Last night in writing group, something remarkable happened--as often does with writers. The word that triggered it was "alien."
At some times in our lives, we've all felt weird, misunderstood, left out, uninvited, or "like an alien."
Toko-pa Turner, the author of Belonging, writes about "false belonging"--cutting off or hiding aspects of ourselves to avoid that awful feeling and conform to what other people think we should do or be.
We dis-member the parts that other don't like, chop them right off so well that we can't even find them ourselves. We re-member, when we take ourselves back--which is where we find true belonging.
We can un-hide, write the truth in a poem, draw it, paint it or sing it out loud. Last night, word by word, one person's memories sparked another's. Among former aliens, we are welcomed for the very oddnesses that got us in trouble in former times and places.
The first man I loved was angry when his sleep was interrupted for any reason, especially for such a trivial thing as talking. Since he was the first, the pattern was set--don't wake up The Man, no matter what!
When I discovered that not all men were like my first, I thought I'd struck gold! At any hour, one man always answered, "Hey, Lovey!"--with genuine delight. Another said, "Hey, Baby!" as if he'd been up all night waiting for my call.
Other people can rarely see the tiny precious hidden moments that make two people love each other. It's hard to explain the shape of the ragged hole in the heart that shows up when that love ends or the loved one dies, leaves, or changes.
Writing is what I do now--where the 3 a.m. phone calls used to be. This is me, calling myself.
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