Chop Wood, Carry Water
November 10, 2016 § 83 Comments
We woke up and everything was different. Maybe we woke in the middle of the night, tried not to check our phone, checked our phone anyway, and spent the hours before dawn in a bleak haze, waiting for the moment it was late enough to decently call someone. Maybe a call came—your mother has died. Or, it’s time to let the cat go. Or, our country has elected a demagogue.
Maybe we woke to the memory of yesterday, the doctor saying, Let’s discuss your options, our lover telling us they’ve found someone else—found her, in fact, months ago. All we want is to go back to sleep, back in time, to the moment before the disaster, the break-up, the crash, to the moment of sweet unknowing, when everything was still OK.
How can we write? How can we read?
How can we possibly address the page with our life, or our characters’ lives, so petty and small in the face of tragedy? How can what we do matter in the wake of the unchangeable?
We search online—who else feels this way? Is there a support group? Someone else we know this happened to? We click angry-sad-angry-sad-angry-sad. Grief comes in waves—an old photograph, the smell of a cast-off sweater, a yard sign we looked at on the way to work and thought, That’s all you know, superiority mingling with disgust.
We go through the motions. There is a place I am due every day at 9AM. My child must be fed. I’ve already paid for that class.
We watch faces—who else has lost their mother? Who is on the ex-lover’s side and who is still on ours?
My ex-husband’s mother dies suddenly. He flies across the country and gets her dog. In the piles of knickknacks and clothes, boxes of paperwork, lists of phone calls and appraisals, there is one constant, an animal that must be fed and walked and loved whether his capacity to love is intact or not. He drives a truck back, full of furniture and a fawn-colored pitbull mix, a dog that has grown up in Vegas and never seen grass. He posts on social media as the dog. The dog sees snow for the first time. The dog discovers kittens. The bottom of his world has still dropped out, but the dog is a bucket in which he can carry water. The dog is an axe with which he can chop wood. He carries her up and down the stairs until she learns, and each time he touches her he touches his old world, the world in which his mother is also alive and carrying the dog. The dog is a lifeline from a better past. The dog is the seed of a pearl.
We grieve, and we see others triumph. Our lover shows up to get his Playstation looking happy and well-fed. After a few days, the essay or the book or the poem we’ve put aside goes from horrifyingly irrelevant to merely unappetizing. We sit down again. We tinker. We find the rhythm, we find that yes, it matters to say something, anything, on the page. That we are not just artists but craftsmen, and craftsmen go to work. We have spent—or are spending—our lives sharpening our tools, and they are not just for fine days. Our tools—our words—matter not for how we use them when all is well, but how we use them to shore up the levee when the waters rise. The people whose stories need sharing, who are not craftsmen enough to write their own, who need to hear our story to know theirs is not singular, still need us. Our words connect them from a better past to a seed of hope, string them a lifeline to the future. Our words say, me too.
I call my equally devastated friend, who has also lost her mother or her cat or her country, and she tells me a parable.
The novice says to the master, “What does one do before enlightenment?”
“Chop wood. Carry water,” replies the master.
The novice asks, “What, then, does one do after enlightenment?”
“Chop wood. Carry water.”
We are awake in a new world, after the thing has come to pass. It is our quiet revolution, to show up to the page and insist our words still matter. Stories are not frivolous. They weave a slender thread of understanding and possibility, not only in reaction to tragedy, but in recognition of the stories still to tell and be told, the need for human connection that exists independent of our own grief. Stories are our valuable labor, reminding us we matter. The world matters. Reminding our readers they matter. Saying, I too chop wood. I too carry water.
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Allison K Williams is Brevity’s Social Media Editor and the author of Seven Drafts: Self-Edit Like a Pro from Blank Page to Book. Want writing news, events, and upcoming webinars? Join the A-List!
That was exactly the phrase I clung to when I saw the headline at 3 am. Told myself to just breathe. Databases still have to be built. Words still have to be written.
❤
Thanks much Allison. We need such reminders and advice and sheer sharing of our state of mind. I’ll be raking leaves–millions of them.
You’re welcome, and happy raking 🙂
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Wonderful, wonderful, wonderful. I have not thought of that Buddhist maxim for a long time. It is very relevant for today and everyday.
One step at a time…
It’s not an easy situation
Reblogged this on BLUE SUN.
Thank you, I needed this. My very thoughts yesterday – “what importance does my memoir possibly have now?”
Seriously, right? I’m glad this spoke to you. Thank you.
Yes.
Solidarity.
I’m grateful for this Allison. It’s balm to my soul.
Thank you, and you’re welcome.
Superb, Allison. Your writing and message inspire and encourage me. From one who wore pearls and a pantsuit to work, who took a smiling selfie and posted it on FB, who was resolutely certain that in that 24 hours the madness would be over and the waters would finally calm, who by 10:45 PM felt like she’d lost her mother, her cat, AND her country, all three, who went to bed grieving, then woke and quietly put her big girl panties on, sat silently in the Starbucks drive queue and ordered something pumpkin flavored with an extra shot (maybe that would help), who exchanged knowing glances with coworkers in the same sad boat, who sat down at her desk, turned on the computer and began chopping wood and carrying water, thank you!
Good for you! I, too, was waiting for the constant low-grade stress to be over, and now it’s been replaced by a much higher grade 🙂 Chopping, carrying.
Reblogged this on Her Headache and commented:
Sharing from Canada.
Thank you so much for this. On election night we headed over to friends to join a group and watch the returns.
We arrived with champagne to drink, but left on heroin.
I’m trying to remain hopeful we’ll recover and remember how to chop wood and be able to carry it someplace meaningful.
Your writing helps.
Thank you, and you’re welcome. I’m looking for the meaningful destination, and I don’t want to be short of wood when I get there.
Thank you. I had not intended to blog this month because I am trying to complete a book. But thank you for this.
Complete the book! Go you! Go go go!
I hope I could be as goods as you are in terms of writing. I need more practice. haha
Thank you so much, Allison and Dinty. This helps.
❤ I'm so grateful to have a voice here.
Yesterday, words gave me my first inkling of hope. As I was walking across the University of Michigan campus, despondent, I saw a message chalked onto the sidewalk: “Stay strong.” Then another: “This is still home.” Then another: “You belong.” The messages continued all the way across the center of campus, dozens of them. “Estamos juntos.” “Lives matter.” I started to sob. A young Muslim student saw me, came up, handed me a candy, held out her arms, and we hugged. And then we talked. Words matter.
Stories like this give me hope. Thank you for sharing.
Wow. Thank you for sharing that. The story of that brief, very human connection was so devastatingly touching that it brought tears of hope that I (like so many) need right now. Thank you. And thank you Allison.
Now you have made me cry.
Now you’ve made me cry.
So meaningful, a few words, a few gestures of kindness, when they are just the right ones.
Yes. So glad to hear this tiny beacon.
Yesterday I gave myself permission to feel mad, sad, and scared. This morning, even though anger, sadness and fear have not disappeared, I awoke simply wanting to get on with things. Reading your fine writing and your thoughtful observations and encouragement was so helpful. Thank you for that gift.
You’re welcome, and thank you – it feels good to connect, even a little bit, with people in the same boat.
Allison, this is amazing and wonderful. Beautifully written and just what we need now.
❤
Word matter. Words transform in mysterious ways. Let’s all give a literary magazine subscription for Christmas/Hanukkah/other festivity to our Trump leaning/voting relatives.
My online editor ate an S. “Words matter.”
I love this idea of reaching out – I heard a story this morning of a woman in the drive-thru lane, hearing the car behind her mock her Clinton sticker. So she paid for their breakfast. I hope little reach-outs will make a difference.
I’m sharing it with my dearest friends — it says everything. Simply beautiful. Thank you.
Thank you, and you’re welcome!
Holy mother of all that is good and wonderful, this is good and wonderful and the balm I needed in just the right dose and delivery at the perfect time. Thank you.
You’re welcome, and I’m so grateful to hear that.
This is exactly what I needed to read today. Thank you.
❤
Thank you. All day Wednesday, I was been feeling overwhelmed with grief and with trying to hold the grief of others. Wednesday it rained all day, but today, Thursday, the sun is shining again. I’ve been trying to figure out a way to move forward. Clearly, I am not alone in that endeavor. Thank you again for this essay and it’s wisdom.
You’re welcome, and thank you – I’m finding my despair and shock replaced with determination. I don’t know how much I’ll make a difference, but I’m moving forward with purpose.
I love it…”I will chop wood and carry water” You are a talented writer who has taken a disparaging situation and turn it into symbolic logic. Thank you, Thank you.
You’re welcome 🙂 It’s such a good metaphor! I’m glad my friend told it to me!
“A slender thread …”
Thanks for being here 🙂
Wonderful writing and message. Thank you!
You’re welcome, and thank you!
Thank you. I need to walk the dog better today, and fill the woodpile indoors, hope I didn’t let my patients down this week.
Sending love and determination your way!
I almost didn’t even read Brevity’s blog today because, well, you know. But I am so glad I did. Thank you for writing and posting it.
Thank you for reading – and you’re welcome.
So beautiful, Allison. Poignantly beautiful post that reminded me that though anguished we move on. We care for ourselves. We care for those we love. We care for our readers. We matter. So I too chop wood. I too carry water.
❤
[…] on Thursday morning I read this Brevity blog post by Allison K. Williams about beginning to write again after the trauma of Tuesday night. Williams’ […]
Reblogged this on I May Contribute A Verse and commented:
Speechless, yet so much to say. I don’t have the energy or the eloquence to add my voice to the din, nothing to say that isn’t already being said and too sad and disappointed to even try. I found this beautiful essay helpful.
Thank you, and thanks for passing it on.
Thank you for telling the truth and how simple it is. And how deep and rich.
You’re welcome – and thank you.
I was so lost for words, I wrote thousands. Then, I pushed them all to the side and wrote a poem of only a few lines instead.
❤
Wow. Thank you for saying the words I am feeling but didn’t know how to say.
You’re welcome – thank you for reading.
Thank you for this vision of a way forward
You’re welcome – it’s hard, but we’re doing it bit by bit.
I continue to grapple with the loss of my daughter to cancer. Toby was smiling one day and gone the next. There are terrible moments when I want desperately to be with her, but then I hear her voice saying, “Chop wood, carry water, Mom.”
Juanita, this makes my heart so full. Much love to you.
I’m speechless. Thank you for sharing this gorgeous piece of work. it’s perfect.
You’re welcome, and thank you.
I recently lost a pregnancy at 16 weeks. I lost a baby, really. A little girl named Izzy. https://hipmombrarian.com/2016/12/01/you-will-prefer-silence/ I’ve felt completely useless for the last 10 days. Someone posted the link to this blog in my comments. I’ve read it every single day since then. I can’t do much right now, but I can chop wood and carry water. Thank you for your words. The words I needed.
Your post was really powerful, and I’m so sorry for your loss. It is so hard to bear a sadness that seems to be unwelcome to voice. I’m listening, and I’m glad these words are some small comfort in the face of great sorrow.
I lost my husband suddenly and unexpectedly over the summer. This story is pretty much how I’ve been getting through day by day. My 2 daughters still need me to “chop wood and carry water.” Some days it’s the only way I get through the day.
I’m so sorry to hear about your incredible loss. Thank you for showing up, as much as you can. Sending love your way.
I could not bear to read this when it was first posted. A mistake.
Glad to have you whenever you are ready.
[…] Brevity https://brevity.wordpress.com/2016/11/10/chop-wood-carry-water/ […]
[…] This is an update of a November 2016 post. […]
[…] Editors Amy Roost and Alissa Hirshfeld-Flores have focused the natural drive to create from upheaval into a new collection of essays. Fury: Women’s Lived Experience During the Trump Era brings together a diverse community of women who reveal the impact Donald Trump’s behavior, words, and presidency have had on each of them, how each is confronting the problem, and how she is fighting back. Several Brevity bloggers have essays in the collection: Ann V. Klotz, Nina Gaby, Reema Zaman, Michele Sharpe, Melanie Brooks and Allison K Williams. […]