Category Archives: writing a memoir

My Task

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And now, to the writing of it. The telling of it, knowing beforehand that no words get close to the realities of those here and gone from life; those we have loved and love still from the center of our beings, our souls if you will. Yet, it seems to me, to not write about them, write for them, tell others about them, would be an injustice of the heart.

I cannot tell you the glory of an Oak tree by phone or on the page. Nor can I tell you in full measure the exquisite beautiful mystery of the always enchanting morning mist. But I can tell you something, and that is my task.

I cannot possibly tell you or explain in any full and complete measure how a woman hours from me warms my heart and lifts my soul with so much love and comfort I find the experience baffling, wondrous, soaring. So much so I hardly dare to believe it. But I can tell you something and that is my task.

I cannot possible tell you in full accurate detail and scope how it sickens my heart and soul when I see people being treated with hatred because of some aspect of who they are. The damage of this kind of hatred and bigotry is wide ranging. It is aimed at those who are gay, lesbian, disabled, black, Latino, Asian, female, Jewish, Muslim and so forth. But I can tell you something and that is my task.

I think, now, as the memoir pushes to its conclusion and I gear up for the next writing task, I need to and must accept that I can never tell the all of life, just, if I work hard enough, glimpses of it.

And that is my task.
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THE GREATER FAILURE

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There are at least three people whose presence in my life is so precious and miraculous that I know any attempt on my part to tell you about them will fall short of its mark. It is impossible, at least for me, to set down in words how much I love them, how each of them is as vital to my being as my vital organs are to my body.

I can name them for you. My father, Sanford Kahrmann, was the greatest gift life has ever given me. Poppop, my mother’s father, Prescott Beach, had a Jimmy Stewart like warmth to him, and was, like my father, one of my life’s angels from the beginning. There is my friend, Michael Sulsona. He and I have been friends for more than 30 years now and do not think a brother can love a brother any more than I love Michael.

I am in the midst of writing a memoir and the end is in sight. I know I still have writing to do when it comes to my father, Poppop and Michael. Sometimes stillness comes over me and it is as if my body freezes in place. I cannot move a muscle. I cannot even get my pen to move. I know I will fail in any attempt to write the three miracles in my life just mentioned.

I know, too, that the greater failure would be not to try.