one woman’s truth . . .

During last Thursday’s inside writing group, in response to the prompt ‘what is your truth,’ two very different writings emerged. I put these side by side here because together they illustrate the struggle women go through day in and out to find the light even when they are dragged down and through the deepest dark.  Some days go better than others, as for all of us. On the other hand, there is a definite downward slide in attitude and energy for change as serial returns to prison mount along with the charges. The door has revolved one time too many for SS; for MG, there still gleams hope for a real future. Both are these women’s truth as of Thursday October 18, 2012.

Heart cracked. Split. Old. Dead. Self-inflicted wounds. Run deep. Life’s marks left in the sand. Every groove represents life’s struggles. Hazy cloudy forgetful. Can’t remember how I got there. Dismay. My burdens buried deep within the channel. Hidden in the cracks. My channels carry secrets and lies no one should know.

My cracks hold truths that are decaying my head from inside out. My years are young but my heart is old. If you counted all the rings, that’s the lifetimes my heart has seen. Pain in every ridge. It’s amazing it’s still whole. It loves a little less. I thought age and pain would allow me to love. But truth is my heart no longer pumps love, but pumps hate instead. It’s not red and warm. It’s not a cozy place to be. It’s grey, cold and ugly. Filled with lifetimes of truth. Filled with history, filled with past. It is no longer light with life. But heavy with death. – SS

*    *    *

I love to fish. I could sit out on the lake for hours on end with a line in the water in the blistering sun, watching and waiting for what is bound to come next. And to be able to spend this quality time with other people who share the same passion as you is exhilarating. Always looking over to your neighbor seeing what they have managed to take from the deep vast with only a hook and line.

And as the circle of life lives on, the natural beauty of the earth protrudes to the surfacing as the sky sings its lullabyes and puts the sun to rest. The creatures that belong to it nestle in their quiet dens preparing for the following day. Hoping for a better future and a better life. Reflecting on how things could’ve been and predicting how they might turn out. It’s all an endless process. The only thing you can do is make the moment you’re in bring a smile to your face. – MG

chance to shine

By Wilma 1962/Flickr

Tonight in our inside writing group, we had a large number of women new to the circle. It never surprises me that someone might feel too shy to share, too vulnerable to write her truth, too shamed to make eye contact. On the other hand, what never ceases to surprise and awe is the raw hunger to be heard that drives women to the circle, to pen their pain and speak it aloud. Through tears, through it all.

One such writer joined us tonight. Not only did she write powerful painful words; she made her way through reading them. At the end, she wrote ‘this is a terrible and a wonderful class: sharing was both a gift and a challenge.’

When I was young I had dreams; not fabulous dreams, just Future Me. I could see a writer, a singer, or maybe a mother. Someone with worth to the world. Someone who would be remembered as a benefit, or a person to look up to. Not revered. Just appreciated.

As I looked forward, I could see me accomplishing this for my kids and the ones that I love. To look into their eyes and see pride and love. But what I see now is contempt and sadness. I have no control over what has passed; yet I am totally responsible. I may have been lied about. No one cares to hear the truth.

So here I sit, unable to change what has passed. Always looking to the future. Hoping for the dream to unfold. Waiting for my turn to see the pride. And hoping for my chance to shine.

– LS