Divorce does strange things to you
A friend of mine is a classical singer who lived in and sang in another country, with her husband. Theirs was a bi-racial marriage, and for reasons that have nothing to do with race and everything to do with relationships, they parted. She packed her clothes (nothing more) and in a brave move for a woman who’d lived a life as sheltered as she had, came back to Delhi.
Her parents and brothers though sympathetic and loving didn’t support her or her decision. She plodded on, through some difficult years and eventually made it, on her won and without their help. Success story.
On the days when I sang my heart out with her, we’d stop and chat about life and love. She told me how her divorce and the process of understanding the reasons for her failed marriage took so much of her energy and lead her to reject so much of her old self that she stopped singing for five whole years. Well, she stopped singing classical music and sang instead popular music, which she’d had no previous knowledge of. It was as it she rejected everything about her old life together with the rejection of her husband.
When the turmoil settled down a bit she had an epiphany one day. She realised that singing WAS her mission and returned to it with gusto. She now makes her living teaching singing and is an authority in the field. But it took her five years to get over her marriage and the association her mind made between singing and her husband. She disassociated from the man who made her unhappy but retained that which was good – the singing. She was healed.
Has it happened to you too ?
I for one, haven’t been able to write my book for a very long time now. I write yes – I write blogs and reports, maybe even the occasional short story, poetry but the half written book lies dusty and forgotten in a corner of the Study. It’s acquired a personality of its own – full of reproaches, guilt inducing with outdated emotions and ideas. I have a new perspective on those felt emotions – but I’m still not sure whether I dare to open those pages again. I don’t know whether the scab of my wound is ready to be scratched at. It may bleed again. And take long to heal.
Well I won’t know, unless I try – so I’m going to take another look at that story that had so much of my married life woven into it. I’m going to write it. Wish me luck.