Can we write our way out of hate?
Last week I took a free 2-hour writing course at the Boulder Public library. It was offered by a local author who specializes in non-fiction. She’s written a memoir, and hosts several different multi-week courses for writers of all levels.
I’ve gotten into writing as a means of getting what’s in my head out into the world, and with the tiny hope that for someone it will resonate. Given I’ve had no formal instruction whatsoever I figured it couldn’t hurt to learn a thing or two.
I want to reflect on what it taught me, and could teach all of us about how to meaningfully connect in a world that suddenly seems more full of hate than love.
Like many of you, I feel helpless lately when reading the news. Hopeless. But I want to be hopeful. I want to do something.
I’ve got a crazy idea that a writing exercise can bring us together. And it’s kooky enough that it may actually work…
What the heck am I talking about?
Let me take you back to that day in the public library, just last week where I entered a room that had been reserved for the class.
I felt nervous like I normally do when meeting a group of new people — especially when seated around a boardroom-like table with seats that are overly complicated to adjust to the right height. Formality feels uncomfortable.
One-by-one strangers filed in. Seven women, one man, and the woman that had graciously given up 2 hours in her day to give us a sample of her class. (It was marketing for her, but useful for us — a true win, win scenario).
We did the standard, “let’s go around the table and introduce who you are to the group, and why you’re here.”
Despite these introductions all of these people still felt like strangers to me. All I could see was how wildly different we were. That soon changed.
We were given the poem written by George Ella Lyon. “I’m From” . to inform a simple literary exercise.
Our task was to interpret the meaning of “I’m from…”, beyond the literal. To think about the emotional significance of where we’re from. The memories. The people. The joy. More importantly, the pain.
We were to let it flow and write whatever came to mind. To not worry about perfect sentences or structure. To list. Words to hit the page as quickly as they came to mind.
The simple prompt of, “I’m from ….” inspired a wide array of interpretation. Each of us wrote differently. All of our stories personal. Yet, every single person displayed emotional honesty.
Side note: I didn’t realize it was part of writing class to actually read what you write aloud? Yeah, news to me. My hands trembled, my voice cracked, a few tears were shed. I was not alone. Each of us shared as openly as our hearts had poured onto the page.
The honest words written on the page — when spoken by each of us, became bonds that cemented our link as humans of one family.
It turned out our “I’m from(s)…” had more similar than dissimilar elements.
Every single one of us in that room had experienced pain — joy too, but most certainly we had all come from some pain. Perhaps of not receiving love, or of not being able to give of it as freely as we’d like to for ourselves or others.
In the moments that followed our round-table sharing of what we’d written, these strangers transformed into the familiar — people that I felt I knew on a deeper level. In 20 minutes we got intellectually more intimate than some relationships do over the course of many years.
Our difference in age, nationality, hometown, skin color — you know, the surface level stuff — were no match for the commonality we shared in the emotional arena. We were all seeking love, and at some points in our life had not received it as desired. In some cases this meant we couldn’t give it in the way we wished either.
As a result, we had all felt at some moments that nobody understood us. That we were all alone.
And now, in sharing our stories — the story of our lives through a simple writing exercise, we were one.
By getting vulnerable, we got closer.
I did not hate these people for sharing their pain in the way they did. I loved them for it. I wanted to demonstrate to them that while I didn’t go through what they did — I did go through something that also hurt me, and for that reason we were actually in it together. We were alike even.
I think they call this empathy. It’s been tossed out a lot as the answer to all of our problems. And there’s a reason for that.
Empathy is the way. But it can only be felt if we open our own hearts first.
Let someone in, and maybe they’ll be comfortable letting you in too. We will never all have the same story, but we will always have shared emotions that we’ve experienced in different ways.
There’s a good chance we’ve all experienced pain. Let’s recognize it. Share it. And find peace despite our pain.
As Martin Luther King Jr said:
And I say to you, I have also decided to stick with love, for I know that love is ultimately the only answer to humankind’s problems.
