No, Writing Isn't Selfish
I used to squirm at the thought of being a writer, especially a writer of memoir—Who am I that I get to sit in an Ivory Tower and scribble my paper rather than working in the mud and the blood of humanity? And, although I squidged and self-judged, I still sat down to the desk to write because it felt so good. Just a little bit.
I love nothing more than the grit and underbelly of humanity, mucking about in mistakes and egos formed because we give a fuck about ourselves and each other. Part of my role as a writing coach means I get to ask profoundly vulnerable questions for the sake of understanding their intentions; questions we don’t usually ask strangers. “Where did your obsession with sex begin?” “Was there a quality of life/death when he looked at you that way?” “What was at stake when your mother left you?” And although I sit in the role of ‘coach,’ I often feel I sit at the feet of the Divine: I witness in each of them a combination of fragility and power.
During the same years as coaching, I have also been expanding my somatics studies, incorporating pre- and perinatal development and Jin Shin Jyutsu with 5Rhythms Dance, Open Floor, and Viewpoints Theater. These somatics practices are all about staying connected with ourselves no matter what happens with our families, energies, stimulations, communities, or work.
I have practiced staying connected with our own feet and breath, no matter what, and have brought that to my coaching work. This morning I had the distinct privilege to sit with three women. We read snippets of our memoirs to each other and cried in every single one—death, abandonment, being needed, being remembered—the basics.
As I listened (and cried my way through my own sharing), I felt my original squirminess of selfishness dissipate. My body changed its mind through this experience. Writing and sharing our stories is far from selfish. Writing our messy, raw, imperfect stories is an incredible gift of presence, for to give and receive vulnerability is a deep honor of trust.
As a writer, engaging in a long process of honesty is a profoundly generous act. To stay with something uncomfortable in order to get to the specifics allows others to feel, to connect, to experience exquisite presence.
The world feels like it is a mess right now. Exhaustingly unpredictable. I crave—and I suspect we all crave—some deep, timeless presence. This, more than answers, perfection, or plans, is medicine. So pick up your pen. Open a book. Take the time today, dear writers, readers, storytellers, and storylisteners, to give and receive this generous gift of presence.
And reach out, too, if you have questions, or want to talk about your journey, or if you have a story you would like to devote some time to prepare as a gift of presence for others—I’m just an email away.