Why writing feels dangerous
by Elouise
Last night I read about a woman who couldn’t get in touch with sensations in her body because she felt disconnected. Numb.
I relate to her. All my life I’ve experienced numbing out—sometimes on purpose; other times as the general go-to mode of my body. That means I feel out-of-place, lost, or just not interested in the vulnerability of connecting.
Years of neglect also hang out in my body. No wonder I get weary and can’t always stay awake emotionally. Perhaps some part of me has lost its memory or its ability to function with and for me.
And so I move on to something else instead of sitting with it. Or wondering about it, loving or even soothing it. Or welcoming it as a major part of the woman I’ve been and have become.
I’m a writer. I want to connect with what’s going on inside me, not just with thoughts running through my mind. I want to listen to myself, speak from within myself. Yet I’ve guarded so much for so long.
Can numbness lead to death? I don’t know. Perhaps I’m hiding from my voice. Sometimes I’m apprehensive about what I might discover or write and then let go. Even before I understand it fully.
From the moment I became a living human being, You’ve been there. Even when I was too terrified to be there. Too terrified to sit quietly with whatever was going on inside this woman I keep calling ‘me.’
Am I afraid right now? I want to believe You hold me close and won’t let me stray far from home. Yet I still think it’s my job to keep myself from straying. Maybe that’s why writing feels dangerous. My words are out there. I can’t control how they’re read or used or abused. Or heard and dissected.
A voice seems more fragile than a body. More connected to soul. More vulnerable to attack. Yet when I’ve done my best to be truthful, and have given it away so that the river moves on within and through me, I’m not sure what else I can do except build a dam.
I know about dams. I’ve constructed many in my lifetime. Little dams. Big dams. Complex, contorted, impenetrable dams. Trying desperately to escape the truth about me.
And what if the truth about me is beautiful? Lovely? What then? Have I killed it?
A small Christmas cactus blossom rests in front of me on my desk. A lovely, fading pinkish magenta. Its fragile petals look like limp gauze wings folded around its core. It isn’t ugly; it’s dying. Doing what lovely flowers do after giving themselves away.
It’s the only way to live. Not forever, but in this present moment. My calendar lies to me daily. It promises more than it or I can deliver. I want to live this one day as if there were no tomorrow. No more, and no less.
© Elouise Renich Fraser, 15 January 2018
Photo found at pxhere.com
Keep on writing, Elouise. Each and every time you do, you are being uniquely yourself, and that is a good thing – for you, for us, for the wider world through all of us. What you say, and how you say it, connect with various people in ways both obvious and mysterious – it’s out of your control at that point – but the care with which you write is part of God’s gift in, to, and through you, and you can trust God to help you (as you craft your essays/poems/haiku), as well as help your readers (to receive well what you have written). As one of those recipients, I am glad to hear from you so often.
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Thank you, dear Debbie. 💜
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Though I rarely comment or respond, Elouise, the work you are doing–the interior work and the exterior work–resonates powerfully with me. I, too, have been numb, dissociated from my body, from my emotions; it was the only way I knew to survive. And as the self-administered ‘anesthetic’ wears off, often the first sensation is pain. Yet I am told that when we share what is within us, what our Beloved has been crafting behind the scenes, others find it beautiful… powerful… resonant. Like the zephyr of Spirit blowing on the numb frozenness within others. Like spring coming to Narnia.
Keep writing, as God leads. Your courage spreads to others, who also tell their stories. The world changes, just a little, for the better. God is making all things beautiful, in His time.
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Laurie, Thank you so much for your encouragement and for describing some of your own experience. I love the image of anything (or everything!) being ‘like spring coming to Narnia.’ We could use a dose of that right now–in every way.
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Dear Elouise,
I ditto the previous comments! Please keep on writing! 🙂 As one of your students in the classroom I learned to use my own voice through your modeling; and one of the lessons that I learned from you and still remember is that though it may not be easy to share it, this is my voice and it needs my own affirmation to be brought into greater existence because voices are powerful.
Women like me need to hear women like you use your voices in a manner that proclaims to the world and to each other that our voices possess infinite value and beauty :).
Muchísimas gracias for sharing your beautiful voice!!! :)))
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Mayra, Thank you for your beautiful words and for your strong voice. I’m blessed to have known (and still be connected with) so many women like you with gorgeous, strong voices. 🙂 I have many memories of being en-couraged by women I worked with at the seminary. Men too. And especially the women! 🙂
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This is so beautifully written. I hope you keep writing even and especially when it feels dangerous.
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Thank you, Herminia. 🙏🏻. Deep breath….and keep writing….
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I’d like to feel in danger occasionally 😦
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As do I–though it’s a bit hard on the nerves (for me). 🙂
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I can’t work up much enthusiasm for writing and posting codswallop these days,
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I hope today is going well so far. I’m off to one of my doctors this morning. Not thrilled….😟. Greetings to Coco 😻
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One of your doctors??? That sounds ominous ; go well 🙂
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Hi, Brian. Well…I came away with a new challenge I’ll be learning to live with…or not. I guess it’s good to know when we’re in a risk category, but I’ve already got plenty of those to live with. I’m hoping this one decides to pass me by. In the meantime, I’m going to keep writing my heart out! 🙂
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I’m no longer caring if I have something risky or not anymore. I’m jack of operations and stuff from now on I’ll go with the floe, If I turn my toes up sooner rather than later well so be it. I’m quite content in that
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I have lived a life of numbness. I let things pass and unless I took a photo of it, I forget. Thank you for this post. It made me understand that I’m not the only one who fears what is really inside.
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You’re welcome. And thanks for this comment. Yes, I think there are many of us out there–functional adults who haven’t yet discovered ourselves. Or, are afraid of what we discover–as though it didn’t really belong to us.
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write and write some more my friend, you always teaach me something through your words, wisdom, new perspectives, etc….hugs and love and you can’t look at tomorrow for it isn’t here yet, live in the moment of now and embrace it all, good and bad and rise above to the peace that watches and waits for you to grab it like a kite and catch the wind ❤ ❤ ❤ Hey Super L, D and Smudge. Hugs for all and then some more ❤
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thank you thank you thank you, K — for your words and your hugs for all and then some….:)
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