Writing Is

Very high dirt pile // Park City, Utah

I sit cross-legged on the cold hardwood floor, back flat against the dishwasher door. If I stay as still as possible he might pass me by. Chances are slim. Behind me in the living room I can hear my husband wrestling with one of Chopin’s Ballades on our newly-arrived grand piano. Though he is rusty, he is at peace. I am grateful. I can hear the low chitter chatter of the television downstairs and though I cringe, I feel okay that my son is mesmerized for the time being. Like clockwork my youngest arrives at my side, but only long enough to take a sip of my now-cold tea. I will have to find a better hiding spot in our new home. He steals the last bite of my brownie and vanishes around the corner. I look up and notice for the first time I’m staring at a reflection in the oven door. She’s a bit of a mess, wisps of hair sticking out from the never-quite-intact ponytail. Dark circles under her eyes match her lowered gaze. Oversized winter jacket still on, like she didn’t have time to hang it up yet.

Writing allows me to remember. It freezes a tiny moment onto the page of my life’s storybook, a snapshot of our life right now. A few days later, a couple of months or years down the road, I will remember my husband’s joy over christening our new piano in our new home. How my son found me yet again and interrupted my writing, yet again. And I, caught wrestling with the pieces of who I am now, sat staring at a reflection that was all too familiar.

…

The lights flicker and we start our roll away from the jetway. There’s a bit of a jostle, but other passengers don’t seem to notice. I do. My mind begins to wander and the tension in my body shifts. Why did the TVs turn off? Why did the speaker cut out? What’s with the lights? The air, once clean and fresh, feels a bit stale. I reach up and turn on the tiny fan above me. “Are we going to be okay?” I mouth to my husband. The lights flicker a second time, turning my ears from the noise. I search for reassurance from a flight attendant’s expression. They seem unaware of the chaos that builds in my creative mind. But then I remember, focus on the truth Lauren, get a hold of yourself.

Writing drowns out the noise. The actual act of shaping words functions like a mantra, a yoga breath repeated over and over down the page. When fear takes over and my mind goes on a joy ride, it’s hard to call reason back to safety. Writing helps to silence my negative inner voice. Writing finds the truth, when I can’t always see it with my own eyes.

…

I tap the microphone and moisten my lips, take a deep breath, and force the words from my dry throat, “Hello everyone, I’m honored to be here today to remember the life of a beautiful lady. I’d like to share this last letter I wrote to her when I heard she had passed. I’ve been missing you Grandma, but today in the midst of the changing season, under the watchful eye of the harvest moon, you feel so close. The boys wander ahead of me as we circle back on our evening walk towards the house. We are collecting seed pods, and rust colored leaves, pinecones, and the last bits of greens from a summer that’s slipping away. Your hand-me-down Christmas decorations are my guide and we will turn our scavenged items into ornaments to decorate our own tree this December. I've never felt more connected to you than when I’m creating memories with my own children. I’ve missed you Grandma, especially these last few years when hearing your voice no longer occurred. I have been waiting for this day for a while and I knew it would come, and yet I still wasn’t ready.”

Writing is healing. In my inherent desire to make sense of life and death, I write. Often, I don’t realize how I feel until I see the sentence on paper. Not only do I need to understand what has happened, but also to know what to do next. Through writing my Grandmother’s memorial, her death was given meaning. In the light of tragedy, I caught glimpses of hope in seeing through my children all she had passed onto me.

…

My heart skips a beat and then rapidly increases in speed. My face winces at the sound of the word unstable ringing out over the intercom system. ETA 5 minutes, patient unstable. I realize I haven’t taken another breath. I hear the helicopter clearly through the thin tent “walls”. It kicks up the flaps, whips sand around like a tornado, and deafens anyone’s voice. I shut my eyes tight and try and will this Marine to live with my mumbled prayers. I hear the rattling of blood tubes on a rack that jostles past. Everyone knows that’s not a good sign. In the blink of an eye Marines begin filing down the length of the longest hall in our field hospital. They come out of the woodwork like ants in an assembly line. They come from all over the base, some clearly exhausted from a long run to the hospital. Others carry combat gear and multiple government issued weapons. Gaze cast downward, not a word spoken, an entire military unit giving life, limb, their own blood, and bodies to support this one US Marine.

Writing allows me to never forget. Twelve years later and a memory could close my throat, make my eyes water, and bring me to my knees. It’s been twelve years. We have whole gorilla boxes untouched from the day they arrived home from Afghanistan. Minus the holes from mice who seemed to chew their way to the United States. Caught in an emotional war with my heart, I write because it’s too painful to speak the words. I don’t want to give a voice to what I saw. I don’t want to remember and yet, remembering honors the thousands of young lives lost in a war for something larger than we’ll ever understand.

…

I sit staring at the reflection of the woman in the oven door, and feel shaken by her haggard appearance. A moment of peace and quiet may do her good. She could hang up her coat, enjoy a fresh hot cup of tea, and possibly even sneak in a shower. But for now, stealing this moment to scratch out a few lines from her heart, feels like all she needs to fill her cup. She knows when the quiet comes, maybe years down the road, she will long for what she has right now. She has found a way to enjoy the five precious minutes of writing time amidst the life around her. Gratitude for the thousands of moments like these, she has learned to take advantage of life’s tiny ordinary moments.

…

Writing is a path to self discovery. Maya Angelou once said, ““There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.” Writing is a mirror into my heart, without the pressure of having to speak the words aloud. Writing brings a voice to the words I cannot find. It reveals what I didn’t know I knew. I write to find the woman I was once and the mother I am now.