The Prufrock Question

Well, I'm back from my trip. It was both remarkably delightful and slightly unsettling. Delightful in the sense that it was one of those trips where things seem to coalesce in a wonderful combination of delicious perfection – great weather, an ideal pace, fantastic food, lovely lodging, and best of all, truly fantastic company. We spent a few days visiting dear friends who have just bought a farmhouse in the country. And it was one of those weekends that becomes the most glorious sort of memory- roasting marshmallows on a campfire, sides aching from laughing so hard, staying up until 2.30 in the morning, playing guitars, drinking whisky and talking, talking, talking.

The unsettling part was the hard thump of realisation that in fact, I really want my life to look less like the one I am leading, and more like that of my friends. I was filled with a renewed yearning to be in a place where I could do the kinds of things they are doing- writing, creating, building a future that enables a happy balancing of worlds. The barn behind the farmhouse will hopefully become a small recording studio, the outbuildings will become offices and writing spaces. And I found myself longing for an existence comprised more of that and less of this. Wishing I had the means, time and the space to turn some of what I think and feel into a more tangible art.

These questions felt all the more potent to me having listened to my friend's recently completed album, a stunning work based on the experience of losing a beloved sister whose untimely death still resonates deep through the lives of those who knew her. And in creating this piece, my friend has formed both a lasting memorial to her sister as well as to her own self during that time, the two becoming intertwined in a beautiful, unforgettable legacy.

If there are to be no children for me, it seems that maybe there ought to be something else like this, to shimmer in the space I once occupied. Something to leave a lasting trace, however slight, of who I am. To import some meaning as to what my life was about, what I wanted it to be. To take the place of that piece of me that would have looked out through my son or daughter's eyes.

I've thought these things before. At times I wonder if it's really just hubris and vanity talking- that ultimately, I just have to accept that perhaps I'm not meant to be remembered always. That perhaps the mermaids will not only not sing to me, they won't sing of me. That things fade away, or are lost forever.

Of course, that too can be freeing- not to worry, to let it all go. But what this trip, this recent experience reminded me once again is that to face a life without children is to confront, even in a small way, one's own ultimate mortality. To accept the finality that it's not just the gene pool that ends with me, but seemingly everything else too.

And to question- really question- exactly what, if anything, I can leave behind.

Comments

[Alexandra/Infertile Gourmet]

Wow. That touched me.

[Molly]

Oh yes. Perfectly, perfectly said.

[Kath]

Dear Mare, that was utterly beautiful. I am glad your trip was so good, and that it gave you a better idea of what you want your life to look like, even if it that goal seems damned hard to reach at the moment.

Your paragraph on what your friend had done with her album touched me profoundly. And you can do that too, my dear. You can write and you can touch people and make them think, and you can leave that shimmer you were talking about. I hope you will find your way there, and that this part of your journey will be far more joyous than painful.

[ninaB]

Those are big questions to contemplate. Funnily enough I've read and re-read that poem about dozens times this past week (saved it to my palm pilot) because I had been contemplating all my 'decisions and indecisions'. I don't have any answers myself but am determined not to measure my life by coffee spoons. I think that you are too.

[SheilaC]

Wow. Your friends sound very creative and very fortunate. Probably your presence was a catalyst for some truly happy times, idyllic celebrations that they too will remember as very special. (Still, there must be days when your friends feel depressed or discouraged, or overwhelmed by daily to-do lists. Real life is like that.)

No wonder that you wish your life could have some of that creativity and fulfillment. Your gift for writing is apparent in your blog, and if you have other creative gifts, I hope you will be able to make opportunities to use them. To create something lasting is a wonderful goal, regardless of whether you become a parent some day.

My husband and I have those dreams too. They are hard to act upon, in the hustle and bustle of raising three kids. I wish you success in choosing goals and acting upon them, to make your dreams come closer to reality.

Best wishes,

[Pamplemousse]

It's my hub that has the musical talent and I would give anything to be able to do that. Unfortunately, I think tone deaf and non-musical (apart from appreciating it) are the realities for me!

Your trip sounds like it was really cool and just what you needed.

[DD]

Even through your writing you leave something profound and lasting. Sure the words may become absorbed by the computer, but your the thoughts you invoke in us can be as blatant as a brand or as slight as a butterfly's touch on our hands. Either way, you leave your own type of legacy that will not be forgotten.

[Suz]

The trip sounds amazing - there is nothing like connecting with old, dear friends - especially ones that prompt inspiration and renewal. Not only do you have a gift as a writer, but it is hard to believe that you have not left something of yourself with those people, like the friends you describe, who you love and who love you.

[Toni]

Not commenting as much as I used to - but this made me think. I think we all want this - children or not - to leave a legacy that is more than just an obit and some stuff. I hope you find out what yours will be.

[thalia]

I echo what everyone else has said - you have already touched many lives. Those that you know of - because they are people you know in the real world - and those you don't know, because you've reached them through the computer.

You may want your mark to be different, you may want it to be broader or deeper, but don't forget that you have the kernel of a legacy already. And I believe that if you really want to change your life in a more creative direcion, you can.

[Lut C.]

I don't have a creative fibre in my body. There goes plan G. I'm screwed!

I'm glad you had an inspiring trip. :-)

[ink]

You've already changed the world, Mare.

Even if nothing else (and I'm quite sure there is much, much more), this blog touches a huge number of people: in it you give eloquent voice to the pain and doubt so many of us are experiencing, and help us move through it to a better place.

You're singing your own song, I think. And it is truly beautiful.

[ink]

You've already changed the world, Mare.

Even if nothing else (and I'm quite sure there is much, much more), this blog touches a huge number of people: in it you give eloquent voice to the pain and doubt so many of us are experiencing, and help us move through it to a better place.

You're singing your own song, I think. And it is truly beautiful.

[Cathy]

It's so good to have you back. Thank you for the tender and thought-provoking post, a gift unto itself.

[Meg]

Mare - I have been thinking about this myself. And I don't think it's hubris to need a piece of immortality. In fact, I think it may be one of the reasons we want children in the first place. Your vision of the life you want is a beautiful one. I'm very jealous of your friends! And irregardless of how many people are touched by your writing, I still believe that a blog is a piece of Art as valid as any other, if more transitory.

[Anna]

Anyone who can call Infertility Island into being doesn't need to worry about not leaving a lasting impression on the world. I can't tell you how much those images and post have resonated with me, and I'm willing to bet money I'm not the only one.

It's so much harder to feel your life means something greater without children, but sometimes I think meaning you work harder to find and define is more lasting, purer and ultimately more valuable.

Mermaids? Fuck the mermaids. I'll sing about you.

[Menita]

Welcome back. I am glad you had such a wonderful trip, and you blew me away with the "unsettling" bit. Beautiful. It unsettled (in a good way) ME to "hear" that voice of yours again, writing those things. Wow. Yes.

[Truly Tested]

beatifully put. Your friends' lives do sound idyllic although obviously theirs too were touched with pain. It does bear remembering though that a weekend can give an impression that doesn't always match with reality -- not that you don't want your firends to be happy -- but my pt is that the grass always looks greener...

here's a thought. maybe if there are not kids in your future (and I don't think you know that yet), you will have more time, space and energy to leave something else tangible behind that will be your legacy...

[Karen]

I'm glad you're back. I missed you.

You are such a gorgeous writer and person, Mare. I'm so glad that the trip was a good one.

I've tagged you, m'dear. Tell us six weird things about yourself, won't you? Because I can never have too much Mare.

xoxoxox