Prompt 202. Just Keep Going

& a prompt on redemption by Anna Gazmarian

Textile art by Diana Weymar of Tiny Pricks Project

Hi friend,

Of the many powerful mantras for hard times that our community shared in the comments section of the most recent Dear Susu, a favorite was this one from Rainer Maria Rilke: “Let everything happen to you: Beauty and terror. Just keep going. No feeling is final.”

It’s such a crucial reminder, like a little life preserver in an ocean of uncertainty. These last few weeks, I’ve felt so low—maybe the lowest of my life. Since learning of my relapse in November, I’ve been in a hypervigilant survival mode, feeling like I couldn’t afford to fall apart. When I hit the 100-day mark post-bone marrow transplant, for the first time I was really able to pause and look around—at all that has changed, or been put on hold, or lost. The range is wide, from not being able to see friends to losing my dogs to my sense of safety in my own body. After my first bout with leukemia, it took so long to rebuild my life—and then everything was razed again. I kept asking myself, “How am I possibly going to summon the strength to pull myself through this? To adjust and adapt and rebuild?”

But this week, I received some news that reminded me that this grief, this sadness—this is not final. Back in March, just weeks after Oscar died and at the urging of my dear friend Hollye, I put in an application to get a career-redirected service dog. They told me it could take six months to a year to assign one to me, and though I held that hope in the back of my mind, it felt so far off. Like everything else right now, time feels very amorphous. Six months might as well be a decade.

Then one day last week, my phone rang at eight in the morning. It was a Michigan number, which is where the service dog organization is based, so I picked it up and learned that they had found my pup: an eighteen-month-old black lab/golden retriever cross named River. I felt a surge of joy and immediately started crying. I had been groping around for something to lift me out of the grief for weeks, and suddenly I’d found it, a buoy.

So these last few days, I’ve been thinking about joy, and how sometimes we can find it spontaneously, or how we can sometimes muscle our way to it. But I also realized that sometimes we have to plant seeds for future joy. I’ve felt very grateful to Hollye, and also to the version of me in March who was too weak to get out of bed, who had no idea what the coming days would hold, who planted seeds for joy—for River’s arrival.

And now, for today’s essay and prompt: I’m so happy to share with you words from the writer Anna Gazmarian. She writes about sorrow and joy and redemption, which is its own kind of hope and acknowledgement of Rilke’s wise words: no feeling is final.

Sending love,
Suleika

P.S. This week we sent out a Day 90 check-in—it’s a short essay by Carmen on how a 100-day project can evolve and open in surprising ways. In it, we also included a call for submissions for your 100-day creations. Find it here!

P.P.S. Mark your calendars: Next Sunday, July 10, is our next meeting of the Hatch, our virtual creative hour. It’s going to be a special 100-day project celebration—hope to see you there!

Please note that the following essay discusses depression and makes a very brief mention of suicidal ideation.

Prompt 202. What Can Be Redeemed by Anna Gazmarian

Twelve years ago, I lived in a one-bedroom apartment in Raleigh, North Carolina, before skyscrapers slowly began to invade the skyline, before there were trendy restaurants on every street corner. I had dropped out of college and had recently been diagnosed with bipolar disorder. My days revolved around getting myself out of bed and taking my medications.

Eventually my life felt irredeemable, and I moved to Michigan to re-enroll in college, hoping for a fresh start (though I quickly learned that doesn’t really exist). After I got married, my husband and I moved back to North Carolina, but to Durham. I didn’t return to nearby Raleigh for many years because just driving on the interstate sparked difficult memories of suicidal thoughts or countless reckless decisions. The city remained a symbol of how dark my depression can get. I thought it could never be more than that.

But just last Sunday, I found myself driving from Durham to Raleigh with a close friend without giving the past much thought. The roads didn’t bring up those unwanted memories, and the loneliness didn’t overwhelm me like it used to. We wandered downtown, revisiting old places. We went to my favorite coffee shop, where years ago I spent hours working through mood regulation worksheets before therapy . I didn’t even think to mention this to my friend because it felt so distant from who I am now. We both ordered caramel lattes, which I hadn’t had in a decade because they reminded me of when I was depressed. We clanked our plastic cups together in a toast, and I said it felt like a symbol of hope. Sure, the sadness was still there, but I was also present with my friend. I’m learning that joy and sorrow can coexist. I’m beginning to understand that this is the space that I will spend most of my life.

I was raised as an evangelical Christian, which makes spontaneously recalling random stories from the Bible one of my only special talents. These days, I still identify as a Christian, but for different reasons than before. I used to be fascinated with the disciples because of their piousness, but now I’m more fascinated with the stories of the most unlikely people being used by God. I find myself turning everything into a redemption narrative, including my own life. The idea that broken things can be restored: This is the closest I get to maintaining hope. I’m fighting to believe that nothing in this life is beyond repair.

Your prompt for the week:

When have you seen redemption play out in the broken areas of your life? Places that once seemed hopeless or beyond repair? What else do you want redeemed?

If you’d like, you can post your response in the comments below, in our Facebook group, or on Instagram by tagging @theisolationjournals.

Today’s Contributor

Anna Gazmarian lives and writes in Durham, North Carolina. Her memoir about mental health and faith, Consider the Weight of It, is forthcoming from Simon & Schuster in October 2023. You can find her on Twitter at @Anna_Gazmarian.

Featured Community Member

If you’ve spent any time in the Isolation Journals Facebook group, or in the chat of our monthly Hatch meetings, you’ve experienced the humor, kindness, and enthusiasm of our beloved Pat Taylor. A former writer, producer, and theater performer, Pat reframed her talents to become a young adult cancer advocate when her daughter, Sara, was diagnosed with the disease at the age of 23. The lack of support resources for young adults at that time compelled Pat and Sara to make two films which, before she died, Sara asked Pat to distribute around the world. “I have been the keeper and distributor of her legacy for the past 23 years,” Pat says.

For her 100-day project, Pat has been exploring a word’s meaning through writing, drawing, or photography. “I love the way words, letters roll off the tongue—dancing, quivering and meandering around inside my mouth,” she says. “One syllable or multi-syllable words—each unique and delicious in its own right.”

Pat lives in the wilds of British Columbia (“off-grid, with solar-powered wifi, gravity-flow water and wood heat”) and depends on the online connection with fellow creatives for her well-being. “Creating ways to communicate with others in isolation—whether it be within the confusing world of cancer or through the creative pathways of art, music, dance, photography or language—fills up my love cup.” As you do ours, dear Pat.

For paid subscriber benefits, see—

• Bindweed and Hawk Months, a Day 90 check-in and vibrant community discussion on how the 100-day project can evolve and change

• Dear Susu #7: Lighting the Way, where our community answers the question, “What is your mantra for hard times?”

• Cultivating Seed Dreams, an essay on harnessing motivation and building momentum for the 100-day project home stretch