Posts tagged as:

healing

What’s scary about conversations? What razor teeth are threatening enough to chase confrontation into the dark?

Are we worried about being revealed? Worried about being wrong? Afraid that if we ARE in fact wrong, there’s no way to right ourselves to a new view? And what exactly IS confrontation? Have you heard these words cross your mind or lips?

Is something I’m saying confronting you?
Are you shutting me down because what I’m thinking out loud is making you see and feel things you don’t want to see and feel?
Am I the bad guy for saying what I see? Versus, say, recognizing the perpetrator as the bad guy?

What threatens so deeply about talking something out, without sleights of hand that detract from the point.

Hello, passion plugged in. Welcome to Waking Up.

Turned up. Shut down.

In the wake of March 1st’s post on the potential of racial bias in U.S. Congress and the country, I noticed conversation would spark, and then talk would be quickly shut down. Shut down by others as if the talker were naive for bringing it up.

Conversation over. Crickets. Setting sun. Go about your business, there’s nothing to see here.

This in turn shut me down. A week went by. I got wrapped around an obstacle.

Do people want to hear this—“this” being curiosity about the topics that keep us sleeping?
Do I have authority to talk about it?
Am I naive for bringing it up?

Don’t hold your peace. Live it.

I can thank Rush Limbaugh’s current breach of decency for showing me the way. Rush attempted to shut down critical conversation by shaming a woman for talking.

Aren’t shame and fear and control the reasons most conversations get censored and self-edited? Fear of being misheard. Fear of not being accepted. Shame for one’s belief’s in contrast to a louder voice’s beliefs. Fear of repercussion. Control of the  relationship, lest it…evolve into something different?

Speak now.

Talking is powerful action. Listening is a seat of power, and a gift of creation, collaboration. Listening is growth for both the talker and the listener.

If you cannot say a thing, think it. Write it down in private. Yell it into the woods. Let your beliefs live somewhere. Like us, they have a habit of growing, and bursting out of seams that would hem them in.

# #

Story Charmer’s Waking Up Series is the month of March in meditation on WAKING UP. What does it mean? What growth does it spur? What wonder and challenge? GUEST POSTS and personal queries will appear here throughout the month. Read all the posts in the series here…

If you’re spurred by what you read, and you want to write a post in reply, email me (hi) at (storycharmer) dot (com).

Join the conversation. Leave a comment. Write a post.

Let’s wake up together.

{ 4 comments }

The Waking Up Series

March 1, 2012

Seduced

I lean against the headboard, laptop and late night my company, lights dim. I’m traversing mental whimsies, and snicker when I imagine a character thinking he can achieve enlightenment simply by waking up early in the mornings, as a practice. “Waking up to embody Waking Up,” I think. “That’s cute.”

I’m still snickering, when I hear in my head, “Well…why not?” Why not practice something physical to find something spiritual, or cerebral, or emotional…some parallel experience by which we can compare another experience for better understanding how to maybe bring it about.

Fertile

My new blog project is conceived, just like that in the late night and solitude. A 30-Day project about waking up, stories and experiences and guest posts. “My, the topic is so broad, anyone can relate,” I think. I start reaching out to people to open the conversation, asking them to be a part of my experience. I jot down memories and story ideas that illustrate examples of waking up. …But along the way, I start thinking, “My, the topic is so broad, I wonder how anyone will relate. I guess I’ll write stories about my experience, invite others to do the same, and people can follow along if it speaks to them.” I make a contributor calendar and set a start date.

A Swerve the Size of A Continent

I hear a fantastic radio story on “This American Life.” It’s about a guy, a normal dude, who looks so much like this other guy who’s running for president, that he shaves his beard, buys a suit jacket and starts showing up places to feel the rush of the Obama-for-President experience. It’s a story about the way up, the way down, it’s a story about the way people look at you, and about racism, and about hatred by proxy. It’s human and heartfelt, and more shocking by the minute. By the time it’s over, my blood boils, my skin sparks, and I can’t stop wishing, once again, that I could find a conversation-in-progress about racism, buried deep in the recesses of the ways we think and feel and fear, specifically racism quiet or loud in the American electorate, in Congress, staunching the yeses and swaying the no’s, on the House floor, in living rooms, and in the darkness of the never-said but leaking out to the surface in action, inaction, refusal to be led by a Black man.

I’m still boiling when I fire up email and reply to a Waking Up contributor asking for clarification. I let it rip. I don’t know her politics, but off I go, spewing like a geyser, connecting an example of waking up to what I just heard, to allowing different conversations into one’s life, to examine how he or she feels and thinks, and to question if it is fairly serving self and community. I hit send.

I don’t hear from her for a week, till I email her again and apologize for my outburst, and for connecting it to the project between us when I don’t know what she feels, where she stands. Politics, everyone knows, is not for polite company. And heck, I’m the one asking for her contribution here. I’m a jerk. I welcome her to vent anger in reply. I ask for forgiveness. I hit send.

Stratosphere

What I get back blows me and my little Waking Up project into the stratosphere. She takes time to tell me her experience, her observations, her profound and profoundly calm assessment of the same things I have been spewing about, whether certain No’s would be simple Yeses if the man were not Black, if certain classes of poor would vote against their economic interests if they were being led by a fair skinned leader.

I finish reading the email and my idea to write introspective stories about personal consciousness, on the path to individual waking, seem tiny in comparison. Then my bell gets rung even louder. I sense, through the clanging of it: this project is not about my personal awakening alone, or others’. It’s about where we wake up and plug it into community. It’s about lighting up our cultural realities with personal possibilities turned outward. It’s about plugging in and flicking awake, like a string of lights down the line, one person and the next, one community coming into consciousness and then the next.

My idea is not new. Religions have been proselytizing for centuries. But it’s not evangelism that powers my exploration. It’s the curiosity of what will happen when we take our own personal revolutions and plug them into the cultural status quo. What then? Even if cultural status quo refers to your personal environment, your family culture, your work place. What happens if you take what’s been waking you, and slip it into a community’s dark edges?

Crack! The lightning of cold meets warm. Current races across the sky. And thunderous conversation roils, about seasons, elements, change.

Building It

That’s the result. That is what we’ll get to. Before then, there are inner miles to explore. I meant to start a 30-Day project today, wherein I wake up at 4am to embody waking up and write about it, toy with metaphors of the physical feeling, see if I can speak the language of wake-up in this way. I will get to that, and will ask for a cohort to wake up with me for that time.

There is road to cover first, however. It’s a road I’m not exactly sure about, but the beginning of which I can see. So today, I step into it. I invite you to walk with me. I’ll post on waking up throughout the month. I’ll publish guest posts. We’ll get out conversations that live in the dark. We’ll retell stories of how the light got in. We’ll follow the yellow brick road. It’s all WONDER after all. And begins today.

# #

Story Charmer’s Waking Up Series is the month of March in meditation on WAKING UP. What does it mean? What growth does it spur? What wonder and challenge? GUEST POSTS and personal queries will appear here throughout the month. Read all the posts in the series here…

If you’re spurred by what you read, and you want to write a post in reply, email me (hi) at (storycharmer) dot (com).

Join the conversation. Leave a comment. Write a post.

Let’s wake up together.

{ 2 comments }

Day One

I’m in New York.
I used to live here.
9/11/01 was my second day of grad school.
I watched flames and smoke from a street corner near class.
Many students left soon after.
I didn’t have an apartment yet.
But I stayed, realizing that I had prepared for this day so thoroughly that I sent one set of storage boxes to my parents in the Midwest, and the other to Suzy in California: In case I died, I didn’t want my parents to have to wrap their heads around the evidence of a life lived creatively.
Being here was a dream realized.
There was no better place for me to be in the world.
Where would I go?
Eventually, the grad-school-in-NYC part of my life ended.
I’ve been back lots of times.
But I’m nervous now.
Because it’s the first time since I lived here that I’ve allowed myself to feel the trauma of the events.
Don’t act surprised. I’m a late bloomer.
And I had an iron cage around a tiny heart.
Since nearly losing it–and by losing it I mean comparing myself to homeless folks on the street and finding that maybe the only thing that separated us was charity–I started a slow return.
This visit is part of that return.

Not Worth My Tit

The overarching theme in the 9/11 interviews I’ve led this week: New Yorkers see the crushing need for peace more than anyone else. War is reiterating, on foreign soil, the death, destruction, fear and anguish that knocked the wind out of our nation on that day.

The more life we extinguish, the less ground we gain. The more death we espouse, the less distance we travel in healing our grief and, in so doing, the schisms of the world.

Quotes of NYC graffiti:

“Our grief is not a cry for war.”
“We were born innosent and kind.”
“One Love. People get ready.”

Your Tat is not worth my Tit.

here is new york

The quotes above are from photos at the New York Historical Society photographic exhibit, “here is new york: remembering 9/11.”

The photos are simply exhibited, no frames, 11″ x 17″ hanging on string with binder clips, filling all the wall space and strung above-head across the rooms as well. The exhibit covers two large galleries of space with photographs taken by scores of photographers at or in relation to 9/11.

They show survivors, rubble from the WTC, layers of dust, writing in the dust on windows of abandoned cars, emergency workers, onlookers, blast views, planes headed into the towers, jumpers, distressed onlookers, stunned, dust-covered survivors holding their foreheads in one hand and a water bottle in the other, the international sign for grief and disbelief–the hand over the mouth, missing flyers, impromptu memorials of candles and flowers and cardboard, butcher paper, chalk on the sidewalk overflowing with sentiments, shopkeepers and volunteers feeding emergency crews, prayer stations, revenge signs reading “Wanted Dead or Alive” with a picture of Bin Laden, a humvee squeezed onto an antique, tiny downtown street, more dust, papers scattered about a church graveyard, countless tears, that clear clear 9/11 sky, nyc concrete corridors every last person facing the direction of the smoke, watching in disbelief, subway stop memorials, people staying together, strangers in each others’ arms, firemen holding hands on their way into the pile, kids’ drawings, sisters and fathers and migrant workers and traders missing, blood, twisted metal, mettle, post-apocalyptic organization, blue sky….

I will post more of the quotes later.

A Habit of Lists

Here are the quotes I copied from the 9/11 photos at the NY Historical Society exhibit. Days have passed between my being there and being here, and I thought for a few minutes that I might not post the quotes after all. Am I bombarding people with 9/11? But it strikes me over and over again that what I’m doing is healing. And others, from what I hear in response, are healing along with me by watching, listening to, or being a part of mine.

It’s raining outside here in Santa Barbara. Land of the Maxfield Parrish sunlight and clouds, views and mountains, sky. It rained in NYC last week on 9/11. Interesting to me that out of two galleries of walls filled with 11″ x 17″ photos, the one that struck me the most was a simple cityscape, point of view looking down an EMPTY avenue, even more distinguishing, the absolute clarity of sunlight the photo caught. That is the photo I got stuck in all those years ago, and that’s where I’ve been walking around since.

Going back to NYC last week was the first time I “faced the music” so to speak. Went to the observances. Let my grief surface. Let myself be someone who grieves over this trauma. Before I returned, I was so interested in how it is we move on from grief. How it transforms us, and how we in turn transform. But being at the World Trade Center site, as the names were being read, as the rain was falling, across the water as the lights were shining upward into a black sky in remembrance, made me realize there is no hurry. There is no scramble to be fixed. Grief takes its slow steady time, unwinding like the coils of a snake languishing in sunlight, loathe to leave the rock that has been warming it. Grief transforms. We are changed by it. But first grief is grief. Its own spirit and will and breath. Before it moves through, it inhabits. The exquisite journey is to cohabitate.

The quotes:

“Not in our name.”
“This is no time for cowboys.” (Sign around the neck of a life-sized John Wayne cut-out.)
“The news makes me cry.”
“Patriotism scares me.”
“END WAR” (Written in block letters inside a ONE WAY sign.)
“PWPD/FD Meet Here – FLFD” (Written in the ash and dust on a van window.)

Names from some of the photos, that were on missing persons flyers:

Farah Jeudy
Antoine Jeudy
Mary Ortale
Peter Ortale
Barbara K. Olson
Melissa Vincent
Jonathan Ielpi
Deanna Galante
Patrick Sullivan
Tonyell McDae
Samantha and Lisa Egan
Jupiter Yamblen
Carlos Mario Munoz

Later, after the flyers that were captured in the photos were rained away, lists like this got compiled. A few phrases about each person, serving as a public memory.

www.september11victims.org/

(This links to a list that came up in a search today, Sept 1, 2011. The above domain is no longer active, but there are many tributes and online memorials that list and honor each victim of the 9/11 attacks, a Google search away.)

. . . . .

The posts here are a record of my 2007 return to NYC, to interview people who had been there on 9/11/01, and attend commemorative events, memorials, and the annual reading of the names. I posted these day by day while in NYC and after, on an earlier version of my blog. They show up here in their original order appearance.

 

(You can read all of the Memory to Light stories in order on the side bar –->)

. . . . . . . . . . .

Thanks for reading Day 22 of “Memory to Light: 31 Days of Stories, August 11 – September 11, 2011.” It is an exercise in writing about loss, for the purpose of letting grief wake, live, and pass through the system. Grief is transformation. Story is transformation. Our world could use a some wakeful transformation right now. Take a peek at the introductory post for the full story of what we’re up to.

Join me

Consider this project an online story circle. Read a story that moves you. Write your own on your blog. Link it to the comments below, so we can read your piece. If you don’t have a blog, write your story in the comments.

Let your memories live. Let small corners of your grief breathe. Let your loss be swept into the collective experience of people sharing, witnessing, and letting be.

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I have stopped in the telling of this story several times now. I have erased, re-written, changed tense. My story is no more profound than anyone else’s that day. Maybe less so, if we’re keeping score on the level of tragedy. (Pearl Jam is playing right now, and Eddie’s singing about keeping score.) It baffles me right now, how difficult it is to remain focused on the words there are to type. It’s medicine and I don’t want to swallow it. I’ve told you in detail stories about my brother’s death, my family’s emotional ridges, my view of the way it was for others. But crap if I can’t stand where I was standing  and tell you what there is to tell.

I’m here

The sky. Unbelievable and blue. New York. Oh my god, I’m HERE. I’m here. The morning, I can feel its coolness in my nose when I breathe. It lines my lungs. I round the corner heading to class and two guys from school are running past me to the corner. I hear them say, “Building on fire…” as they go past me. Six minutes, it’s all we have till class starts. They’ve drilled it into us for a week: don’t be late! And I think, “I wonder what they do in New York City when there’s a building on fire.” I’m from the suburbs. We have room for fire. I slip down to the corner and see what I see. It’s the World Trade Center. Those twin towers down at the end of the avenues I have only just learned are the way to tell south from north in the jungle of concrete I emerge into every time I get off the subway. People are converging on the corners of the intersection. It’s a Superman movie. I think we’re all looking for Superman. The sun is so bright, it looks like studio lighting.

Fire

The hole. There are flames all around it. It is way too high for any fire hose to hit. How will they handle that here? They can’t extinguish that, can they? My heart begins to sink but I haven’t noticed yet. I have begun to count instead. How many floors, estimating, has the plane blown into the building? How far reaching into the building do the flames go? How many offices and how many people at work at this hour? I realize my minutes are up if I’m going to be on time to class. It’s the first day, after all. I employ every aptitude toward photographic memory I ever practiced while walking to school on the mornings I’d have tests. Studying on the fly, freezing the words onto the page in my head. I do it here, so I can study what I see while in class. Only when I get to class do I finish my calculations and hear, at the end of them, what they are headed to: the estimated number of dead to whose houses the coroner will be dispatched  tonight. I begin to cry.

We sit in a circle in huge studio with a linoleum floor.

God this story continues.

Reflection

There are 13 of us in chairs, sandwiched by floor to ceiling windows lining the whole, immense fourth-floor. Our teacher introduces herself. She goes with it as much as theatre training allows: use the moment. We don’t know what is happening outside other than there’s a hole in the World Trade Center tower. We can hear phones ringing beyond the walls, hear sirens screaming endlessly down the avenue, and feel tension in the air around us getting so thin it will break. A couple more people are silently wiping tears from their cheeks. I look past the shoulder of a student, out the window facing the building across the courtyard, and I see see the reflection of smoke, billowing impossibly thick up the face. A row of students lines the windows. I watch them, riveted, not moving, watching. At one point, we hear screams outside and the row of people runs away from the window. All of them except one person, ducks his or her head and dashes from the window. I wonder what made them do that.

Globe

Class is over. An hour and fifteen minutes has never lasted this long. We go downstairs and the courtyard between our school buildings is full of students and teachers. Everyone is gathering here till more instruction is given. Two planes. Two buildings. Pentagon. Pennsylvania. Military jets ordered to shoot down planes still in the air. Chuck, a student who has come to grad school from a career in the military is ticking through the events that occurred while we sat in class. Buildings collapsed. I sink to the concrete step. I see people all around me but don’t register faces. “They’ve done it,” I think. I don’t know where the thought comes from, but I am proud of myself for knowing it. Then just as out of the blue, I wonder what to do when “they’ve done it.” What now? Feels like a we’re a scene in a snow globe, fixed, shaken, waiting for the snow.

Give blood

I walk out sliding glass doors from the lobby. The tiles inside are deep brown, the light coming in the door and that to which I emerge is other-wordly. It is so bright, the light. People are walking toward the avenues. Where am I going? No answer. What am I doing? No answer. I follow my feet to the right. Toward the avenues. There is a woman standing in the middle of the street, wearing a backpack, holding a sign that has been printed on a piece of white paper on an office printer: GIVE BLOOD. I wonder how she got that done so quickly, and now she’s directing people to action in the street. She is haloed in sunlight. You can see it lining her hair, her backpack, her arms. She is pointing people toward the hospital two blocks away. I haven’t been to that side of the Village yet. I cross the street and stand in line. The line is two blocks long. It doesn’t move. We stand a long time. Other people come along and hand out bananas and water and some sandwiches and food items and say, “You’ll need to eat. Take one and pass them down.” I put a banana in my back pack. We hear again and again, after the line hasn’t moved, that there are virtually no wounded in the emergency room. That the give-blood lines are all winding around the city. But there is no one to give blood to. I wonder what I am doing there alone. I leave the line and walk back toward the direction of school to see if I can find anyone I know.

– to be continued –

 

(You can read all of the Memory to Light stories in order on the side bar –->)

. . . . . . . . . . .

Thanks for reading Day 19 of “Memory to Light: 31 Days of Stories, August 11 – September 11, 2011.” It is an exercise in writing about loss, for the purpose of letting grief wake, live, and pass through the system. Grief is transformation. Story is transformation. Our world could use a some wakeful transformation right now. Take a peek at the introductory post for the full story of what we’re up to.

Join me

Consider this project an online story circle. Read a story that moves you. Write your own on your blog. Link it to the comments below, so we can read your piece. If you don’t have a blog, write your story in the comments.

Let your memories live. Let small corners of your grief breathe. Let your loss be swept into the collective experience of people sharing, witnessing, and letting be.

{ 10 comments }

Spiders

It’s not that I’m deathly afraid of spiders. I don’t love them. We are not friends. But I am friendly. I give them wide berth. I evacuate them in a flying tupperware out the door, and pick up the empty tupperware in the morning.

This altercation was different. I stood on a chair aiming a spray bottle of kitchen cleaner, the strongest stuff I could find under the sink. I held my breath, fought back chills upon chills over my body, and unleashed streams of the stuff on the black widow perched under the shelf. My plates were going to go there. But here was this hefty black spider with a red hour glass on her belly. That’s like the radiation symbol equivalent for arachnids. This one, pretty as she was, couldn’t live. If she stayed in the house, she could come find us in our sleep and kill us. If I threw her outside in a tupperware, her escape could come back to haunt us, or the dog who spent most of his time in the back yard.

It lasted too long. I sprayed her and she ran into a crack in the corner. I flooded the corner with spray and she came out briefly to struggle with the spray till she crept into the crack again.

It was awful. I get chills writing about it now. I talked to her between spastic outbursts, apologizing. I told her to make it easy on me. That one of us had to die here and it wasn’t going to be me, and I was sorry it was set up this way. As I talked to her, and pleaded for her quick death, the effort got longer and longer, kitchen cleaner dripping down my arm, my jaw tight from clenching. The truth was, she wouldn’t come find me in my sleep. If I got near enough to her territory, she would defend it, like any of us would defend ourselves and what is meaningful to us. But she had the power to harm me. And this scared me sufficiently to end her life.

. . . . . .

Delinquents

I never went to jail. I never got caught in cars with boys. I gave my family a good scare when I started bringing home girls. But beyond adventures in sexual identity, I was well behaved, to a dysfunction, it seemed. I did things right: I got approval. I crossed a thin line: Bad daughter/sibling/community member/child of God. Approval was so much more appealing to me than being a bad girl. Thus, my outward appearing halo.

At 22, I went to live with my mom for the summer. We hadn’t spent that kind of time together since I was a toddler. Story is she left then. By the time I was, oh, I don’t know, a teenager, I could count on my hands the times that I had seen her.

At 22, I was adult enough to write my own story with my mother, not the family story. She was funny and pretty and charming. She was loving and welcomed me to her part of the U.S. I planned for six months. We faxed letters back and forth, and I asked her all the questions I would ask a prospective roommate…what are your preferences, when do you go to sleep, do you like having guests over? I wanted it to be easy. There was a lot of time and a lot of legacy to run under the bridge.

Fast forward. It’s our first weekend together. And I discover: I am more child than I am adult. I am in a strange land with no spending money. The house is empty of food. And my mom apparently thinks nothing of flaking on the free time we’d been planning all week to instead go to the movies some guy that walked in the door 15 minutes ago.

She’s at the movies–one that I’d been talking about for days because I saw it before I arrived. I’m pacing in the apartment. I’m thinking, “Twenty years apart has come to this?” I’m thinking, “What the hell?” I’m thinking, “zzrhhckfrngtobbppt.” My mind is fireworks, my body is fireworks, because somewhere in my girl brain, as adult as I had entered this experiment, I am abandoned, I am not worthy, I am a puffed up pride-bomb bursting with: Do I really not matter?

I didn’t know what to do with my anger and confusion. I looked at the sliding glass door, open to the balcony. Plumeria scent drifted in on soft air. It was sunset. It was summer. It was too beautiful to be so far from home and so alone. I looked at the furniture in the room, an elliptical machine, a TV, a love seat, couch pillows, dresser drawers. I growled I stomped my feet. I considered with all seriousness throwing every piece I could get my hands on, off the balcony. I imagined clothes flying, wood splitting as it hit the ground three floors below, the glorious sound of glass exploding as the TV followed. In my imagination I felt set free of this rage as I watched the elliptical machine fly over the balcony wall.

I had never imagined destruction like that before. I had never felt the associated release, the get-back-at-you, look-at-me, I-really-really-need-you acting out that goes with neglect. For the first time I understood how teenagers could get into so much trouble. Could steal cars and wreck things and do heavy drugs to their serious detriment.

I left the room quickly. I locked the door behind me. I sought refuge in the apartment building’s laundry room, tiny and loud with washers and dryers, and empty of people, and screamed.

. . . . . . . .

Hate

I come home from a weekend away and find my car has been vandalized. The headlamps and mirrors are both busted, the windshield is shattered, the wipers are bent and mangled, the antenna broken. My stylized rainbow bumper sticker is slashed and hanging half off, the small, square “Equality” sticker is equally slashed, and scrawled in big black letters in felt pen, are the words, “Never cunt dyke.” There’s a smiley face drawn on the door.

The cop that comes to take the report refuses to record it as a hate crime.

I’m sitting on the bus. It is three weeks later. The car has been set on fire. Destroyed by flames outside my house, underneath some low hanging trees and in a neighborhood of tinderbox, Victorian-era houses. The fire house is around the corner. The inspector is investigating my friends and exes, embarrassing them where they work.

When the inspector questions me, he pulls out the community newspaper. On the cover is pictured my vandalized car and inside, my angry quote that it wasn’t recorded as a hate crime, despite the obvious indicators. He holds it up, sneers, and tempers an angry voice while saying, “I see you don’t think much of the force that is trying to help you here.”

I’m on the bus. A loop of the four weeks prior plays in my head. I look at the people around me, following the law, minding convention, dressing appropriately, being protected by their civil rights and recognitions. I want nothing than more to chop off my hair, dye it bright pink, pierce something on my face. I want to break the Law that I am not protected by. I want to do unspeakable things to convention, till it’s raw. Toss the rules that betray you when you’re not part of the game.

 

(You can read all of the Memory to Light stories in order on the side bar –->)

. . . . . . . . . . .

Thanks for reading Day 18 of “Memory to Light: 31 Days of Stories, August 11 – September 11, 2011.” It is an exercise in writing about loss, for the purpose of letting grief wake, live, and pass through the system. Grief is transformation. Story is transformation. Our world could use a some wakeful transformation right now. Take a peek at the introductory post for the full story of what we’re up to.

Join me

Consider this project an online story circle. Read a story that moves you. Write your own on your blog. Link it to the comments below, so we can read your piece. If you don’t have a blog, write your story in the comments.

Let your memories live. Let small corners of your grief breathe. Let your loss be swept into the collective experience of people sharing, witnessing, and letting be.

{ 5 comments }