Last night I had the honor of participating in a reading at an incredible local restaurant, The Cookery, hosted by an Anchorage-based journal called Cirque.
Nothing like stories and poetry to distract one from politics.
We each had five-minutes to share and I chose two short pieces, one of which took on new meaning as I practiced reading it the day after the election.
It was originally a post on my first blog, From the Moutain Top to the Valley Floor, that I revised for the night.
Here is what I read:
Um…
Do you ever find yourself staring at a blank screen, a white page, with so much to say you can't start?
Or do you halter start? Write and delete. No that's not quite it. Not right. Not what I meant. Delete. Write.
Or do you find yourself wondering why you're even writing in the first place? I mean, what’s so important you just had to say it?
And who are you talking to anyways?
Every English teacher will tell you you need to know your audience to frame your words, but what if the person you write for was cut from your womb, four months too soon, and you write to discover where you end and he begins?
You write to know. You write to feel. You write to remember. You write to let go.
You write to navigate this bramble called life, thick with Alders, Devil’s Club and fallen Hemlock.
And you write to hold hands in the dark with people who get it. Who understand that grief, when spoken, allows your lungs to release trapped air, and only then can you smell the honeysuckle, low tide, the slice of an onion sauted just right.
You reach your arms across the Atlantic of your youth, Harding Ice field of your present, to graze the fingertips, the heartbeat, the breath of another.
Till you find yourself writing to more than your son, but to people who, whether they are parents or not, understand that unconditional love does not mean constant lullabies, but also the muffled sound of sobs in a pillow late at night.
It means waking at midnight, 2:00, 4:00, to bring a crying, sucking, needing barnacle to bed.
It means folding yourself into the soft milk-stained curves of response to others, stretching, until the shape of you shifts into another.
It means restraining, gently or not, a tornado of a boy hellbent on hurting his baby sister.
It means swallowing your seasoned dreams of family, so you can carve the rare meat served to your particular plate of parenthood.
It means forgetting to eat while trying to convince your two appendages to take another bite.
It means the earth opens and swallows you whole, you shatter, but not endlessly, till you crawl from the dark throat, reconstructed, with increased compassion in your light sensitive eyes.
It means fear.
It means the loss of fear.
It means the permanent loss of the false sense of freedom this country wears like a sword.
The revelation there is no island.
No on your own.
So you write.
*************
And I look towards the mountains for the strength to persevere.
Love to all the readers and writers of the world. The artists, poets, and beauty seekers.
Keep on, keeping on...
This was such a powerful piece to listen to and now to read. The strong use of language and the confident honesty of the content moved me.
Posted by: Dan Walker | 11/10/2016 at 09:56 AM
Thank you Dan! It was an honor to read along with you and I enjoyed talking with you and your wife during the break-- look forward to connecting again.
Posted by: Christy | 11/10/2016 at 07:38 PM
Yes, a poignant reflection for our current political state. I'm so glad I had the opportunity to hear this piece in your voice at the reading last night. Though your parenting experience is unique to you, the sharp imagery feels so at home in this place- our place- that I am connected. Thanks, and welcome to the community!
Posted by: Justine pechuzal | 11/11/2016 at 09:20 AM
Thank you Justine. I wish you and I had a chance to talk at the reading as I really enjoyed your two pieces. Luckily Seward is a small town so I have a feeling our paths will cross again soon:)
Posted by: Christy | 11/14/2016 at 08:33 AM