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
On Easter this Sunday, my Aunt Lele and Uncle Pat stopped by my parents’. Earlier in the week, I had shared with them the link to my last post, “Small Stories,” which featured my Uncle Pat’s storytelling power.
In blood-red v-neck tee, he comes to hug me on my parents’ front step. Hey, I read your blog. It was so good. We exchange thank yous, another hug.
Storyteller that he is, Uncle Pat proceeds to tell me the story of reading and responding to my post during an egg hunt earlier that day. How it took him twenty minutes to think of something to say, a way to respond, how to comment. He said, I’m thinking, what am I suppose to say? I’m not smart enough for this! And then, whadda’ya’know, his phone died.
So he didn’t comment.
But he did respond:
by hugging me, by looking me in the eye, by telling me—he read it.
I’ve gotten similar responses from many of you. While I’m so grateful for all of you who commented, I’m equally as thankful for those of you who said you read it. This, too, is a response. Acknowledging you’re in the room.
And I’m thankful for those of you who quietly cracked open the door and soundlessly stepped inside, without making a sound.
All of you who read my words entered the room of my suffering. Your presence, whether loud or silent, is power.
Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
Today, “the room” is my sweatshirt. I’m sharing its story, how it saved me.
Let me tell you.
On Tuesdays when I videocall my favorite Canadian, Mel, she often says, Ah, that sweatshirt again this week, hey? referring to my dijon-mustard crew neck. In white outline, it bears the eastern hills of my hometown which are enshrined, also, in Ohio’s state seal. Sheepishly, I’ll tell her I did washed it this week. While living in Canada, I wore it as often as possible—which, when you’re depressed and physically weak, is somewhere between three-to-five days out of seven. Wearing it, I felt as if Ohio’s Great Seal was holding me—which it does. After the unexpected death of a dear coworker a couple weeks ago, I wore it two (or three, or four … ) days out of seven. Kept it on while I read at night, instead of changing into pajamas. And you better believe I wore it the day after my mom was diagnosed with breast cancer. Sang and danced in it, weeping.
Now, it’s your turn
to practice listening, with empathy.
Recall: your presence is power. Consider acknowledging you are in the room with me and you are not going to leave. The following examples are more than enough:
‘I read it.’
‘I am here.’
‘Listening.’
‘I have a sweatshirt too.’
If you feel compelled to share more, considered what words or phrases stood out among the rest. Simply repeat them in your comment. You could also highlight which photo(s) appealed to you.
Your commentary is not required, but it is welcomed. Consider how your body responded to these words or phrases or photos.
What happened to you, when you read them?
What part of your body responded?
In what way?
And, for bonus points: if you thought of your own article of clothing, and feel comfortable sharing its side of your story, we will listen to it. Consider such questions as:
What does it look like?
Where did you get it?
On what sort of days do you wear it?
What have people said about it, about you in it?
Post your paragraph in the comments or hit ‘reply’ to this email. We will enter the room, not leave you alone.
This is empathy: choosing to feel another’s pain.
Choosing to carry the suffering they did not choose and cannot release.
You can do this. We will listen, together.
If you don’t yet have a response, come back later. We will wait in the silence.
Next week, we’ll add to the telling by describing an activity which saved us. I think I’ll share about crocheting and how this dance of yarn in hands saved me when I was shell-shocked by surgery (among other things).
Until then—
Take care.
CJS
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.
If I had a sentimental shirt your mom probably threw it away or gave it to the thrift store thinking it was too old, too nasty. 😜😂
Christianna, you mentioned in an earlier post that sometimes we need time to attend to, really spend time with a post, giving it the thoughtful reflection it deserves. I find this happy predicament with just about everything I read of yours. I'm laughing to myself right now because there are certain shirts I wear for specific emotional reasons. Today, it's a bit gloomy here, threatening rain so I'm wearing my favorite long-sleeve cotton blend that I got from a particular race. It's like a hug to me. I so resonate with your yellow sweatshirt and I love the fact that you shared this intimate detail with us, your readers. Thank you, friend for being so thoughtful and mindful.