Meandering the halls at Bath Elementary was always a reminder to me that I was so very different from others and yet so very much the same. I wore saddle shoes and barrettes in my hair. I ran around on the playground and ate peanut butter sandwiches. I loved to swing and swim and I loved horses. But I also knew that most eight year olds did not still suck their thumbs. I sensed it was odd that I preferred to be alone. I was aware that my drawings and writings were very different from other kiddos. In pre-school, I used to leave the group where everyone was playing to sit in the corner and suck my thumb a bit, then I’d head back to play in the circle again after proper alone time.
I still need to sit in the corner with my thumb. Only now it is a closet, a cozy nook or a coffee shop. And my pen and my journal have replaced my thumb.
Are we really that different you and me? We all need a way to return to ourselves. There are precious corners in our minds and hearts that hold treasures to be discovered. Sorrows to be felt, memories to be remembered, stories to be told.
Sometimes we find ourselves in a novel, a poem, a movie or a show. And we instinctively see ourselves. Other times we are found in a conversation with a loved one. There I am …. Me too. I’ve seen myself emerge in a collage or a painting or an unexpected art project. Oh wow … who knew that was true. The practice of writing can be such a special practice where our purest voice can be found.
I still remember the magic that would happen when I put pen to paper. Ideas came forth that delighted me. As a third grader, I was fascinated by Francis Scott Key’s inspiration to write a poem when he saw the American flag still flying after a vicious battle. It touched me deeply that there could be hope beyond the agony of war. I wanted to savor the goodness he conveyed through his words that freedom and courage had survived. My little nine year old self penned a few words about him penning a few words and I joined the imagination of his poetically penned anthem.
In the seventies, Ann and Nancy Wilson sang “Dog and Butterfly” and I was enthralled. I imagined the dog chasing the butterfly through the fields and the fairy tale friendship that may have existed between them. I wrote a story about a dog named Snickers befriending a butterfly in a field and their happy days of adventures together. The story took an unexpected turn when Snickers followed the butterfly straight into the street and came to his sad end. I think the influence of my dad’s tragic operas found their way into my story as I entertained creating fiction with realism and wrestled with fairy tale endings.
Writing is a practice that has always led me to myself. Since my early days of hiding in a closet and writing on the walls, I have been looking for me. When my mom gave me a 9 X 12 Norman Rockwell diary filled with lines and empty pages, I filled it up month after month. It was complete with a lock and key that I made great use of much to my brother’s chagrin. Writing there saved me year after year. Somehow I could make sense of things that did not make sense. My words felt like prayers that somehow manifested into responses. I would come back to ask questions that found answers and hurts that received comfort. Nothing necessarily changed. But I became more me and somehow that made a difference year after year.
I wrote a paper on grief in graduate school. Though points were deducted for not doing enough research, I gained valuable feedback for being realistic about the angst. I was encouraged for being honest and true. I was praised for not wrapping it up with a big bow or forcing a happy ending. That was my first taste of hope that being authentic might be worthy of expression.
I wanted it to be true. I hoped it was true. It ended up being true. The application I filled out for my first counseling position while I was in grad school was twelve pages long. Because I lived thirty minutes from the slopes, I saved that application until the last minute because it was spring skiing. I really wanted to ski in a t-shirt in the 50 degree weather we were having! I ended up pulling an all nighter, pouring out all I knew about my counselor self onto those twelve pages. They ended up seeing me and believing in me. I’ll never get over the honor it was to be offered that first counseling job. Twenty three years old, graduating in a month and oh so hopeful about my new career. I was so happy to get to do what I had studied so hard to do. As it turns out, with counseling, as with writing, as with most anything, the more true I am to me, the more I have to offer.
It’s not about creating a masterpiece or writing a bestseller …. it’s about listening, tuning in and finding that still small voice that lives inside. I believe in that magic. I have heard the whisper. It brings love, peace, beauty and yes, sanity. And it is as close as our fingers are to a pen and the pen to the paper.
Joining with other seekers can bring connection and inspiration, reminding us that we are all beautifully and utterly different while simultaneously being universally, undeniably the same. Maybe consider bringing your pen, your paper, your corner, your nook … your thumb … and see what still small voice makes way from your heart. I am hopeful that our next Sacred Way group will create a safe space just for this writing practice. And as always, I’ll be looking forward to hearing the holy voices of wisdom and truth and love.
