Tuesday, 13 February 2018

Grab a Coffee and put your listening caps on.

Because this is such a widely read blog and because me writing and editing can make my point much more clearly, I putting this out there.  I do hope those who happened to partake in the conversation today are reading.
"Vizzini: He didn’t fall?! Inconceivable!
Inigo Montoya: You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means."  

I do not think that word means what you think it means.  And in case it is close to a word that was meant, yeah.  Nope.    

I love words, and while I am sure that what was said that afternoon was not meant to insult or be patently unfair and bordering on rude, it was.  I remind you of a thing that you do not want to acknowledge.  I get that.  But I do have some things to say about it and I hope you will take the time to listen. I hope that you click each and every little coloured word link too so that you understand the fullness of it.

My words today, the mentions of my husband,  were about something that was in my daily life and that remains in my daily life. It is the thing I wake up to and the faces I love.  It is the eyes of my children and grandchildren, their smiles, the way they laugh.  If his name came up today, it is because in every way, he is in my life.  If his name falls from my lips in relation to some silly thing or other, it does not hurt me. I rejoice in his memory and he remains relevant to everything I am.   

I do not see how this can possibly hurt you or cause you to feel at all.  I did not ask anything from you.  I did not ask for sympathy or care, or sorrow. I was just out among some knitters.  I was sharing a story.  About a sock heel and about things in my life that relate to knitting and general silliness.    Like you all did and do.  You talk about fathers and mothers and children and husbands.  The only difference here is mine is not in this corporeal realm, but he is and will always be real. 

But you asked me not to talk about such maudlin things. 

But the word used makes it all seedy and somehow less.  Perhaps you thought my words  over emotional, over sentimental,  mawkish? Perhaps you viewed his name in my conversation as bathetic.  Maybe you more correctly meant insipid?  That word you used, every synonym, every antonym, trivializes everything that was important in my life.   

What sorrow I carry is mine and mine alone.  If I  cry when I just happen to be with you, that is me carrying my sorrow the only way I can carry it in that particular moment, with that particular memory that is in my head and my heart.  Tears do not ask you to participate. If you feel something about it, that is entirely within your baliwick, not mine.  I am not responsible for however it makes you feel.  Those are your feelings.  Got that?

 I talked about my grandkids.  You talked about yours.  You talked about your husbands.  I talked about mine and suddenly, my conversation, at this point free of any tears or sadness or sorrow on my part, is maudlin?  

Now if your meaning was to say this was an inspid thing to add to the conversation, fine.  I'm good with insipid, but not that other word.  I'm not distinctive, or interesting.  I don't have a lot of stimulating qualities. I can see that all my conversation could be termed insipid.  Heck, there are days when I bore myself to tears and I have lived me for decades.  You can fling insipid my way all you like and add a dose of argumentative too, because I agree, I am all those things.  But he is not maudlin and talking about him is never maudlin. 

I knit, and on this day, in consideration of some of the other conversations in particular, I thought that would be enough.  I knit.  I never, ever thought it would be 'knitter yes, but leave your life at home'.  Because that is the message I got. 

Let's just put this one to the #stupidthingspeoplesaytowidows file. Just sayin'.