A Turtle Writes

Given that we lost an amazing poet, writer, change agent, and inspiration of mine today, I thought I would come out of my shell for a bit, and share some honesty about writing.  I have had this written for a while, but was hesitant to share.  Thank-you, Maya, for speaking words of truth, beauty, and strength and for forcing us all to be vulnerable.  You will not be forgotten.

Being vulnerable is impossible.  It makes me want to vomit and crawl into my lady-sized turtle shell.  I have always imagined the inside of a turtle’s shell as a small living room, with a book, drink, and a roaring fire.  The turtle, or in this case, lady, pulls into her shell, and no-one can stare or judge or say anything hurtful, because she is cuddled up in a safe hiding place.  Writing is a bit of an oxymoron.  I wouldn't write if I didn't want to communicate, yet,  I can be more vulnerable, because no-one is there but me.  I try to imagine that no-one will see what I write, and I can be honest.  Then, you get brave and share these thoughts, these pieces of your soul, and someone stomps all over them.  The anonymity only goes so far and you realize you are completely exposed.  The reoccurring “naked dream” has come true, except it is your heart, and not your boobies, which you have flashed at the world.  The first time I shared my writing, it was actually my poetry, and I was on the board of students who reviewed the entries for a publication we would be printing for the college.  All entries were anonymous and read aloud to the group.  The poem I wrote about death was adored, but the one I wrote about love, was defiled, ripped apart and spit upon.  Truth is, it was really bad.  It was disgustingly sweet and innocent and may have involved the International House of Pancakes.  No kidding.   Besides, people prefer to read about torment more than they do about bliss, so it was NOT chosen for the publication.  I wanted my living room shell so bad.  The worst part was that some of the people there knew that it was mine.  So, as my heart, on a platter, was being minced into nothing, one of them kept glancing my way and pitying me.  I swore that would be the last time I would ever share what I wrote.  I gave up on putting myself out there.  Sure, I write now, but I am still scared to share the real stuff.  I share daily anecdotes on my blog, but I save the meaty, fatty bits.  I am working on being more vulnerable, because the best writing is honest.  There are not always lessons to be learned, or plots to be followed, but someone actually says something that rings true to being human and suddenly this part of you opens.  A shade is pulled and light is suddenly exposing part of yourself that you didn’t even know was there.  I am not really sure what the point of writing about all of this is, other than to tell any of you who read any of this that I am going to try harder to be vulnerable and true.  My closest friends recently asked if I would share some of my writing – the meaty stuff, and I drew into my shell.    I got scared.  Maybe this is all an explanation to them, or a motivation to myself, but either way, I think we all have something to say, or possibly even something to speak against.  Maybe we say it through writing, or conversation, or paint, or design, or whatever it is that we do to create and inspire and make sense of things.   And if this is true, I think that maybe we should all jump out of our shells a bit – naked little turtles with stories to tell.