As I got off the exit, I wasn’t initially hopeful, but “keep driving, keep looking, maybe you’ll get that ONE shot that makes it all worth it!” became my mantra. The downtown area caught my attention. Quaint, small, old. The main street had a few potential shops to explore and the side streets, though not busy at all, seemed to have a some random hidden buildings that would be worth checking out. I parked the car and loaded a few things into my backpack. Maybe there would be a spot to sit and read if the mood came over me, which is usually the case on any given moment, in any given town, on any given day. Books are my constant companion. Any plan that potentially goes south is recovered by a cozy spot to read. It’s like a trump card I can toss on top of any despondency.
Since the tea shop in town seemed to keep random hours and was closed, I wandered down the main street and happened upon “The Literary Bookpost.” Though I already made a “strong” commitment to myself that I was not allowed to purchase ANYTHING on this excursion, I entered anyway, feeling my heart race at the sight of new book covers, rows of organized shelves and that relaxed “feel” of a non-chain bookstore. My eyes darted about spotting intriguing graphics and titles all around me. I am most at home in a book store and could feel my self-control dissolve while justifying my unbalanced armload of books with phrases like “this one is necessary,” “fight the electronic book takeover,” and “it’s right to support these local shops.” Ahead, looking toward the back of the store, there was an area with a leather couch and a few rows of chairs set up like a mini lecture hall. The room was empty, but it was clear that this little shop hosts local authors to share their stories and promote their hard-fought-for manuscript. These few gems in my hands were books I wanted to sit with for a bit. To the left were some steps leading to a little room. Two chairs, a long table lined with poetry collections and a few more shelves of books completed this loft area, directly above this make-shift classroom. This was the perfect spot to hide away and read and sit and think and be and wonder and peruse. No one was up there and it was quiet. I could see over the whole store lit with dim lights that were lined above the beautiful rows of books. It was a little secret spot. Just for me.
Carol Henderson is a writer. Years ago she offered a one-day workshop for women to come and put themselves into the practice and journey of writing. Her voice was leading this gathering at the Literary Bookpost. However, the workshop she referenced was more than just about the art of writing. Carol had lost her son. Over the tumultuous years that followed this event, she found a lifeline through writing, and grieving and writing and crying and writing and remembering and writing and reflecting and writing and healing and writing and grieving again. Her proposal was to offer a workshop for mothers who had experienced this same, distinct tragedy. In essence, Carol wanted to offer this lifeline of writing to women swirling around in the chaos of their pain.
After that workshop in 2002, these women experienced such a bond that it only made sense for them to meet again. Six months later they gathered for the same purpose: to write. Thirteen women, ranging from 27 to 60 years old, all of whom had lost one or more children, began to embark on this expedition that would rescue them from the death of their own souls.
I continued to listen...
They went on to meet over the course of ten years. Day workshops and weekend retreats became some of the most helpful and yet most exhausting times in their lives. What they shared with one another went miles deep and one by one they began to find more and more peace. Carol would present them with a prompt to spin them into times of reflection and journaling. Maybe it was writing about a safe place using the senses, or responding to an object she would place in the middle of the room such as a life preserver. A few of the ladies from the original group were actually present with Carol in the bookstore, in the room below me. They read excerpts from the book, some of their very own pieces that birthed from these retreats. It was a most hallowed moment and definitely so weighty to hear these voices tell of the intimate details of their journeys. As I sat, I shook my head a number of times, in awe of what I was a part. At times I felt guilty as it didn’t seem right that I was not face to face with them and not dignifying them by looking them in the eye. Though they would have immediately invited me into the circle, I stayed where I was, frozen, not wanting to miss a single word spoken.
What became clear in the ongoing discussion was that most of the ladies who gathered to listen to Carol had known about the book and were curiously interested as a result of their own, tragic losses. One by one, new voices would bravely speak up mentioning the death of their child. They felt less alone and yet wishing to God that this was not the common point of reference. They collected tools to apply to their own locked-up selves. Writing and loss were the repeated themes. It seemed the two, when linked, loosen up the hardest soil inside the deepest places, those places no one can name, describe or speak rationally about. By writing, this darkness is steadily softened by the dim light of hope.
This book, Further Along, reflects upon how pen and paper serve in the work of freedom. Ten years later these ladies still cry, they still suffer from anxiety, heavy hearts and loneliness. At the end of the day, they undoubtedly want time to tick backwards and for these tragedies to be averted, for these shadows to finally blow off the pages of their daily lives. It would never be sane to say that “such and such” made all of this worth it. The very thought is offensive to those who tread these deep and surging squalls. It can only be that hope is still possible. For those who listen in on their testimonies, we see and hear a certain sound of music that is nearly impossible to find these days. The sound of wisdom. The sound of depth. The sound of authenticity. The sound of humility. The sound of determined joy. The sound of endurance. The sound of community. The sound of compassion. The sound of overcoming. In a narcissistic world where the unfortunate norm is to “present to everyone the pretend and perfect self,” this little group emerges as the water each of us is thirsty for. Life is terribly hard, and pretending has gotten us nowhere. Freedom comes in being vulnerable to tell our real life stories to those who are hungry to tell their real life stories too. Once someone starts, others are ignited with the motivation and humility to do the same. Freedom is contagious.
It was nearing four o’clock and after the last snippet was beautifully read, I quietly packed up my things and made my exit-plan, hoping to slip out with no eye contact. It didn’t take but a moment for me to give myself permission to purchase this book. If for no other reason, as a memento for this serendipitous experience. After looking everywhere for the book, I finally asked the woman at the register where it was. She encouraged me to get one directly from the ladies and to have them to sign it, to which I told her my incognito scenario...in from Charlotte...taking pictures...up in the loft... Smiling she told me they would love to know I was listening in after randomly dropping in from out of town. She exhorted me to not feel odd about talking to them at all, “this event was open to the public.” Yet in a way, I knew I was not meant to be in that room. The death of a child is so profound. I listened from the outside because I live on the outside of that experience every day. To me, the gift was to be allowed to hear them share.
As I anxiously walked to the back of the store, I was immediately noticed and invited in on the conversations. It wasn’t long before I told them that I was from Charlotte and just happened to land in on their sacred meeting; “I am so grateful to have been able to be here,” I told them. They reprimanded me for not coming down and inquired some about me being a counselor and writer and directed me to one of the ladies who lives in Charlotte. As they talked I recognized whose voice went with which story or reading or comment. They signed the book I held, took my email and thanked me for taking an interest. “Have a safe trip back to Charlotte,” and then I left.
These moments are most transforming. They come out of nowhere, unexpected. While I was in it, I knew it was profound and yet I could not fully understand how it was tearing through my insides. I often believe with the deepest sincerity that those who we meet who have endured such suffering as this are the most real and alive people we know. They see with uncommon vision, they hear what is going on below the surface of talk and chitchat. People who have sat for a season in the crucible of pain are the most heroic and exquisite of all those with whom we share space. They are rich with thought and so thoroughly aware of what matters and what doesn’t. At last, in these settings, we can all be who we genuinely are. There is no more energy for facade, no more tiring obsession with the pursuit of the American Dream, and no more time wasted on shallow living. A dividing line has split life down the middle and the only way to survive is to choose redemption and hope. We live in a paradox of sorts: joy and suffering, pain and healing, loss and hope. It is the nature of life.
So when you can’t lift your head, when you can’t see the light, when you feel trapped in the tight walls of fear, when you wonder if the sun will shine again to warm your heart...write and write again. Write to release the darkness and know that there are many who have gone before you who have seemed to find their way with a pen...
Link for the book...check it out.
http://fartheralongbook.com/
