Writing is saving my life. And it’s saving the lives of other women as well.
It’s a deep time. Troubles and challenges are showing up in the world and call us to honestly inquire what we are willing to fight for. It’s a time when the wells of the heart and belly open, spill over, and crash out at our feet. Our shrill voices punch the air, and our souls push at our backs, knowing that we must stand.
Then during our quiet times, we lean in to hear the whispers and urgings of our ancestors, while at the same time we breathe into a new and unknown future. Paths before us appear thorny, yet are imbued with light. Even though we risk being wounded, we step anyway.
Writing allows the rubble of thought to fall upon paper, to be seen, wrestled with, rewritten. We can put order to chaos, work through the grit and mystery of grief, exalt ideas and actions and dreams. When words are witnessed, by ourselves and others, they open the door of Permission…to be vulnerable, courageous, to share our own stories so that we know we are not alone. We greet fear, sometimes with an embrace, sometimes with a baseball bat.
As our words morph, we morph. We take in new information, form new ideas. We feel, resist, and feel again. Our sentences change; we release with scribbles or stabs at the paper with pens; we doodle; and our story emerges. The old story, the one in between, the new.
And here we are, changed. Our voices, saved. A female line and experience, documented. Saved for the next woman, girl, who may read what we have written, and be inspired to write her own story.