We were standing in the middle of her bedroom when a clap of thunder rumbled. The shades were drawn over the large windows, obscuring the view of the sprawling farm outside and the storm clouds overhead. When she lived here, Flannery O’Connor would have kept the shades wide open so she could watch her beloved birds strutting outside. At one time more than forty peafowl lived at Andalusia Farm, along with O’Connor and her mother.
The bedroom was crowded with furniture, original to the years O’Connor lived here. Barrister bookcases lined two of the walls, and on another wall a slender bed sat next to a massive walnut desk. Sitting atop the desk was a manual typewriter, and perched atop the bedside table was a small bell. The juxtaposition of these two objects was sobering, and the sound of the storm served as an appropriate soundtrack for holding the tension of the sight.
An up-and-coming writer of fiction, O’Connor was forced to return to Milledgeville, Georgia, in 1951 when she was diagnosed with lupus, the disease that had killed her father. When she returned home, O’Connor was only 26 years old. For the next thirteen years she lived on the family’s farm. Despite the painful and debilitating disease, O’Connor wrote nearly every day and managed to produce two enduring collections of short stories and her second novel before her death at age 39.
Tim and I waited out the worst of the storm from rocking chairs on the spacious screened-in porch of the Andalusia farmhouse. I felt the thinness of time; how O’Connor and her mother must have sat on this same porch, watching and waiting for storms to pass. Soon we made our way to a cozy coffee shop in downtown Milledgeville, just two blocks from the Catholic church where O’Connor attended mass each morning. As we settled onto a leather couch, Tim closed his eyes and nodded off as I opened my laptop to write.
The rain continued to fall, and I watched the blinking cursor awaiting my next word. I began to feel frustrated that it was waiting and ashamed that my editor was waiting too. My essay was long past due. I thought of O’Connor’s discipline to spend a portion of each day writing, despite obstacles greater than any I’ve ever known, and I thought of my meager excuses for a delay. “But she was a real writer; one of the greatest of the 20thcentury,” I sighed. “I’m just…not.” And there it was: Envy.
As an Enneagram Four, my “passion” (i.e. root sin) is envy. Upon first reading this data, my reaction was skepticism; however, then I read, “When I become aware of this Passion of Envy active in me, I see that I am comparing myself to others and feeling superior or inferior in order to be special,” which can leave Fours feeling stuck, rejected, or abandoned. I have to admit that this rings true.
I often compare myself to others…other mothers, other teachers, other writers, other women. However, I wonder if I am alone with only Fours here. I would venture that most women, regardless of our Enneagram numbers, struggle with comparison.
Can I admit that this “comparison” is more rightly named “envy”? Can you?
Dan Allender says, “Envy is where two rivers meet, and the two rivers are lust and anger.” In this conflux, I experience both a desire for what someone else has—her youth, health, charisma, talent, platform (to name just a few)—and a desire to mar glory, either hers or mine. I feel deflated and defeated, which leads to humiliation and degradation. Allender explains that envy always leads to cursing. Most frequently I’m aware of how these curses take the form of shame, belittlement, and contempt that I direct toward myself; to admit that I release these curses toward others is tough.
The tension of these thoughts settled over me like a dark cloud. It thundered in my heart as I considered how, in my envy, I have cursed both myself and others. And I sought a solution that would provide respite from this seemingly relentless storm.
Again, Allender steers me toward shelter: “You counter envy by calling for the love of God for you and for them. Nothing is more powerful than the love of Jesus.” Love. It is by receiving love and offering love—blessing rather than cursing—that my vice is transformed into virtue and envy shifts to equanimity.
“Equanimity”—what a perfect word to describe O’Connor, who was forced to forfeit expansive dreams for what might appear to be a small life in a remote land. Instead of envy or resignation, she curated a life and legacy of beauty, faith, curiosity, and creativity during her years at Andalusia. I love this; it’s not something I envy, but rather something I deeply admire.
The rain continued to fall outside the Milledgeville coffee shop, and I finally shifted my gaze from the window to the blinking cursor. I placed my fingers on the keys and began to type, choosing to curate my own story, despite the storm.
Weekly Editor
A lover of story, Susan Tucker has always been captivated by beautiful writing. She is drawn to themes of tension, joy/grief, hope/loss, freedom/shame, which she explores in her own writing. Susan spends her days teaching middle school English, mothering her two teenage sons, and loving her husband of 25 years. She cherishes her first cup of coffee each morning, moments of quiet and solitude, restorative yoga, worship music, and faithful friends.nbsp
Oh my! Your words lull me into the scene, the moments in front of you. I am carried along. I begin to rest on the porch with you…and find myself caught…. I see and name these hard truths in my heart. The courage to do so flows from the rest and security you’ve provided. Thank you.
Thanks Margaret. I’m picturing the screened-in porch right now with its white rockers, and I see you joining me there to wait out the storm. Welcome! Miss you friend.
Dear Susan,
I am grateful for your honest self-assessment, and your ability to articulate what is exceedingly familiar to my heart and mind. I’ve been told by a wise counselor friend who is in the field of addiction that “Awareness” is the first step toward true growth and healing, and I applaud your Awareness. (I am intentionally capitalizing it because it is a REAL AND DIFFICULT STEP and must be acknowledged as such in our writing and vernacular. I say if we are going to capitalize diseases and disorders, we should give the same “proper noun ranking” to the healing processes associated with them! Healing is no “common noun” investment.)
Keep sharing so vulnerably, O fellow Enneagram 4! I will keep drinking of your wisdom, finding it refreshing and safe and home-like, and I will come alongside you in all 3 “Capital A’s” of recovery: Awareness, Acceptance, and Action.
Lacey, I appreciate how you designate the healing processes with “proper noun ranking.” As an English teacher, I know that distinction sets it apart as something worthy of being recognized as unique and important. I love how you honor healing as you do. And thanks for naming the 3 “Capital A’s” for me–no one has ever done so, and I’m enjoying considering them and how they show up in my own healing journey. Thank you for your thoughtful response!
Susan, I loved everything about this piece. The storm, the background story of Flannery O’Connor, the sitting on the porch in rockers and reflecting on her life, the comparison of her life to yours. All of it. Thank you for your courage to share your reflective heart and your honesty as you struggle with envy – as we all do, I’m sure – and your passion to write. I hope you will continue to share. I’m listening!! Blessings to you this day.
Thank you Barbara! I am so glad that I was able to invite you into a shared experience of that special day at Andalusia and to reveal some of O’Connor story, which I find so fascinating and inspiring. There’s a wonderful spiritual biography of her entitled “The Terrible Speed of Mercy” if you are curious to know more. Thank you for listening, and thank you for engaging.
Susan, you are a writer. A lovely observer and author. I enjoyed this piece; so very hopeful for the places of envy in me. Thank you!
Goodness, Jan, thank you for speaking these words over me. I receive them as a blessing. I’m so glad this story brought you pleasure and invited you to hope.
Susan, I am an Eight on the Enneagram, and my envy can appear as judgment, but I still recognize that it is envy. It happened to me last week when I was walking through a very affluent neighborhood, watching the hired gardeners tend beautiful landscapes surrounding huge homes (eight to ten times the size of my home). “Who would want a house that big?” I ask judgmentally. Being content with what I have is an important spiritual task for me; taking in Jesus’ love helps.
wow! such an amazing and deep post. love it!