“Please understand me!”
she cried.
An impossible premise
an impossible promise
impossible, period.
She cried
“Please understand me!”
until she didn’t
until she realized
that it was her promise
to herself, period.
~ ~ ~
“Please. Understand me!”
I have cried and cried
and cried some more.
An impossible, overwhelming request.
Held silent under its thumb
I’ve screamed:
The premises must be explained!
The promises must be decried!
Do you see (me)?
Do you hear (me)?
Do you understand (me)?
No, you don’t.
No, you won’t.
Period.
I see.
So, no more explaining.
No more premises defended.
No more promises (to self) broken.
No more, period.
~ ~ ~
“Understand me, or don’t!” she sings.
So pleased,
as she writhes and writes and rises.
Overcome, but not overwhelmed
by all she has to say,
by how she stays…standing.
And under-standing’s over-ture comes to an end…
*****
I have spent a lifetime trying to understand. My parents, my siblings, my family dynamics. What it meant to go to church, what it meant to be a Christian, what it meant to believe in God. How to be a good girl, how to get ahead in school, how to please my parents. The rules for girls. The rules for boys. How pretty rules. How to be seen, or not; heard, or not; perfect always. All of these un-understandable. All of these futile. And every one required,
demanded, and understandably critical for survival.
There was a season in which I did not understand much of anything, least of all myself, my choices, my behaviors, my actions. I didn’t care. And I couldn’t understand why. I did not stand up at all, least of all for myself. I crouched. I skulked. I compromised. I hid. I underwhelmed (myself). Under the radar. Under-achieving. And misunderstood.
Later, I thought I had finally found it, everything. It was all I’d ever wanted – until it wasn’t. I tried to understand my marriage and the man. Why he was always depressed. Why it was my job to keep him happy, sane, coping, functional. Why I couldn’t get pregnant. Why I should even bother believing in a God who wouldn’t answer my prayers. Why I was so horrible as to doubt, to rage, to be faith-less. I tried to understand my anger. I tried to understand my confusion. I tried to understand my loneliness. I tried to understand my tears. All to no avail.
My tears. They defied all understanding, any explanation, all and any attempts to be thwarted, slowed, stopped. They continued. Inexplicable. They made no sense. “This is nonsense!” I thought. Endless. And always in the dark, in private, in secret. Why? What I didn’t understand (until I did) was that my tears made more sense than anything or anyone else. That they were the font, the truth, the gift at the altar, the only part of me that knelt and knew, that stood – defiant, unstopped, unsilenced, undaunted.
Maybe it was never about my understanding. Maybe, really, it was about being understood. Needing, longing, demanding to be understood. By my parents, by my family, by my culture, by my God. Later by my husband, by my friends, by my employer, by my therapist. Now by my love, by my readers, by my girls. Then and now, not having to do, feel, be, all by myself.
These days, I feel understanding’s incessant, relentless demand in a more subtle but no-less visceral way: through what I write. “Please understand x, y, and z.” “Do you, will you see?” “Do you, will you hear?” But what I really mean, what I really want, still, is this: “Please understand me!” “See me!” “Hear me!”
And it strikes me that all of this is a helpless prospect; always has been. It is neither about understanding, nor about being understood – at least not anymore. It’s about trust, intuition, and writing-speaking-feeling-saying-being whatever I want, all that I want, what my tears have always known. It’s about weeping and roaring and blazing and shining and preaching and provoking and yes, standing.
It’s about not under-standing.
Someone once said, “seek first to understand.” I’ve done enough of that – under duress, under demand, under false pretenses, premises, and promises.
And under-standing’s over-ture comes to an end.
*****
“Please understand me!”
she cried.
An impossible premise
an impossible promise
impossible, period.
She cried
“Please understand me!”
until she didn’t
until she realized
that it was her promise
to herself, period.
~ ~ ~
“Please. Understand me!”
I have cried and cried
and cried some more.
An impossible, overwhelming request.
Held silent under its thumb
I’ve screamed:
The premises must be explained!
The promises must be decried!
Do you see (me)?
Do you hear (me)?
Do you understand (me)?
No, you don’t.
No, you won’t.
Period.
I see.
So, no more explaining.
No more premises defended.
No more promises (to self) broken.
No more, period.
~ ~ ~
“Understand me, or don’t!” she sings.
So pleased,
as she writhes and writes and rises.
Overcome, but not overwhelmed
by all she has to say,
by how she stays…standing.
And under-standing’s over-ture comes to an end, period.