I had a blog going a few years ago and nothing moved me to return to writing in a public space until a recent morning when I turned on the television to see a replay of the TODAY show broadcast from September 11, 2001.
Watching the broadcast fourteen years later, I was not filled with fear anymore. Instead of thinking about the incredible loss of life and terror instilled in us that day, the crumbling buildings, the revenge being planned, all I could think of is that my first husband and I were still married, living an almost idyllic life in our mountain home with our two young children, surrounded by thousands of tall and swaying redwoods and protected by a gate at the end of a dirt road. Removed. In our own world.
Of course, we weren’t in our own world at all, but we pretended otherwise. There was a lot of pretending going on. More than I knew.
Four years after the terrorist attack, my husband revealed to me that he was living a secret life. During the next few years, after the initial reveal, he fought back his true identity, but ultimately made the decision to live as the woman she really was. I had married a transgender person without knowing it. And we suffered alone. It didn’t feel safe to discuss it. It wasn’t a trending topic. There weren’t multiple hit television series starring transgender characters and actors and there hadn’t been a major magazine cover with a 65-year old former Olympian introducing her to the world as her female self.
After finally understanding that we couldn’t stop the family earthquake that results when one makes the transition from one’s lived identity to one’s true identity, we divorced. The divorce and my forced entry into a different kind of life prompted me to start a blog. Not this blog. I was singing an anthem of finding joy in later life and breaking taboos. My spouse broke all of the rules. Why couldn’t I, I reasoned. Oh well. I was being immature I suppose because none of it was really about breaking rules. My spouse had a journey that was too difficult for me to traverse. My spouse wasn’t trying to hurt me. I know that now.
The harder part was coming but I didn’t know it. My former spouse died suddenly at 56 and I was diagnosed with ovarian cancer just as our youngest child left for college. All in the space of three years.
I had to finally grow up. I learned that I am loved. I try harder to be ready every day for the end (feeling only love and happiness) while at the same time trying to live each day as I want to live it. Not an easy feat. I try. I try. I try.
This new blog space is part of my growth. This is where I will use the craft of writing to birth new adventures, new longings and new perspectives. The old blog is gone. I liked what I wrote, but that isn’t for me anymore. I’m not even that same me.
So, I guess I should circle back to the 9/11 tragedy where I started this post?
No. We were married then. We aren’t anymore. We don’t even share this earth. But, we shared that terrible day when we were scared and vulnerable and we shared many other great days, many of which were great.
The rerun I was watching? I said a prayer for everyone. Then. I turned it off.
And, about all of those rules I was going to break…that was silly. What I need to do is write my own.