Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.—Mary Oliver, “Wild Geese”
Before high school, I moved to a two-bedroom, two-story house on a quiet street. My mom’s one complaint: how small the kitchen.
Even so, this space became a sanctuary. Mom would cook, clean, or rearrange. I would question the world and my place in it, saying more words than necessary to arrive at simple conclusions. Mom’s affirmations, interjections, and questions guided me. My voice guided me.
Together, we grew a home for my questions, for myself inside them.
In the years since: I have lost a child; given birth to two yet living; almost died twice. I’ve also moved six times in less than five years, each move a bitter story.
In the years since: Mom started counseling for anxiety and chemo for breast cancer. She has also moved to a new house. Though it’s only a few streets away, she would tell you she grieves the house with the small kitchen.
Even so, the new kitchen is a sanctuary where we are growing a home for our (even bigger) questions.
We are growing a home for ourselves.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air, are heading home again.—Mary Oliver, “Wild Geese”
You have a litany of grief too—don’t you?
How I know: you wouldn’t be here, otherwise.
I invite you: Come inside. Take a seat. I’ll pour a cup of whatever you need.
Welcome Home, to a Growing Home.
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. I will offer words to try on your own tongue. To fit around your pain. To lighten the dark.
I want a house to take care of me.
—Sandra Cisneros, from A House of My Own
How will we lighten the darkness?
Substack has all these recommendations for “building your stack” (aka platform). But I’m not here for all the followers, all the subscribers. I’m here for you, and myself. You and me. Us. So, I’m taking a more organic approach, as grace for both of us. I’ll post new words when I have something necessary to say, be it once a week or every two, morning noon or night.
What you will find, when you find them, are five-minute-or-less guides through Words, Sentences, Paragraphs, and Essays (with notes on Poetry sprinkled in).
Words: We’ll take a look at one word. Just sit with it. See what it says about itself, our pain, ourselves, when we get quiet.
Sentences: I’ll guide you through some free-writing—one of the most liberating writing practices I know. No formal training required.
Paragraphs: We’ll write a paragraph-sized story about one object. This object, be it a photo, garment, tool or toy, will give us a way to talk about pain by externalizing it.
Essays: Similar to our paragraphs, we will write essays about practices (making coffee, running, cooking, crocheting) which kept us alive. (Did you know essay just means to try?)
And Poetry: because I just can’t help myself. I’ll be sharing notes on works I think might help us walk together through rooms we’d rather not be in.
My hope is to showcase the words and stories of others, maybe even you, in this space. But we’re not quiet there yet. We’re still growing.
May you grow a home here.
May you heal in this home.
May you heal inside your story, and call it home.
Take care.
—CJS
About CJS
I studied under Dr. Tony M. Vinci, who sometimes let slip he was “the most-quoted scholar on trauma and Star Wars.” While I don’t have much use for intergalactic skirmishes, his studies on trauma have informed my post-college days.
My work has always been to connect disparate audiences with the natural world. As an undergrad, I studied English and Biology and attained departmental honors for my thesis, “Neighbor Trees: Human Tree Enmeshments.” This work now looks like connecting you to words, their shapes and sounds.
