Writing As Restoration
Inspired by the Houston Ballet’s performance of Stanton Welch’s “Restoration”
View performance here: https://youtu.be/tBd9EteKLbM
There is a level of intimacy that comes with sharing oneself through artistic expression. For some it is through painting, for others, it is music. For my daughter, it is dance; to her, the Houston Ballet is “home.” I never thought about it much until now, but as we ambled the streets of downtown this weekend making our way to the studio, it dawned on me that writing has always been my “home.”
I grew up in a world of books, my imagination constructing narratives to both entertain me and be my safe space. I quickly learned that my vocal chords were paralyzed in their attempt to battle the trauma of my childhood, but my pen always allowed me to spill on the page. It first began with writing fairytale-like stories with damsel-saving knights, then shifted to hiding behind the screen of poetry. Finally, in my teen years, it transformed into sheets and sheets of unsent letters written to others seeking refuge from the world as I knew it.
My Freshman year in high school, I became close to one of my teachers and we spoke through journals – the sharing of my writing, my thoughts, and ultimately disclosing to her my own private hell; the pen became my sword and savior. All the Bible studies, all the lit candles, all the rosaries had done nothing for me in my life. My scrawls were what resurrected me from the cinders and lifted me out of a life I could no longer bare to endure. I remember it as though it were yesterday; it was just two weeks before Christmas when I transitioned to live in my first shelter, my journal my only friend..
To this day, I draft my thoughts in letters -- sometimes as a warm up to a conversation that I need to have in person, sometimes giving the recipient the flow of thought on the page because I am too timid to convey in person what I have penned — the fear always looming of my words being misunderstood. My whole childhood was a series of “misunderstandings,” ones that left indelible marks on me, and thus I’ve spent most of my adult life seeking clarity and peace. Because of this, I find the most solace in poetry for it gives me the freedom to be who I am, my thoughts gently cradled by metaphor and screened in imagery.
As a writer, there will be some poems I will publish, but there are others that may never see the light of day. If perchance one does, it is to share those lines with a friend I trust wholeheartedly, someone who knows the depth of my brokenness in a way I cannot put simply into words — an intimate act because there is no obfuscation to hide behind. It is my soul laid bare. It is my truth. The veil of silence lifted. And should those lines resonate with them, then, and only then, I might feel safe enough to release it into the world knowing at least one soul sees me as beautifully broken. Writing is my “home.” Writing will forever be my restoration.
Namaste.
