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{SFTH} *Writer's Song* 4/30/01
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We hope everyone had a wonderful weekend and that you are ready
to tackle the week ahead!
We start off the week with a powerful story by Josie Willis. Take the time
to write to write to her today and let her know how her story touched you.
P.S. A number of you have written asking how Jen's knee surgery went.
We are happy to report that it went extremely well, and there is a chance
that she might be able to be back on the softball field before the end of the
season. Whoo-hoo!
For those of you who missed the story Kristi wrote about our niece you
can see it in our archives at:
http://www.storiesfrommyheart.com/042701/
P.S.S. Someone wrote to me and let me know that the link we have at the end
of all our e-mails was invalid (The Four Spiritual Laws). I have since corrected the problem but can't find the e-mail in my files to let the person know. So whoever
you are, thank you!
Michael
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Writer's Song
By Josie Willis
Growing up, I was among the forgotten. I was battered, beaten,
emotionally and sexually abused. For over ten years my father
invaded my life, attaching himself like a barnacle, unwanted and
feared. The names he hurled at me eroded my self-esteem. I was
called the girl with no mouth. I rarely spoke to or answered anyone.
Between my father and me was my mother, silent and unmovable.
The Sphinx factor who cast a long, dark shadow over me. With fists
and switches, she made the bruises and welts that hid beneath my
skirts. I was the Cinderella of the family, stripped of emotional ties.
For years I went through life bandaging deep bleeding wounds that
wouldn't heal. I read books and articles about the abuse, but kept the
secret sealed within. I joined (at forty-three) a church support group:
Incest Survivors Anonymous. The hurt I listened to strained like toxic
puree through me. It was then I learned the value of my writing. We
were asked to write a paragraph about the abuse. Instead, I brought a
letter in I had written to my father. In clear tones, struggling to keep
my composure, I read what I had written. When I looked up, a sea of
crying faces looked back at me--with compassion, with understanding.
It had taken me an hour to write that letter. It had taken me my whole
life to form the words.
After the meeting, the women stopped to talk to me. "Your letter was
wonderful," one said. "I wish I had the courage to write it." I had forgotten
the power of words: how they speak to the heart, vindicate the spirit.
I thanked her and hurried on.
Months later, I made my first appointment to see a psychologist. In the
reception room, on the walls, hung tropical plant pictures in muted
shades of turquoise and peach. On the small desk was a calendar,
set on yesterday's date. It didn't matter what the time or date. It had
taken me 43 years to get here from nowhere. Destination blurred, I was
a ship meandering the channels of a haphazard life.
In her office the psychologist read the patient history I'd filled out. She
said to me: "You've answered all the questions like a psychologist would.
What brings you here so late in life? You seem to have managed well
enough by yourself."
The truth was, I hadn't. I was a circuit board riddled with fears and anxieties,
and was an anomaly even to myself. I am an incest survivor whose baggage
had become too heavy to carry by myself. She drew me out, offering at times
tissues from a box. I shredded and rolled the bits and pieces of them as I talked.
"It's OK to cry," she murmured, seeing the shame on my face.
We picked our way through sessions guardedly. Then, one day, she asked:
"If you could do anything you wanted, what would it be?"
Without hesitation, I answered: "Write."
"Then let's do it," she said. "Let's make you a writer." She sent me home with
an assignment: write a two page letter to my father about the abuse. No
excuses, just do it.
I returned with six pages, more than she'd asked.
"You wrote all this?" she held it up.
Then quietly she leaned back in her chair and read it--not in a hurry--but
thoughtfully. When finished, she took off her glasses and looked at me:
"Your writing is powerful," she said, tears in her eyes. "What would you
like to write?"
"Something to help others like me," I said. "A book"--I wasn't sure.
"I want to read it when you're done," she said. When, not if. "The only
impediment I see is you." "Believe in you!"
I remember her words. I remember the song of my childhood. The inner
drive to put words to paper. No--not just words--but heart and soul. When
the kids in school complained about book reports and essays, I was halfway
through them. My imagination blazed an ink-blurred trail across the paper.
When I graduated valedictorian from high school, I wrote my own speech. I
remember still the hush of the audience, the sudden roar of applause.
Discouraged by my parents, whose abuse strangled me, I gave up writing,
except for classes. Writers never amount to anything, they told me. You will
be a teacher. Inside, the embers still glowed.
I am a writer and a poet now. My poetry has been published in three
anthologies. It isn't standard poetry. It whistles a different tune. Its words
are coated with the echoes of abuse. I write from the heart--to the heart
of incest survivors everywhere. Mine is a universal voice. I've listened to
my heart, and let it sing.
Sometimes, I write silly things. For two years I wrote a column for the
Frog Pond newsletter. It's dedicated to frog collectors like me. I also
write articles for Florida Gardening magazine. In the past I've been a
copywriter for three radio stations.
But always, I return to the book. It's what defines me. It is my symphony.
I write it for the child in me who never knew love. I write it for the children
of our yesterdays. For the children of our tomorrow's. I hear them calling me.
I know so well the patterns of their lives. The trail of tears they follow. In
them--in me--I've found the answer to my psychologist's question: "What
will you write?"
I must write the words that tell. I must break the silent code that
binds us. That others, like me, will know they're not alone. That, despite
the darkness, they (like me) may sing again.
Josie Willis
josiewillis2000@yahoo.com
Send Josie an e-mail and let her know what you thought of her story!
________________________________
A little bit about Josie:
Josie Willis is a full-time writer and has been widely published, especially
her poetry. The above story appears in Chicken Soup for the Writer's Soul,
and Josie just finished up her first book. Josie writes:
"For me, writing is love made visible. Words written from the heart are
dreamcatchers, filtering the bad from the good, creating magical bonds
between reader and writer...And then there is the book that just wouldn't
go away, no matter how hard I tried to run from it. From my articles and
poems have come e-mails and letters from abuse victims thanking me
for my powerful words, words, they say, which have changed their lives.
Their praise motivates me to finish the book...for them. I am their voice,
the voice of us all, flailing against the darkness. I am their voice--I owe
it to them.
Take the time to visit Josie's web site to read more of her writing or
order her book!
http://www.geocities.com/josiewillis2000/a/index.html
AOL Users click here: Josie Willis
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Thought For The Day:
"Success is to be measured not so much by the position that one has
reached in life as by the obstacles which he has overcome while
trying to succeed." --Booker T. Washington
Verse for the Day:
"Blessed is the man who perseveres under trial, because when he has
stood the test, he will receive the crown of life that God has promised to
those who love him." --James 1:12
Kid's Thought For The Day:
"Felt markers are not good to use as lipstick."
Parent's Thought For The Day:
"Stop trying to perfect your child, but keep trying to perfect your relationship
with him." --Dr. Henker
Coach's Thought For The Day:
"I love boxing. Where else do two grown men prance around in
satin underwear, fighting over a belt?...The one who wins gets
a purse. They do it in gloves. It's the accessory connection I
love." -- John McGovern
Deep Thought For The Day:
"The more you cry, the less you have to go to the bathroom!"
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_
/_/\/\ MICHAEL T. POWERS
\_\ / THUNDER27@aol.com
/_/ \ "For I have been crucified with Christ and I no longer live, but
\_\/\ \ Christ lives in me. The life I live in the body I live for the Son
\_\/ of God, who loved me and gave Himself for me." Galatians 2:20
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