They knew.
Never mind that they were hundreds of miles away geographically and much, much further than that on a psychic level. Never mind that even when you lived under the same tar paper shingled roof, they didn’t have a clue as to who you were or what you were about. Never mind that, in the saddest and most glorious ways, they have never cared one single bit about you – or about anyone, really, but themselves.
You sit at your high top stainless steel desk, perched on a stool made by such gifted and good hands, just for you, of the most beautifully grained wood. You stare at the oversized Mac, the one with the screen which allows your aging eyes to pore over words and images for hours, allowing you to share the beauty you know to be the real truth of it all with the entire world. Your fingers hesitate, even tremble a bit as you string together the symbols, weave the words with the memories and begin to tell all the stories that you were never, ever to speak of, ever. Ever. Ever.
Your chest, held tight for so very long, begins to heave as the release allows air to enter the chambers of your lungs that have been closed off since you were a tiny child, helpless and so dependent on them. Even as your body closed itself off in a futile attempt to protect itself from them, from their anger and the crazy assortment of weapons they wielded against you and the other little ones, your spirit knew that one day, this would come to pass. The fear you felt, the disconnect, the utter horror that you had somehow chosen them – that you had come here on a perhaps misguided mission to help heal these tattered souls, somehow you knew.
You knew that one day, in order to liberate them and free yourself, you would have to tell the stories. And that you would do it with love. In some mysterious way, they knew, too.
They must have known.
Another ten minute writing session with Jena Schwartz. As I write my book proposal, I’m remembering what it took to write All Better Bye and Bye, and how important it is to deliver it to the world.
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