At Growing Home, we listen to our pain, its echoes, the silence of after It happened—whatever It may be.
If you have a Before and an After, an It you are trying to understand—I invite you to take a seat with us.
WELCOME
to a sanctuary for those who suffer
In the past few weeks, we’ve conducted pre-writing practices: we’ve considered the pictures, sounds, and stories in one word and we’ve discussed how free writing might help us get to the truth. Easy exercises to get us talking, thinking, listening.
So—What’s next? How do we begin telling The Story?
Today, I begin by listening to my Uncle Pat.
My Uncle Pat is a master Appalachian storyteller.
He’ll have you doubled over laughing about the time he came home to my Aunt Lele raving about their beagle, Timmy, gone out of his mind and Uncle Pat can’t figure it out, thinks, Why’s this wife of mine want me to shoot my dog for? so he waits and nothing else happens—until a few weeks later, when they find the cord to Aunt Lele’s heating pad chewed through.
Slapping his knees, Uncle Pat declares, That dog ’lectrocuted himself!
What transfixes me about Uncle Pat’s yarns is not his words but his gaze. Telling the tale of these years in Massieville, Uncle Pat will recall their elderly neighbor, Elsie, whom no family or friend visited, and that teenage kid, Mark, whom they cared for like a son whenever he came around. Wonder what ever happened to them.
In the wondering, Uncle Pat will not look away. With hazel eyes wide, he will bore through your eyes and down your throat. It is not Elsie’s and Mark’s fate you now contemplate but, possibly, your own.
Uncle Pat makes me feel like he isn’t afraid of anything in me. This affirmation of my presence, of my whole self, arrests me; I cannot leave the room. I am a captive witness to his story, be it hilarious or heart-rending.
When I tell my story, I want a witness who looks at me all the way through.
Does this longing resonate with you too? I think, maybe, we can listen for each other. In his psychiatry practice, Dr. Curt Thompson facilitates Confessional Communities in which people share their story in messy detail and listen to others with wide eyes. Discussing vulnerability on his podcast, Dr. Thompson says,
“These relationships create the lattice work for my mind to become less fragmented and more integrated… The part about me that I hate the most is now known by another, and you didn’t leave the room.”1
I want to know you won’t look away when I describe the rooms where I experienced violation; where I slipped to the cold tile half clothed and unconscious; where I considered taking too many ibuprofen.
I want to know you will not leave the room until, holding your hand, I have strength to walk through the door too.
To be honest, I haven’t journaled about these stories in much detail, let alone posted them on the internet. I’m not quite ready. But I’m getting there.
Maybe you feel similarly?
So—How do we share these stories? How do we practice looking at each other? How do we practice not looking away?
We start small.
Instead of poking and prodding The Part That Hurts, we will look around It. We will ask, What saved us?2 and answer through objects and activities—the physical things we possessed or practiced when It happened.
Objects. We all have things. A teddy bear from childhood. A mug gifted by a friend we’ve lost. An article of irreplaceable clothing. We will hold one of these objects in our hands and ask, What is my story, according to this thing? Then, we’ll write some sort of paragraph with an answer to that question.
Activities. When I feel trapped in one way or another, trying something new springs me free by employing my hands. An embodied practice. My favorites are mostly domestic—crocheting and knitting, baking and sewing—but I’m sure you, too, have varied activities which energize you—running, playing instruments, cooking, drawing. . . Sky’s the limit, as they say.
My hope, in time, is to open the floor to you, let you tell your small stories3 of survival through objects and activities. To build this space, though, I’ll demonstrate by telling a few of mine.
But don’t think you can read and then leave. When you enter the room, you are taking on a critical responsibility.
You must listen, with empathy.
After someone tells part of their story in Dr. Thompson’s Confessional Communities, the listeners respond. They describe how they felt when they heard the story, using phrases like, My chest tightened when you said… or, There was a pressure behind my eyes when… This is empathy: choosing to feel someone else’s pain. Significantly, you are choosing to carry what the other did/does not have the option to leave.
Our choice to enter the room of their suffering, and to stay in the room when they show us their specific pain, generates a door we can walk through, together.
Do not underestimate the power of your presence.
When I post something new, many of you receive the email or notification or whatever, and set it aside until you have the time to attend to it. Many of you have brought up my stories in conversation, and we’ve talked about pain and trauma and hope.
I’m honored, every time. Amazed, that anyone listens.
Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
I hope you realize: When you choose to read my words, you enter The Room where It happened.
You have power here:
To bring light to my darkness.
To bust through my walls of self-preservation.
To hold, in a tight hug, the parts of my self and story I hate the most.
Responding to vulnerable stories is difficult.
When you choose to not only enter the room but raise your voice in it, you acknowledge my presence and my pain. You affirm you aren’t afraid of anything in me, the parts of me I’d rather hide. You confirm I am not alone.
One specific way to exercise this power is to respond, by hitting ‘reply’ or leaving a ‘comment,’ like Dr. Thompson’s participants. Consider questions like: How did this story make you feel? What parts or words resonated with you? While reading, did you feel something shift in your body at some point?
My hope in this space is to guide you to listening with empathy so that, when life demands you hold the pain of someone else or even yourself, you are muscled up with listening power.
Will you join me?
If you listen with empathy, we can make a door. We can walk through It, together.
We can lessen the weight of this pain, by sharing it.
To honor the slowness, the heaviness, of this work, I waited until today instead of Wednesday, to post these words. It took me a while to find them. Thus, I’m waiting until this coming Wednesday to share a small story, about a sweatshirt. I hope you will listen—will you? I’m trusting you to not leave the room.
In the meantime, perhaps consider the questions above in response to this work. How has this reading made you feel? What happened in your body as you read? I’m excited to listen with you.
Take care.
CJS
PS—
If this work feels overwhelming, let yourself out. You can unsubscribe at any time, with all my love following you as you go.
We must cheer each other on, however we can.
I’ll cheer for you, wherever you land.
Thanks for listening with me.
If you found this prompt valuable and have the means, would you consider becoming a paid subscriber, so we can continue this vital work together?
Better yet—share it with someone who might need a place to listen and to be heard in their suffering.
Taken from “S1E3: Vulnerability” of Dr. Thompson’s podcast, Being Known.
From the question, “What’s saving me right now?” which (I’m told by Googlez) Barbara Brown Taylor explores in her memoir, Leaving Church. I found it via
.A term I first heard from
; though she uses the term a bit differently than I do here, the effect is similar.
I love your writing, your willingness to be raw and real, to be vivacious and vulnerable. I enjoy being HERE with you in this room. It’s not always easy to hear but it is wonderful to participate. Love you!
This is the most on point article I've read today. When you carry a secret that you can't trust anyone enough to tell them, it weighs on you, it holds your life in the room where it happened. But if we find the grace to find the room, with those who love us, with those who won't leave the room when we tell the secret, then and only then, do we feel safe enough to trust. Christianna, this is so heartfelt, so authentic, so real and so courageous of you to share. I'm here to stay, I won't leave the room.