Yesterday, I ran away to here. This building. It’s not
much, a singular, non-descript gray
building in the middle of Silverton. The
doors have now been painted a Chinese Lantern orange. Someone pulled the old taxis bushes from the
window box and planted a colorful array of pansies which sway gently in the
wind or as I whisk by.
Upon entering, I am immediately greeted by old friends. They are old friends in that we know each
other in our souls and through our words, our writing words that is. Everyone here is a writer, not because they
have all published books, but because we believe that every one here is a
writer. Everyone outside these doors are writers too.
It is SupoortWomen Artists Now (SWAN) Day. The vast interior
of the building is filled with folk music, landscape art, intricate quilts, and
laughs about bowling, middle age, white chocolate peppermint bark. As I settle into a chair and put my purse on
the floor, I let my shoulders down too.
I am carrying so much weight these days, not on my frame,
not in my purse, but in my heart, my head.
I wanted to step outside all of that and be free for a time. I was met by hearty renditions of the
Andrews’ Sisters, Bei Mir Bistu Shein, To Me you are beautiful, originally sung at the Apollo Theatre,
and a stirring tribute to Raison d‘ Etre’s
lead signer’s grandmother, as she imagined the two of them, sipping tea,
listening to grandmother’s stories. I leaned
my head against a column and slipped away into this portrait she was painting.
Someone asked
if I planned to read later, at the open mic readaround. I had no copies of any of my work, other than
a book published years ago, which languished on a bookshelf for others to take
down and ponder. I didn’t even have my
smart phone, where I could have accessed my blog, and read one of many entries
about Alzheimer’s, life in the city, or the sunflowers that grew rampant last
summer. I wondered if I had purposely
left the phone at home to disconnect from the flurry of calls I had received
earlier that day about the sale of my parents’ home.
No, I was hear
to listen. To hold others’ words. That was no more apparent than when I found
myself in conversation with a gentleman who had been one the guests on our
podcast show. His son had committed
suicide but his son’s life was now being lifted up in a play. He asked if I was available attend the reading
of the script. We discussed many facets
of the play and life for a period of time, and I found myself realizing how
gratifying it can be, to sometimes be the listener of the stories and not the
teller.
To sometimes be
the holder is equal an escape from ordinary life. If one is the teller, you are
in the midst of trying to figure it all out.
But if one is the listener, you are holding the words upon their
release, as one might a special gift. In it, you might find delight, sadness,
or your own wisdom.
I left the day,
with a tune by local artist, Shelley Graf, in my head – an earworm worth
keeping around…”I’m amazed that her spirit dances on.” And really, resilience is all we can ask for
in this life, that, and a way station, a place and time to rest, contemplate,
and gather strength from the journeys of others.
Women Writing
for a Change
SWAN Day, 2012
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