Those moments. . .

I didn't expect church.  I was already weary, having driven to the mountains early that morning.  I had been sitting all day, in one (lovely, thought-provoking) workshop after another, meeting new people, breaking for meals.  It was now after dinner, in the middle of a tornado-esque storm, lightening splitting the darkness through the window behind him.

The workshop leader had introduced herself.  Heavens, she really had been to prison- twice. She really had been a hard drug user.  When I read her short story, prior to choosing her group to attend, I automatically assumed she was lying, all fiction writers do, and this was particularly good fiction.  But in her story, her description of the dull fear, the interdependence behind those grey walls seemed charged somehow.  I wondered how she had researched it.  It never occurred to me that a successful writer of multiple published novels could also be a convicted junkie.

Wake up, Martha.

Each of the workshops that day followed a format.  The leader would talk for awhile, and then issue a writing prompt, a topic, for a free-write, which meant we all put pen to paper and wrote furiously for about ten minutes. Depending on what came out the end of that pen and how we felt about it, we then had the choice to read, out loud, to a group of strangers: different ages, colors, etcetera, all eager as new puppies.

For this one, the last of the day, our ex-junkie/inmate successful novelist leader asked us to made a list of parts of our personalities that were hidden, for whatever reason, locked up.  The writing prompt was then to choose one of those, and give it voice.  Terrifying.  As I said, one hides these for what seems like good reason, at least mine were/are.

It was then time to read and we went along fine. Some were more moving, more touching than others, some funny, lots of "passes", always testimonial to either the power of the prompt, the power of the response, or the power of hesitation to blow one's cover.

Then we circled around to this older man: soft face, bearded, glasses, the kind you would want as your grandpa, or who would become your favorite uncle.  He began to read, and immediately, his voice broke. When it did, my heart melted. I was newly alert.  As he read, it became clear this was a long, old battle and that he was tired, tired, tired.  He plead with this part of himself to let him "break through;"  the voices that were telling him to pull back, be careful, don't risk it, were rubbing against the grindstone of aging, you don't have that much time left.  Will you leave with your real work undone? 


We all knew, all of us, all ages, all colors, etcetera.  We all knew those voices.  When he finished, there was an audible silence.  We then broke into applause, applause for his courage, for his willingness to speak this voice for all of us, the only time we had been collectively so moved.

I talked with him the next day, outside the Auditorium, thanked him.  He seemed a bit abashed, a bit surprised it had happened. Church is like that, real church.  . .