writing when words matter most

join me for a community writing group wednesday 10/18 at 7pm est

I always say if you are writing, you are a writer.

Ok, perhaps not a best selling memoirist, published essayist or even so great at a business letter or meaningful social post. But, when you begin a practice of putting thoughts to paper, then by gosh, you are indeed a writer. You don’t need anyone’s blessing to be a writer. Just write. It is an act of curiosity, innate creativity and deep understanding of your truth.

this is part of a collaborate prompt written with my eldercare group

Ditch perfection, complete sentences and grammar and the idea you are writing for some sort of end game or reader and just let the pen move across the page. Someone in a writing room yesterday said, “the page is the greatest therapist you could ever ask for” — I wanted to unmute myself and shout amen! I think I did raise my hands over my head. Obviously not a replacement for therapy, but deeply cathartic.

Writing is a reflection of our intuition and our internal experience. I write to make sense of things that have caused confusion, sadness or angst. To capture memories and delights. I explore the interiority of my thoughts and move them to the page. I have shared some of my stories of loss, so my learnings, leanings and missteps may help others as it helps me to write them. My work is not always polished to a fine shine. Many of my meanderings are messy and most don’t see the light of day.

Sometimes what we try to make sense of on paper, is a rich unfurling of something that is difficult to verbalize or contextualize. It is often a safe receptacle to put down the heaviness of a day or experience. When we write by hand we also use a part of our brain that is said to respond in healing. Writing this way is also a more “right brain” task — tapping into originality and freedom of expression.

Many stare at the blank page and feel a sense of overwhelm. I bet some of you have been handed a journal and told “writing is good for you”. I say it to the folks that come to me to explore grief tending. They ask me, "what should I write?” All of it. Allow it to be a “whisk broom” as Julia Cameron says about the practice of morning pages. A clearing. A cleaning. These are three long-hand pages written upon waking, at the edge of your dream state and part of The Artist’s Way.

When I was a kid, I would tuck my deep and dark secrets in a small faux denim diary that was decked out with Mrs. Grossman rainbow stickers and a silvery heart-shaped lock with a tiny key. This was a place where I could explore a worry or fear that was “on loop” in the story of my mind. Some days it was a bit of anger or jealousy that needed a home. A conversation with me that addressed my confusion. The underbelly of my folks divorce in 4th grade. Crushes and what crushed me. It included being one of very few Jewish children in my new New Jersey elementary school. I was asked to bring the menorah and share its meaning with my class. My teacher Mrs. Zerman was Jewish and asked me to do this. I realize she was inviting in a learning, but I felt other. I did not share this with my parents or sister. Or anyone until today. It felt shameful to not be proud.

Over the past few weeks, I have been writing with seniors that are new to an assisted living home. “Write Your Story” is one of their elective activities. The deep pain and grief they are feeling in this transition, memories of their past and a future that they can hardly imagine, are all aching truths. We collected phrases from each prompt and crafted a group poem. One woman came to this home by way of escaping war via Poland and Siberia, another never lived more than a few blocks away. The two discovered they were both at NYU at the same time. Now hall mates. As they wrote, they discovered grief, joy and pain. Some found words they could not bring themselves to tell their well-meaning loved ones who moved them to this beautiful facility. They explored and expressed autonomy, bravery, dignity and free will. When they shared some of their work with one another they discovered community, kinship and a depth and breadth of understanding.

I am writing to you today about writing because I am trying to make sense of the universal grief of the world today. My words feel puny and weak. My voice shaky. I invite you to write into this pain and fear in an act of self-care, awareness and discovery. A meditation. The page can tell us our truth. It can speak to our calling. I realize it is a privilege to sit at my keys and write this to you and ponder how to help on a larger scale. For today, I will help in allowing the page to be our teacher.

If you wish to join me for a free prompted writing session tomorrow at 7pm, here is the zoom link. Barri Leiner Grant is inviting you to a scheduled Zoom meeting.

Bring paper, pen and an open heart. x, Barri