Fearless Voices: Stories Safely Shared

The other day I was blessed to be surrounded by brave, creative women, all shapes and sizes, a variety of ages, backgrounds and careers.  We came together to celebrate, support, eat and share.  The food was wonderful, as it usually is when women get together, with lots of new combinations of ingredients that I don’t use, and vegetarian dishes I’m just learning to cook.  We were celebrating a journey of sorts, as we had all written a story about ourselves, a small snippet of our lives, from our timeline, a glimpse into what made us who we are today.  

For me, it was a turning point, a snapshot of the me I get to be for the rest of my days.  It was a new me, one that could handle a barrage of emotions and be able to sleep at night, and continue on the next day as if it were any other day.  It was me being just me.  And, it felt great!  

We gathered late afternoon potluck dishes, chocolate desserts and even margarita's in tow.  We don’t get to see each other in person often, so there was much hugging and reconnecting, like old classmates at a reunion, bits of conversations swirling around the room:

‘How’s your mother?’

‘Did you get that job?’

‘We need to talk’

Plates were filled with lasagna, lentil salad, hummus, sandwiches and soup as we moved to the family room to settle in for the evening, each one of us in turn to share our tale.  Slowly, reverently, each story was read aloud by the author, the listeners so still and quiet that any slight rustle of paper, or person was almost jarring.  We sat spellbound as we were transported into the reader’s life and experiences, through stories of courage, triumph, sadness, perseverance and abuse. 

Following each reading there was always silence, a natural pause that occurs when something huge has happened and you need time to catch your breath.  Each woman’s telling was honored with encouragement, solace, and support as we absorbed the enormity of the tale, and made the connection to our own lives.

As a highly sensitive, empathetic person, with each telling I lived that life.  For brief moments I went from abused, to triumphant, from suicidal to courageous, all the while riding the tide of the emotional energy the reader created with their words, and their tale.  I became very still inside, honoring the sadness of a child, the violation of an abused, and the success of a campaign.  

For the first time in my life, I heard the words, imagined the experience, felt all the emotions of the person going through it, and let it go.  I let it go, far way to the place where all stories, feelings, sadness, and joy reside.  A place where emotions are free to do whatever it is that they need to do.  I did not hold it in my heart, as I had always done in the past.  I let it fly free and I felt...bigger. Solid, maybe.  Whatever the sensation was, I was OK.

In the past, an evening such as this, overflowing with emotional energy, sadness, and courage would have left me overwrought, my heart full to breaking with the shared journeys.  I would have spent sleepless night licking the wounds of the tormented, mentally rescuing the besieged, and assisting the triumphant as they had prepared for success.  In the subsequent days, tired from lack of sleep, visions would plague me as the storyteller’s life would replay over and over again in my head like a video stuck on auto rewind.  There would be no rest.  I would cry a lot, unexpectedly and uncontrollably.  Depending on the situation, this scenario could last for months, sometimes years.

Following this gathering I definitely felt over stimulated, maybe over emotional-ized, if I can coin a phrase.  As I  listened, eyes closed, breathing in the experiences of the reader I did not absorb their pain, I observed it from afar.  I felt no need to solve their problems, their issues remained in their sphere.  I reveled in their accomplishments as a mother cheers a child, with love in my heart, from a seat 3 rows back from the front.  I was there.  I was near.  But, I was safe.

I cried as I went to sleep that night.  I cried for all the sorrow in the world.  I cried for these beautiful women who were abused, had been harmed, and have overcome great obstacles in life. I cried softly, tears staining my pillow, but my heart was free; free to feel but not absorb.  Free to acknowledge and honor, but not to carry.  Free to recognize that each person has a path all their own, a course that they must follow to fulfill their life’s journey.  I am not their backpack, their first aid kit, or their rescuer.  For these women, I recognize that I am free to walk by their side, holding their hand, encouraging them along the way.  I can be a friend when they feel lonely, a listener when they need to be heard, a warm embrace when they need to feel loved.  These things I will gladly do for each one of these cherished sisters.  

I will be there for them with my heart in tact, guarded and safe, instead of wearing it on my sleeve.

This is dedicated to a most cherished group of women that are part of the Heal My Voice Book Project  - Fearless Voices: True Stories by Courageous Women due to be released April 2012

Do you have a story in you that needs to be told?  Do you have a sacred circle of women within which you can share it?