Whenever there is a miscommunications like the one that swirled around the arrival of the dumpster last week, I pause. Communicating is important to a writer and where there is a misunderstanding as large as that one – it was substantial and surprising, if not that significant – I like to go back and wonder what happened. My business is to communicate clearly and well and I take that seriously.
I suspect the dumpster affair was in part about anger, mine. I carry a lot of anger in me, and most of the time it bubbles along out of sight, slumbering, waiting for something to come alone and wake it up. I am learning – slowly and the hard way – that when there is unacknowledged anger in me, anger from the outside world will find me. It was finding me. Last week I got a letter from my health insurance company promising to cancel my insurance if I didn’t submit a form in several days. As no one had ever requested the form, I was upset at the kind of violation that sometimes occurs when dealing with remote corporations. Then an accountant at a publishing house seemed to renege on an understanding about a travel plan, and I was further irritated. Finally a group asking me to speak demanded that I appear in a suit and tie, as they were worried somebody living on a farm might show up in dirty or smelly clothes. I was not comfortable with that (years ago I gave away my suits and burned my ties in my backyard, swearing never to wear one again.) request, to say the least. I took offense.
The next day I wrote that I was getting a dumpster and I was suddenly flooded with messages urging me to recycle, lecturing me on the existence of poor people, and advising me that charities like libraries and the Salvation Army could use my stuff. Took some more offense. After a bit, it occurred to me that something was off, something was wrong. Was I off kilter, angry? Yes. As the presidential candidates demonstrate almost daily, anger breeds anger, not understanding. I did the work I am learning to do, moved along and got to a better place. I saw what was happening, and the only part I could really deal with was my own.
Today, a few days later, I see things in a different way. I need to own up to the anger and deal with it privately. I am not seeking sainthood or political office. It is sometimes healthy – even necessary – to be angry and express anger. To speak up for yourself. To set boundaries. I do not know of a healthy relationship in which some anger does not exist. It can be cleansing, and protective.
By week’s end, the forms were on the way to the insurance company. The account apologized for the misunderstanding. The group said they would not mention my dress again. The dumpster was filling up with junk, and the readers of my blog seemed to understand that Maria and I could handle our own garbage in a responsible way, perhaps because I chose to communicate more clearly about it.
Garbage is different from baggage. People have to make their own decisions when communications fail. And many of the messages were surprising in their invasive gall and presumptuousness. But I am learning to own up to who I am, which is my job, and that includes a good deal of anger that I will work to release. Everybody else will have to reach their own conclusions. We are all responsible for the things we say and write. I am grateful for anger, really, because it has helped me take care of myself along the way. And I guess this new world, this blog, this new environment we have is a relationship, too.