Its The Only Story I Have To Tell

If you’ve been reading my blog for a few weeks now, you probably know that I recently attended a life changing creative conference in Franklin, Tennessee.

The first speaker was writer, Allison Vesterfelt. Ally’s talk at #tribeconf utterly destroyed me.

CRYING IN PUBLIC

During the talk, Ally led the entire 150 member Tribe through an exercise designed to create a solid understanding about who we are as individuals and writers. The exercise was based on the poem, “Where I’m From” by George Ella Lyon.

ACCEPT WHAT IS

To create the poem yourself, you must dig deep and recall memories and visions, habits and traditions from your childhood. If you’re anything like me, childhood may have seemed like a bait and switch job, a highway robbery, or a Lifetime made-for-tv movie.

The memories that kept springing to mind had remained dormant just below the surface of day-to-day life for a long time. As each memory took it’s place in my mental theater, the tears in my eyes did their thing.

What happens when you realize the place your from is a bit sad and something to which you’d rather not return?

What then?

No matter how much I love my people, I nor they can change what was. I’m not bitter about it and I wish I had another story to tell, but I don’t. This is what I got and I’m going to have to make something beautiful out of it.

Doing this exercise was one of those pivotal moments in my life. I’ll never forget this moment for as long as I live. One prompt after the next sent me deeper down a trail of questions.

What were my traditions?

Who were my ancestors?

What were my childhood memories?

Nothing polite came to mind. I had to excuse myself. Once in the privacy of the 15 stall public ladies room, I finally began to shut the emotions and the water works off. At the sink I met a girl, Sarah, who could plainly see that I was not OK. She was brave enough and kind enough to ask so.

More tears.

Then Martha (yes a ‘Martha’ and a ‘Sarah’ were comforting me) stepped in, also noticing my wounded state. These two Tribe Conference women listened and waited patiently as I worked through what was clearly a difficult moment. They never assumed or gave advice; listening and encouraging.

ITS THE ONLY ONE I HAVE

After hearing a few details of my story, Martha affirmed what I would later hear from Ally:

Sometimes you’re on a path that you don’t want to be on, but that you are called to be on.

The only good that will ever come from my story is if I share it. I cannot keep it bottled up inside my chest. How can I help you face hard times, broken relationships and baffling addictions if I never face it myself? Helping you reckon with these things in your life brings so much meaning to what could easily be meaningless suffering in my own.

So many profoundly remarkable people stepped into my life at Tribe Conference (Hi Jo, Judy and Michelle!). I think I learned what the true meaning of “Tribe” really is. When I needed rallying, I got it. Facing my dark path has been transforming. Attending this conference and hearing Ally’s story gave me permission and motivation to use my voice – to tell my story.

Here’s my crack at this poem.

WHERE I AM FROM

I am from the Crying Table,  from the blue Silverado and the sun bleached jeans.

I am from the bayou town apartment complexes and afternoon games on television.

I am from crawdads and wild pecan trees from waspers and yellow roses who’s fats and meats, thorns and stings fill you up and catch you off guard.

I’m from beer cans and cigarettes; from Patsy, Bill and the 4 R’s. I am from Don REDMAN and Little Red Hope.

I’m from rascals and cheats and from tear stained letters, from boxes never opened.

I am from “so a man thinks in his heart” and “be thou not anxious”.

I am from Buffalo and Paragould. I am from tomatoes with salt and powdered mashed potatoes.

I am from washing clothes in a frozen creek, living off dimes, and “Dear God, please.”

I am from baby’s first Bible and white rabbit fur coats.

I’m from those moments of barely making it, from the heart ache and the trial, from the redheaded woman and the black haired man.

What about you? Where are you from? What have you lived through and how could it help others deal with the same hurt?