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My Bowl of Sorrows

 

bowl of sorrows 2

Leaving is never easy, and when I finally made the decision to go, I found myself figuratively awash in a bowl of sorrows.  Concurrently I was making pottery for the first time in over twenty years and decided to make a literal “Bowl of Sorrows” into which I would try to pour all of mine, hoping to ease my heart a bit. The bowl itself is not large (though it might have been) and carved around the outside of it in a spiral are all the words that made up my misery, things I’d endured, lost, and sacrificed in trying to make something that never would, work.

It is always complicated to leave a relationship. We had been together for ten years and had a child. To say it broke my heart knowing that I wouldn’t see my daughter every day isn’t accurate, partly because my heart was already shattered in hundreds of pieces, lying in the pit of my stomach rather than my chest, and partly because I knew that once I was out of that house I could be a better parent to her than I had been in years.  I couldn’t tell her that I was leaving for her. That I had found the strength to do for her what I couldn’t have done for myself.

I cried every day, but I had been doing that for months.  Sorrow is pervasive, and you may be inwardly correcting me thinking I was depressed and I won’t argue that, but it was the sadness that was drowning me; sadness and tears.  Most of the time I could get through my work days, though once I was in my office with the door closed, weeping and someone walked in on me.

Carving those words took a long time. I would go to the studio, unwrap my bowl, sit quietly and carve. I was able to do this without crying, it was a form of therapy I had managed to invent for myself, and it was working.  My (actual) therapist and I talked about my depression, and she offered me anti-depressants, but I believed if I took them I’d feel OK, and lose my incentive to work through and out of it. I had my bowl of sorrows, what did I need with Ativan?

I was sad about leaving, I was sad I hadn’t left sooner. My guilt could have filled the Rose Bowl, and my anger was still nascent.  This was the most difficult decision I had ever made, and having made it I didn’t feel much relief.  I had no idea this was the beginning of the hardest time of my life. Yet, as often happens in times of grief, I had moments of buoyancy, glee, and even giddiness to punctuate my misery. It was those moments, a few more each week, that helped me crawl out of my bowl. If you’ve ever seen a bug try to crawl out of a convex bowl and keep sliding back, that would approximate my emotional journey out of my own sorrow.

Bowl of Sorrows with Crane

 

For years I needed to keep it close by, to remind me I had made the right decision. I’d pick it up and run my fingers over the words, letting the feelings wash over me, then ebb away. It now sits on a cabinet in my house. The origami crane inside is one my daughter made for me. I no longer need to be near it, though I always know where it is. I understand the importance of embracing happiness, as well as the proximity of a bowl of sorrows.

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  • January 20, 2015 - 7:41 am

    Walker Thornton - What a beautiful, poignant story. I love the way you worked through your sorrow and applaud you for not numbing out the pain with drugs. Divorce and grief are just dammed hard. And yet we survive.
    Thank you for writing this-I am sure there is a woman out there reading who needs this right now.ReplyCancel

    • January 20, 2015 - 8:58 am

      nrlowell@comcast.net - Walker, thank you. I think that we’ve become so used to taking a pill to fix things many people forget we all have the inner resources to heal ourselves. One of my favorite lines from Eat, Pray, Love is when Elizabeth Gilbert says ‘going through a divorce is like getting in a car accident every day for three years’. So true.ReplyCancel

  • January 20, 2015 - 11:01 am

    Linda Roy (elleroy was here) - So beautiful Nancy. Such a powerful analogy.ReplyCancel

    • January 20, 2015 - 11:44 am

      nrlowell@comcast.net - Thanks Linda.ReplyCancel

  • January 22, 2015 - 6:10 am

    Jhanis - That gave me goosebumps Nancy! I saved the link when I first saw this shared on FB and I’m glad I went back to it but only because you wrote it so well. I wish I can write as beautifully!ReplyCancel

    • January 22, 2015 - 8:08 am

      nrlowell@comcast.net - Jhanis, thank you for your kind words. I love your writing too.ReplyCancel

  • January 22, 2015 - 8:34 am

    Sandy Weiner - Nancy, this is so beautifully written. It spoke to me, even though my divorce was not as painful. I am an artist first, a life and dating coach second. Creative projects have helped me through the toughest of life’s challenges, too. Once, when I was going through a lot of self-doubt, I created my gremlin out of clay. It went through a raku firing – intense heat, ashes, and cold water – and I came out the other side with a sense of catharsis and renewal. Thank you for sharing your heartfelt thoughts in such an elegant, vulnerable way.ReplyCancel

    • January 22, 2015 - 1:47 pm

      nrlowell@comcast.net - Sandy, I love that idea of a gremlin, would love to see it!ReplyCancel

  • January 22, 2015 - 11:37 am

    Christine - I love the whole idea of a bowl of sorrows. I’ve heard of people writing their sorrows on bits of paper and burning them, but to me that feels like denying their impact. This makes much more sense to me.ReplyCancel

    • January 22, 2015 - 1:46 pm

      nrlowell@comcast.net - Christine, I agree, carving them into something tangible like a bowl, felt right.ReplyCancel

  • January 22, 2015 - 7:41 pm

    Liz - This is beautiful (and so is the bowl). There are definitely times in our lives when the only way to get through what we’re dealing with is to actually trudge through it.ReplyCancel

    • January 22, 2015 - 8:45 pm

      nrlowell@comcast.net - Liz, thanks for that. I agree completely. I love that card that says ‘when you’re going through hell, keep going’.ReplyCancel

  • December 2, 2015 - 6:50 am

    Row of Pitchers » Chefs Last Diet - […] Here is the row of pitchers on my windowsill. There are five of them, plus a sixth pot. I made the five pitchers and the small lidded jar was made by Jim Makins. I can see them when I sit at the kitchen counter, where I write. They remind me of something I did once, but no longer do. There are people who find a profession early in life, and stick with it until they retire. Some of those people are following a calling, but many are just sticking it out, unwilling or unable to make a change, or try something else; I am not one of those people. I didn’t make these pitchers when I was a potter (which I was) but a few years ago when I decided I wanted to go back to making pots for enjoyment. […]ReplyCancel

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