I’m writing mom’s memoir and I am so grateful that eight years ago I wrote down the bones before time eroded those intimate, piercing details as I experienced them then. If I had not have saved my thoughts and memories as they occurred in real time, even though many were incoherent, guttural groans, so much of she and I would be lost to fuzzy memory.
I just found some pages that I converted a few years ago from hand scrawled journals smeared with tears and sliding off the margins from lack of sleep, and as I read through them again, I was stunned at how much I had forgotten! Our mind strategically and beautifully protects itself from re-living grief, but without the emotions I actually experienced from heartache saved in disparate, faded notebooks, what would this journey mean to me now? My words would betray who I was and I could not be so connected to who I am now.
There is a magic that we create as we write down the unutterable language of our souls. It may be edited and revised for an audience later, or not, but for me, I need to re-read the raw to connect to who I was then and how much geography of spirit I have traversed in eight years. Grief is a process! It can’t be shrouded in secret invisibility cloaks for years and then be instantly flung off to reveal a victory over human emotions.
No. Boldly open your eyes and the cupboard to your heart and scrawl with pens and pencils what you see and feel while you are walking in the valley of bones. Create mysterious life through your words, by hooking the marrow out of the bones as you pass through. There is nourishment in every season of life. Some sweeter and juicier than others, but always enough to sustain and strengthen us if we know how to feed ourselves.
Write it down now, don’t throw anything away. Let your soul utter whatever it wishes.