Friday, September 24, 2010
There is a woman who knew about things. A listener who knew how powerful it was to be heard. A woman who invited my words to breathe on paper. She knew about that sacred place where a reader meets a writer and a writer is read. She knew about joy when she asked about my pain. About the void in a life when numbness mistakes itself for feeling and feeling anything became the enemy. She knew open space and its equally important partner, closeness. About when to hold and when to let go.
And she knew about pauses. How to hold the stillness between her questions and my answers without needing to fill the silence.
In that space I found myself.
Then I became a woman who knew things. About how profoundly lost I was until I finally became still. About how to simply breathe through a day, any day, all days. About the little girl I'd hidden away inside my heart and how to hold my own hand.
Now I am becoming a woman who knows how powerful it is to hear others. A woman who craves ways to invite other people's words. A reader who understand the sacred place where writers are met. A lover who embraces joy and pain, as equally important partners. I reach out to the voids in life so numbness does not mistake itself for feeling. I create open spaces for myself and sometimes, just sometimes, I dare to let others close. I am learning when to hold on and when to let go.
That is the gift of her pause. A moment to simply be. A place to sit in the silence inside yourself and listen to the breathings of your very being. A velvet stillness. A pulse. And a chance to become the woman who knows.
What about you? Have you ever found yourself or the pulse of your writing inside the stillness of a pause?