Hello my dears! Time for a little twitter chat about a chronic not cureable life based on John Green’s beautiful book, “Turtles All The Way Down.” #everythinghappens
His main character Aza opens with this line that shapes much of the narrative, “You think you’re the painter, but you’re the canvas” (2).
Do you ever feel that way? How much control do you feel you have over your life? #everythinghappens
Control is a drug and we’re all hooked. But what about those of us who don’t fit the neat narrative of sick to healed? How do you live with the uncertainty of your mental, physical, emotional health? #EverythingHappens
One of John's characters, Daisy counters Aza and offers that we may not get to pick the painting of our life, but we pick the frame. Does this feel true? #everythinghappens
This book gives an account of a life that is chronic not curable. There may not always be answers but there is a “loaves and fishes” multiplication of love.
“Love is both how you become a person and why.” What loves animate your purpose and personhood? #EverythingHappens
When I spoke with John, I asked what his book can teach us about being a better parent, friend, or caregiver to someone with mental illness. His response? To love. To reassure (without lying). To be present (without trying to fix). What advice would you add? #EverythingHappens
Friends, this was SO MUCH FUN. Thanks for joining me for this twitter chat & for your kindness to each other. I have to step away but if you haven’t, listen in on my conversation with #JohnGreen.
His insights into his own OCD and the loves that animate our lives blew me away. You might like it too. 😊#everythinghappens
(Adapted for a communal setting from The Lives We Actually Have, page 188)
Blessed are we in the tender place between curiosity and dread,
We who wonder how to be whole,
when dreams have disappeared and part of us with them,
where mastery, control, determination, bootstrapping, and grit,
are consigned to the realm of before (where most of the world lives),
in the fever dream that promises infinite choices, unlimited progress, best life now.
Blessed are we in the after,
forced into stories we never would have written.
A blessing for when today already feels like too much
AND TOMORROW DOESN'T LOOK GOOD EITHER
I was hoping to be the kind of person by now
who doesn’t tumble, headlong, into the day
falling, falling, falling
from the high board
without nearly enough water below.
God, I swear I didn’t plan it like this.
But here I am, hoping for another miracle.
Lord, bless these dumb plans
that will short circuit my thinking
and make me fragile, brittle.
Lord, bless these multiplying tasks
that swarm like mosquitoes.
Underneath this to-do list
and these calendar invites
and these many obligations
is a set of loves.
A blessing for if you are in pain
(because so few people let us talk about it)
Blessed are you on this pain-filled day.
When getting out of bed deserves an award.
When you can’t remember what it feels like
not to be so aware of your own body.
When you arrange your weeks
around limitations or side effects.
Or when you stop telling the truth altogether about how badly it hurts,
how scared you are of your own mind
or the boring details of another non-diagnosis
because you’re afraid people have stopped caring.
You speak a language of suffering
the world doesn’t try to understand.
a blessing for when your family disappoints you
(and admitting that feels terrible)
God, the very people who are supposed to
love me and know me best have let me down.
I don’t know if I’ll be able to find a way forward.
I’m losing my sense of home
and the reality of it fills me with a kind of fear.
However big, however small,
this pain feels unforgivable.
I know they’re only human (really, I know),
but their mistakes feel like they echo through me.
They strike a painful chord that rings on and on,
and I feel convinced, all at once, that I am not loved.
Not known.
Not safe.
I feel small all over again.
So bless me, God,
when tears prick at my eyes and I feel lost to myself
Bring me home.
A prayer for when you feel invisible (and need someone to see you)
Dear God,
I always feel like the last one picked.
The left out, the unclaimed. It’s hard to miss.
My gifts are not welcome. My tears are not seen.
My pain is not registered. I feel invisible.
Jesus, when You walked among us,
You became the one rejected.
You were abandoned—even betrayed—
by Your best friends, barred from the religious institution, rejected by Your very own people.
You became one with suffering itself, and as an outcast You opened the door for us to find a home with You,
a community of outsiders.
You showed us exactly what You thought
of such exclusion and rejection.
Blessed are you, friend, sitting among the shards of what could have been. It is broken now, that dream you loved, and it has spilled out all over the ground.
Blessed are you, dear one, letting your eyes look around and remember all the hope your dream once contained. All the love. All the beauty.
Blessed are you, telling your tears they can flow. Telling your anger it can speak.