WELCOME
to a sanctuary for those who suffer.
Here, I offer words to help you articulate your pain.
I’ll provide details, but first, a little poetry. (Just two lines—you can do this!)
Let’s go for a walk.
Listen:
I'm your guide here. In the evening-dark morning streets, I point and name.—Maggie Smith, from “First Fall”
Notice:
The uncertainty of time. Are we in the evening or the morning? See that word, “dark,” hanging from the first line? We don’t know much about where we are, except we are in the dark. Somewhere in between the day and the night.
Isn’t this where we live?
The speaker and reader are in dialogue. Later, the speaker addresses her newborn—the “you”—but the speaker is also talking to you and me, the ones who read her words. She offers what she knows, which is presumably something we don’t possess yet.
To receive this offering, all we need to do is listen. We can do that.
Pointing and naming. When pointing, you draw a line with your finger to connect something to your audience. In the poem, this line can crystalize around a name the speaker will provide. The reader can then try it on the tongue, play with it, make it their own.
I’m your guide here. In the evening-dark morning streets, I point and name.
Consider:
When the speaker says, “point”—what happens to the image in your head? You’re looking, aren’t you, for that something? Waiting for her words to bring it into the light.
The darkness seems a little less dark now, doesn’t it?1
You and I are not newborns, but circumstances can leave us wordless, new-born in a new world: the After. In the Before, we knew things. Now, we don’t know what day it is.
What can light up this “evening-dark / morning”?
Music. Artwork. Poetry. Stories. Yoga. A long walk alone. A good beer. Sunshine. Water: a bath, a swim, a beach.
Many, many things can lead us onward. But what do these things have in common?
“Music.”
“Artwork.”
“Poetry.”
“Stories.”
Words. They are words. Names for our shared experiences. Placeholders for what we cannot express.
Words work their magic by keeping us from loneliness. They are the nodes at which we touch each other, the light, our own wavering hearts…
Words work their magic when we sit with them, with each other, with ourselves, with our pain. When we listen.
This is the work.
I invite you to take a seat.
At Growing Home, I’d like to hold this space for you.
I’ve spent time with words, in the dark. I’d like to give you what I’ve learned from them, from the voices speaking them. By pointing and naming, I will offer words to try on your own tongue. To fit them around your pain. To lighten the dark.
My hope:
to empower you
to tell the story
of your suffering
for those who do not understand
but want to listen, which is to love.
I’ll sit for the listening, if you’ll hold a seat for me.
How will we practice this listening love?
By doing what we did with Maggie Smith’s two lines:
Listen, read.
Notice.
Consider.
For the next few weeks, I will introduce you to a new way of listening with these verbs in mind.
First, we’ll take a look at one word. Just sit with it. See what it says when we get quiet.
Next, I’ll guide you through some free-writing—one of the most liberating writing practices I know. No formal training required.
Then, we’ll try our hand at listening to poetry, but I’ll also mix in music and sketching and crafts and gardening and recipes… the list is endless, here. I will host guest makers to share the practices which lighten their dark streets. If this interests you in the least, reach out! Offer your own practice to share, or request one to discuss.
Every Wednesday evening, I’ll share a five-minute-or-less post guiding you through a new way of listening, noticing, considering.
If this work feels distracting or overwhelming, let yourself out. You will have the option to unsubscribe from what types of posts are not helpful for you. However, if it is just too much, I encourage you to find nourishment for your body and mind elsewhere. We must cheer each other on, however we can. I’m cheering for you, wherever you land.
On the other hand, if this work feels necessary for your survival, I invite you to stay. To listen. And please—if you know someone wandering dark streets alone, invite them to join us too.
To share publicly:
To send specifically:
Regardless,
I’m glad you’re here today.
My personal work has a new room at A Desk of Her Own. Subscribe to see my own attempts at articulating pain. I’ll share my most intimate stories, one piece every other week. (Or with even less frequency.) No pressure, though; consider this space another offering.
Currently, I’m sharing “Facing It, We Sing”—the fragmented tale of my first near-death experience. Listen, if you’d like.
The only way through is through. Let’s walk through words, by sitting in silence. Together.
See you next week?
Until then, take care.
CJS
To continue the conversation, I invite you to share: what practices have kept you alive in the “evening-dark / morning”?
So glad you could join us. So humbled to listen.
Did you know you could get so much from 14 words? And it wasn’t too difficult, was it? Yay—YOU DID IT! We did it.
Always appreciate the beauty of your work. I’m trying to figure out how to recommend your page on my page. I am always
a little behind on technology, but that’s okay. Slowly figuring out more with substack when I can. In the meantime, know I share your work in my head all the time and think you’re great! ;)
Oh my gosh, this is so beautiful! ❤️ For me, it's writing, whether on scratch piece of paper or in journal or back of envelopes. To jot things down. Sometimes they were what reminded me I'm here, connecting me to the earth. Now writing words more or less connect me to myself, calling parts of me home.