If Words Be The Food of Life, Write On

Borrowing ever so loosely from William Shakespeare, I was humbled last night by the sheer talent of my fellow colleagues at the Murphy School of Writing Retreat here in Florida. I had drifted away from a felt sense of why words and writing are so vitally important. A general cynicism had befallen me after years of writing professionally. I use the term “writing” in the “government communications” context ever so loosely. Producing and publishing words for politicians and greedy, soulless clients whose only interest was whether they could manipulate the reader into parting with hard-won cash or votes was soul-crushing. Tonight, I started the process of relearning that words – which, admittedly, have their own limitations (more on that in a future post) – are the most effective tools we humans have to share our human experience with other humans. Words make us laugh. Words cross gulfs of isolation. Words make us think. Words teach us stuff. Words can make us cringe, bring forth tears, and leave us breathless with awe and wonder at the breadth, depth, and vagaries of the human experience. A mother speaking tremulously and tenderly about the birth of and life with her dearly beloved child who has cerebral palsy. A woman “of a certain age” speaking about finally discovering joyous orgasms after finding a loving partner with a “slow hand” in a sly nod to the Pointer Sisters’ massive 80s hit song. A woman who disclosed and bears the deep and immutable childhood insult and primal wound of incest. She called it a “dent.” Another with similar primal wounds due to rape shared her outrage at those who would question how “it” happened. Rape victims hear that line of questioning all the time. Another recalled a carefree day in her youth exploring a big, dirty city with a dear lifelong friend. Her final poem was a study in controlled rage and exasperation over the America she loves and lives in which – she implored – “desperately needs to get its act together.” And from a farm-raised writer, sharing the sensual joy of spraying warm milk from a cow’s udder at cloying kittens with open mouths. I had forgotten or lost contact with words’ ability to transport us somewhere else in time, place, or experience. Glennon Doyle wrote and encouraged us to know and understand that “we can do hard things.” These writers certainly did and do. I had forgotten about the power of words to move and deeply shake us emotionally. I had completely forgotten about the power of words to change us by changing what we know, how we think, and even our sense of who we are. Most basically, words can make us feel less alone and isolated on this big crazy planet in this crazy time. For that learning alone, this retreat has been worth it. Tonight’s performance will be by the memoir group. I am still reeling, chortling, and choking back tears after tonight’s iridescent performances. After tonight, I could well be emotionally apoplectic.