Where Lines Converge
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When passing by a mirror this
morning, I thought, “Lord, oh dear, I’m composting. Well, aren’t we all but that’s no consolation.
Which thought led me to a memory
that shook me to my bones. My Aunt Mary, at 90, who had composted a lot by that
time, said to me, “I’ve outlived all my friends. There is nobody with whom I
can talk about how it used to be.
“And many can’t hear me when I talk
about how it is now,” she continued.
Which memory led me to several
threads, lines converging to a point of shared thoughts and ideas.
That’s what it often feels like
living here. I have no history shared. I have only the present. It is a
complicated situation. Sometimes I’ll start to tell a story about my past,
realize my audience of one or two is not listening, stop the story and nobody
notices. I find that amusing. We are all so into ourselves.
With poetry, I can talk to my
past. I had finished a poem that I
couldn’t have written a year ago because back then I still figured I had to
wait until everyone died because what if someone recognized him-or-herself.
Yes, I agree. My reluctance to write
certain experiences was ridiculous. It’s hard to be honest when you can’t be
honest. Not only that, people see only what they want to see in my writings.
And, what I intend does not matter one whit. We all read what we need.
I was playing with my poem on the
computer when I heard from Cheryl. She talked about how good it was to share
feelings of guilt and to be able to talk with our group of friends about family
situations with honesty.
In England, Karen and her husband
were dealing with a health scare. She felt safe to tell us about how scared
they were, how relieved they were getting help.
Ellie chimed in with her experience
with skin cancer, caught early, which she is treating with a cream.
Denise admitted that it is still
hard for her to share deep thoughts and feelings with others. She agreed that
sitting home alone in one’s head is a sure road to depression.
Cheryl wondered how much of our
reluctance to speak our reality came from our families, from the ways we were
taught.
All the metaphors we inhaled and ate
and digested became a part of who we are. From “Don’t hang your dirty laundry
on the line for the neighbors to see” to “don’t toot your own horn”, we were
taught to keep it all, good or bad, to keep it all to ourselves.
A dozen years ago, when our small
group of high-school classmates agreed to keep in touch regularly, to get to
know one another, we began by sharing little bits and pieces. We found we
hadn’t known one another at all. And our families were a total mystery.
Gradually we earned trust; we began
sharing the larger pieces of our human puzzle, the pretty and the ugly, to be
met with understanding, support, tears, laughter.
How can we know ourselves, how can
we know our friends, until we can speak freely words which are true? When I
tell you what is going on with me, I get to hear myself, my thoughts, my
worries, fears, hopes, dreams and helplessness. Sometimes I laugh, I cry, I
cringe, I shrug.
For me it is a great huge
tinsel-wrapped gift to be able to talk to you, to my friends, my family. I
don’t even know what’s true for me when I’m in the middle of it. I need to hear
my own words.
Even in the same family, we each
speak a different truth. It is important that I understand and speak my own
truth. And if nobody else understands, that is none of my business.
Sondra
Ashton
HDN: Looking
out my back door
August 23,
2018
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