Many of my friends have recently asked me about how things are going with the writing of my life story. It brought me pleasure to know that people are interested in my story. I too have contemplated this same question, particularly since I have not approached it with any measure of purpose, i.e. pen to paper. After a few days of self-exploration, I discovered that I had been writing my story – just not in a direct way. This is the insight I believe I received from God. Because of the intimate and sometimes painful nature of many, if not most, of the parts of my story that I want to share, I have devised a way to glance at the memories, looking at them indirectly or through a mirror dimly first – gently stirring, slowly processing – through the forms of poetry, song lyrics, and memoir snippets. I am writing in my comfort zone, releasing steam from my “writing teapot,” all the while looking forward to the day I can pour out everything in its full measure.
Here are some of my writing samples. I invite you to see if you can spy the hints or arrows that point to other, greater, things to be told?
This poem, “Liberation” was written out of the memory of one of the darkest nights of my soul. It tells of one particular encounter I had with my childhood abuser – the night I decided no more. It is seeing evil through the eyes of an 11-year old.
Liberation
Evil comes to me, his face cloaked in the inky black darkness of night.
I feel his fiery breath against my cheek. I hear his crude whisperings in my ear.
I smell the sour odor of his wickedness hanging in the space between us.
He makes his demand – “Follow me” - then retreats to his hiding place.
His voice comes to me again, frightfully insistent, drawing me to him.
My pulse quickens as the icy feeling of dread courses through my veins.
For a brief moment, I am paralyzed by the notion that my fate is in his hands.
Terrified, I follow the path of his unearthly stench into a realm of perversion.
He greets me with a triumphant smile. His eyes glow with anticipation.
The breaking of my spirit and the shredding of my soul is just a game to him.
My suffering satisfies his appetite. My cries for mercy fall on deaf ears.
To resist is to invite his fury. To submit is to die a thousand deaths.
My desire for freedom valiantly battles my fear of death.
The stronghold of despair tries to silence the voice of hope.
Even so, visions of liberation flood my mind with shocking clarity.
Courage works its way into my heart. My spirit rises up within me.
Look! I dare to flee into the light holding the hand of promise.
Here is a stanza and chorus from one of the songs I wrote. It tells of an emptiness of a past life and the search for a place of belonging.
Looking at the backside of my yesterday
Trying to find my way back home
Nothing left here but forgotten thoughts
Things once learned and things once taught
(Chorus)
It’s hard to find your way back home
When you don’t know where you’re from
It’s hard to find your way back home
When no one knows where you belong
This memoir snippet tells of a literal childhood place, but I have lightened the tone a bit, that is before I drop the hint that things are not always as they seem. Many of my memoir snippets create a picture of childhood innocence that is then defiled by some unspeakable evil.
A fence surrounded my house. Not a very good one mind you. It was made from wire and wooden posts. My imagination would have it be a chain-linked fence with metal posts and a nice gate, but in my heart I know that isn’t so and, actually, I am glad. There's no character in a well-put together fence. A fence of good character needs evidence of having been climbed over dozens of times, leaning slightly here and there, toe holds a plenty, and spots sagging under the weight of blackberry vines and wild, running rose bushes.
Another thing - what is a gate that doesn’t announce one’s coming and going with a faithful creak? Rude, that’s what. No, my gate was nice and polite, greeting those that came in and speaking farewells to those that left. In addition to its role as greeter, it also served as a sentry. It alerted me to the people who were about to enter my world, giving me time to think about how I was going to respond – a warm welcome or a quick exit out the back door. Sometimes, according to who was walking through that gate, it was very important that I not be caught unaware.
I hope I have given all my friends/supporters a glimpse into my writing life. I leave you with this: I am discovering that as I approach this style of writing, one that causes me to reflect about things in my past, I often feel like an outsider looking into someone else’s life, trying to make judgments about things I really no longer feel a part of or never really understood in the first. It is a journey – this is for sure.
