in my lungs? That was grief. Repressed grief. Physical respiratory pain and distress that moved in and didn’t go anywhere until I started gently allowing it, my grief, to take me under. So here’s the question.

Are we weathering the storm of a Global Pandemic that feeds on the suppression of grief?

I’m inclined to believe we are. A cultural obsession with happiness, and calm, and positive outlooks, and “a place of yes,’ and living abundantly... measured by followers, and likes, and “friend” counts, and metrics and access to (shoot me now - literally AND figuratively) an abundance of natural light. We’ve become so laser-focused on JOY that we forgot to be sad.

I forgot.

When my Grandmother left us, suddenly - in 2016, I attempted (and approximated some degree of success) to outrun the wave of grief. In a head-spinning turn of events, the locks to her house were changed - with an abundance of efficiency. And, when I realized that I couldn’t truly ever go back to *HONEY’S* house ... the emotional slam heard round the cul-de-sac urged me to tear off in pursuit of any place but there. I hid out at my sister’s house, in the fortress of her little’s hugs and giggles. I crisscrossed the country. I put miles and miles and miles on my Grandmother’s car - one that I was required to purchase at the topdollar/newtires/bluebook price. Spoiler alert! It did not have new tires. In fact the bumper wasn’t even fully attached. The premium I paid, was for the sentimental attachment I couldn’t shake off. When I was nudged out of the crevice-of-a-foothold that I maintained in our “family’ business with ONLY a text message and a string of email reminders from someone (whom I have always been known to be there for) to pay my Rotary dues, I threw myself into work. I drove Uber 16/18 hours a day. Often sleeping in the car. Even when a relative-by-marriage bullied me out of my home with an urgency to sell it, only to watch her let it sit there without so much as a sign in the yard. For months. Even then, even after all of that, I cried very little. And focused on becoming as comfortably numb as possible.

(Please allow that paragraph to stand in for any “well where have you beens” that may linger from my sudden and prolonged vanishing act. It’s a monumental challenge to maintain a regular writing schedule when you’re either on the fly, working yourself into the ground, or attempting to numb it all on any given day. The simple answer is: I have been everywhere. And nowhere at all. And then I fell in LOVE and moved to Athens.)

For the most part, I told myself that I didn’t have time to cry.

But I did. Have time, that is. I simply forgot. My body did not forget. However. Our bodies don’t forget. They have not forgotten the sadness. Or the losses. The abandonment. Or the utter finality of heartbreak. Of endings. They’re just, I suspect, hoarding it all in our lungs. And our Lungs, “our” meaning humanity, are ill equipped for the battle in front of us. In this sink-or-swim moment, maybe SINK is the route you want to take. Drown. Succumb to the mournful wail of every single discomfort you’ve ever swallowed. If you can’t? Try “The Way We Were” or “Cinema Paradiso” or “Terms of Endearment.” One of those Budweiser commercials. Whatever “gets you every time?” Go that way. Mosey on down that road.

Hard reset. Isn’t that the buzz phrase that’s hovering in drones these days?

“I wish I hadn’t cried so much!” Said Alice, as she swam about, trying to find her way out. I shall be punished for it now, I suppose, by being drowned in my own tears! That will be a queer thing, to be sure! However, everything is queer today.” 

Lewis Carroll

In studying any art form, there is typically an underlying truth to mentally master. With drowning, I’m convinced that it’s this: it only spits you out once you surrender to it. Once you stop fighting it. And, at the moment that you ever so gently let go, it begins to loosen grip. If I’m right... that just might save your life.

The Biblio Files: Andrea Hiott

One of my most treasured possessions is a book that Andrea Hiott gave to me. Thinking Small: The Long Strange Trip of the Volkswagen Beetle is one of the most extraordinary books I've ever read. After I finished the last page, certain that I would never find its equal, I had to know more about her process. What follows is breathtaking! I am so honored to have her in my life.

What is your earliest recollection of becoming so immediately passionate about something that you felt compelled to research, rather than needing to or being required to do the work?

My earliest recollection of such an immediate and uncontemplated passion is my childhood compulsion to read books. I longed for the worlds that books could open for me. Reading has rarely felt like work for me. I look forward to reading. It is a time when I feel peaceful, mindful, and alive. Of course part of why reading is so wonderful is because there is also an external ‘lived life’ that one can see reflected in those books, or that those books can help one to understand. One applies it to one’s real life, and one’s real life applies to it. It is a conversation. The work does come though. Creativity does require work.

I have always found myself drawn in certain directions. Quite often, like the book about the original VW, those directions are difficult to justify or explain to others upon taking the first step. Nevertheless I have stepped towards those feelings and explored them, though not always confidently. I’m not sure how much of that stepping forward was a choice. In the beginning, it felt like a choice. The more I do it, however, the less it feels like a choice. At the same time, when we are young we are closer to our passions and don’t think about them as much before we follow them, but we worry about them more because the process is still so new for us. I still follow my passions, but as I get older I find that I have more peace or quietness of mind when it comes to making hard choices; reason and passion give way to enthusiasm instead.

One of my favorite quotes in this regard is from Thoreau. “Enthusiasm is a supernatural serenity,” he writes. Enthusiasm, in a clear mind, is a signpost and an energy source.

What was your first assigned research project?

First ever? I was likely assigned many research projects as a child. I remember having to research the history of my home state, South Carolina, and find the state bird and state flower and so on. That was exciting and may have been the first time I was asked to go out on my own and find information. I also remember doing an early research project on the life of Anne Frank, a life which moved me deeply as a child and still does to this day. But perhaps you are asking about the first time I had to do this as an adult. If so, it was for my Thesis in Philosophy. I wrote the project on a philosopher named Hegel and also on Richard Rorty and postmodernism. This was my first sustained academic research and also became the first book-length work I’d ever written. I still find myself doing research on Hegel, even though nearly ten years have passed since I wrote that thesis. These things stay with you, don’t they?

What was your most fulfilling inquiry?

Inquiry, as a process, is fulfilling. If one allows oneself to open and to be mindful to all the information and stimulation that pours in, one is always full but never with the same substance -- the current is always moving, so there is always room for more. And yet one does not try and block that current or hold on to it; whenever I’ve done that, I begin to feel overwhelmed. I doubt I will ever be satisfied or fulfilled in the sense that the inquiry will stop because things are always moving and shifting and changing forms. Answers only produce more questions. But the questions become more interesting. Slowly it becomes possible to feel more comfortable with how all those questions touch one another and fit. Walt Whitman talks about “variety and freedom” being the only source of fulfillment, of ‘goodness’ in that larger sense. Dewey writes about inner growth being the only good of inquiry. I have always been inspired by Whitman’s ecstatic spirit of inquiry: somehow, without taking himself seriously or taking anything too personally, he is capable of looking at the world as if he were exploring himself, or at himself as if he were exploring the wider world. Inquiry is only worthwhile if we can do it in that childlike way. If we take ourselves too seriously, we lose track of the joy.

What person or experience had the greatest impact on your technique?

My relationships have had a strong impact on my technique: I’ve been a part of a lot of different and sometimes insular worlds (be those cities, schools, social groups, cultures, etc) and these processes have taught me a lot about how to balance and present information. I have also read an excessive amount of literature (philosophy and fiction) in my life, especially Russian, German, and American. To prepare for writing the VW book I read a lot of biographies. Biographies fascinate me, and I am very thankful for them. I’ve learned (and continue to learn)a lot about technique and presentation from them. Many particular nonfiction writers have had an impact -- Ellias Canetti, David McCullough, and (especially) John McPhee come to mind. There are also specific books such as Seabiscuit by Laura Hillenbrand which gave me inspiration and ideas in terms of technique for the VW book.

Tell me about a memory that you have of that person or experience?

We moved often when I was a child. With each new school there would be a new set of references and rules, of what was cool and what wasn’t. Sometimes what was cool or acceptable at one place might be uncool or unacceptable at another. This taught me early on that there is not necessarily one truth but that there are truths; however, it also taught me that there are indeed certain Truths that do not change regardless of who or where you are. This experience gave me a mental model for how to approach the various stories and truths that one inevitably encounters while researching a particular time period and subject matter.

What sources would you recommend that I look into in developing my own research technique? Are there any exercises that you would advise?

In general, I would say the best preparation for writing is to read read read. It is also helpful to find trusted books on similar subjects and look at their bibliographies, think about how that author did his or her research, and then make a kind of map of what places might have information about your subject. Try to think differently about it, to approach it from a new angle, to look in places others haven’t looked before. Go to the sources whenever possible rather than simply agreeing with an opinion of something that is presented in a way that could seem like a fact. Trace your essential facts back as far as you can.

What devices do you consider necessary to an information gathering toolbox?

Clarity, mindfulness, patience, time, informed people, sounding-boards, books, libraries, archives, long walks. I keep quoting people, but one more quote is from Virginia Woolf; she says in order to write a woman needs some money and a room alone. That’s true, but only partly. A woman also needs all those things I listed above. :)

Who has been your favorite interview? What made it so special?

I don’t have a favorite. There are many that are very memorable to me, and I learned from them all. In terms of writing the VW book, the interviews I did with a woman who had lived there in Wolfsburg, as well as with VW executives and their families were especially strong. The interviews I did for the magazines in Berlin were the most memorable, however, simply because they were my first and they were like school for me. I am so thankful for having the opportunity to research and discuss their work with them.

One of my favorite aspects of your writing style is the way that you use scenery, emotions, and weather to paint a picture so vivid that it lends a more ... (searching for the right word) ... “creative” tone than I’ve ever before seen so brilliantly employed in nonfiction. I really just couldn’t get enough! What sources do you pull from to paint these pictures?

In writing that book I went to the places where those men had been. I saw their cities and homes and quite often I literally stood in the place I described as I described it. I also followed their enthusiasms and tried to open to the things that gave them joy and pain. When I read in one of their journals about something that had moved them -- be that a painting or a place or a particular kind of car -- I tried to find that object, or a photo of that object, and I tried to see it as they would have seen it rather than with my own eyes.

What would you say is a common mistake that writers make when they’re gathering information - a pet peeve of yours?

Writing is difficult at times. The literal work of it takes a great supply of energy. And the research is demanding and challenging. There is so much information to sift through, and delightful discoveries to be made: this process takes time and energy, too. Sometimes you have to read scores of books that you will never quote from or use directly or even place in your bibliography. But you need to read them because you need to know what is out there and you need to know what others know about your subject. Or you need to be able to piece together the wider story in order to tell a tiny part of it. At the same time, you have to make choices. You have to decide what is essential and what is not. If you don’t make those decisions, your project will become chaotic and overwhelming. The balance is difficult, but that is the process of writing, and it is rewarding in ways that stay with you for the rest of your life. You will find the balance if you have patience, both with yourself and with your subject. Writing can teach you how to trust yourself and your enthusiasm, to be open to both criticism and praise -- to look at criticism and praise equally, without taking them personally -- and that gives you a strong steady base for other areas of your life as well. It’s a continual process.

Lots of people are hard on themselves when they blow something. I’m just the opposite. I actually begin to get excited when I screw up because I know that there’s going to be something really good there if I look at it the right way. What was your favorite mistake?

That’s an excellent way to live your life! You have a strong good energy, and you are wise to be able to flip things and see them in such a way, and wise not to take yourself so seriously. I cannot think of a mistake per se, but I think failures are things we often see as mistakes but that are in fact portals to “something really good”, as you say above. Mistakes and failures being somewhat connected? In that sense, there are two big failures that come to mind for me, and which I am grateful for. The first is my early teenage dream to be a model (I thought I could make money modeling and that would support my writing, strange idea!). I failed at it, but it did get me to NYC at a very young age, and it is the inadvertent reason I met some of the people who have most influenced my life. Second, I have always felt like a failure at learning languages. It is a very difficult process for me, and yet I keep putting myself into situations where I must learn a new language. It took me 5 years to get to where I could really read and understand German well enough to do the research I needed to do for the Beetle book. I’m writing a book soon that requires I read lots of books in French, and though I’ve been studying French for a good 10 years now, it is still slightly challenging. And then there is Mongolian...in any case, these are “sore spots” for me, areas of deep discomfort and they come with the threat and the feel of failure. But, again as you suggested, they ultimately led to a very positive place. They are nerves of discomfort which, when felt and persisted through, lead to whole other ways of feeling and perceiving the world.

Here's To Fancy Tails!

Not so very long ago I wrote the script and voiced a video (you can view on their site) for my gal pals Erin & Jenny.  So you can imagine my pride when those two dove into the Shark Tank!  (32:22) Especially when precious Jenny took my cue and asked them "so sharks... who's ready to get in our pants?"

In honor of them, here's to Fancy Tails!!!

“I must be a mermaid, Rango. I have no fear of depths and a great fear of shallow living.”

Anais Nin

JENNY:
I am a mermaid
With golden hair...

ALEX:
I've never seen one like you!

BOTH
...Lonely and lost at sea... 

“Peter was not with them for the moment, and they felt rather lonely up there by themselves. He could go so much faster than they that he would suddenly shoot out of sight, to have some adventure in which they had no share. He would come down laughing over something fearfully funny he had been saying to a star, but he had already forgotten what it was, or he would come up with mermaid scales still sticking to him, and yet not be able to to say for certain what had been happening. It was really rather irritating to children who had never seen a mermaid.”

J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan