The Courage to Write: Exposing Our Truths

As winter gives way to spring, small green shoots can be seen poking up from the hard, brown earth. Eventually, they will push their way upward, exposing themselves more and more to the elements.

Writing mirrors the growth of spring shoots from hidden seeds. Our ideas and voices gradually emerge, revealing parts of ourselves to the world. We take risks, exposing our truths bit by bit.

While writing my memoirs, Again in a Heartbeat and Morning at Wellington Square, I exposed aspects of myself, but with limits. This isn’t an excuse, but an honest admission: personal and emotional boundaries sometimes shape our stories.

The fear of reprisal and of not “offending” anyone is the writer’s biggest danger, prowling quietly like a panther in the dark of night.

Writing can be like the times we live in—neither comfortable nor always enjoyable. But then, a turn of phrase, a sentence or two that perfectly captures those moments, brings us back to why we write. Even if brief, our truths, like blossoms, deserve their moment in the sun.

Last week, I wrote about Spain. I had traveled there alone…meeting up with a group of strangers. A Joni Mitchell line came to my mind, “I am on a lonely road, and I am traveling…”

There were conversations over wine, people who knew each other and traveled together, others meeting for the first time, but we all got along, and I listened to their stories. The edict was clear from our tour guide…”No politics.” But soon enough, we discovered that all of us, except one in the group of 14, shared the same mindset about what was happening back home. Those things naturally surface as everyone is anxious about what is going on, yet there is no room for division here. We had just seen the Prado and the Alhambra, representing the power of art, intellect, and belief. This week, I read that the UNESCO World Heritage site, the Golestan Palace in Tehran, was reportedly damaged, and I felt anger. This cannot happen. These places belong to all of us, not one political party or country.

And when I got back to Pennsylvania, I was soon planning my next trip. It is Japan, only this time, I am traveling with my son. Our plane tickets for October are booked. I am already excited about seeing kabuki theater in Tokyo.

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Some nights, alone in my bed, sleep comes when I say to myself, In the morning, I will write. It’s comforting to know I can share my encounters and experiences through this blog and, of course, my writing group. I am no longer a lonely traveler.

After a February hiatus because I was in Spain, the Women’s Writing Circle meets in 10 days. And then there are book signing events, two in April.

This morning, I woke to another wet, dreary day. Outside, I see the pale green shoots of the hosta struggling mightily to sprout against an icy rain. Off in the distance, I hear the mourning dove. And the memory returns of my first writing retreat, listening to that bird as I began writing about John and me.

I still burn vanilla-scented candles as I did at that retreat. The aroma is muse and memory. It is one of healing and renewal, awareness, and strength to forgive—the gifts of the craft. I had to write then, and I still do. When it’s no longer in me, I will stop.