Saturday, February 7, 2009

Interlude

It was, I find, the right choice to start with that story, because this morning I find that I am free now to turn to any other aspect or event, as though I have shook all the kinks out. But I will not go straight to another powerful story, since despite it being the right choice, it took a great deal out of me to write it.

There was a time in my life when not speaking aloud of what I went through would have been a protective and self nurturing choice. However, in the last few weeks, I became aware of another choice I was now ready to make; the choice of revealing my story in the hopes that it might touch another person's life.

When I write I am aware, first of all, of the immediate language that I am choosing, the words and the sentence structure themselves. Secondly, I am aware of the direction in which I am going; I usually see about a paragraph ahead as I write. Lastly, at a mostly unconscious level I am aware of the entire point of the story, the thread running through it that makes it cohesive.

But when I am writing about something so personal, I am living through it all over again. My last story took about five hours to write and I had to get up and walk away from it so many times I was beginning to frustrate myself.

Before I began that morning, I called my mother to ask her permission to include her story, as I found that her story and mine were so closely intertwined that I couldn't write them separately. My mother was incredibly strong and said firmly, "Put it out there."

I then cleared my schedule because I knew I would never be done in time to visit the elderly lady for lunch, and that I would have no energy left over to attend a house party where a new friend would be displaying purses for sale.

That done, I settled down to write. Early in the afternoon I sent the draft to my mom and dad, needing their feedback before I could post what I had written. My mother called me, tears streaming through her voice. She said, "Release it."

So I did. I wept throughout most of the writing of that story. I wept the most at the last few paragraphs. After posting it, I had to go back again and again to reread it and each time a healing grief would wash over me and I would be in tears.

By the end of the night, I had released all the grief and was left with an abiding sense of completeness. I know now that I'm going to put all my stories into words and release them. I will know the right time and the right words for each. And when I am done, they will be like streamers in the wind; beautiful, symbolic and holding no more power over me.

1 comment:

T said...

Your mother is just as powerful as you are. She gave you much of that and much of it, you created yourself.

I too need to purge my stories and thoughts through words. Something about them releasing from my fingers, releases so much pain from my shoulders and my mind.

Thank you for sharing your story. And thank you for blooming beautifully like the lotus from the dark mud.

((hugs))