Articles, Essays and Poems by Susan
Writing A Meaning-Filled Life
Archives - September 2007
Writing A Meaning-Filled Life
The skies unleashed a pounding rain this morning as I darted from my car to the gym. As I dried off in the locker room, I chatted with a friend who is writing a book. “It’s about surviving my husband’s service in Iraq,” she told me “and although it is not easy, I find the writing is cathartic. I hope it will help other wives.” I congratulated her courage and moved into my workout.
An hour later, when I left for the office, the storm clouds were only sputtering occasional drops. The sky was clearing. By lunchtime a warm sun was shining. I decided that taking an umbrella to lunch was absurd, if not neurotic. Still an hour later, the storm devils had stirred up another tempest; this one hammered me with sheets of frigid, slanting rain.
This weather is predictable in its unpredictability. It’s October in Boise and, on days like today, the weather fluctuates like a teenager’s moods. By evening, there was another change. A kaleidoscope sunset awed us while a ghostly bank of clouds hovered over the foothills. Brilliant blue seemed to be chasing scandalous gray out of town. The line between dark and light seemed clean, understandable . . . uncomplicated.
But life is not so clean. Often it is complex and confusing. People don’t always get along; they do not agree with each other. For example, do we agree on the definition of bad weather? As it turns out, Idaho prayed for these storms. We danced a rain dance through August and September. Finally the gods sent glorious rain to end a devastating season of wildfires.
Even as I tell you this story, my impressions of today’s storms and ominous clouds take on a different meaning. As the words tumble onto the page, I feel a growing appreciation for the bone-chilling squall that soaked me as I darted for my car after lunch. My definition of bad weather changes.
This is how personal writing works. As my friend writes her story of her husband’s deployment, I know the story will help change her. Reflective writing is transformative. Think about it . . . countless scenes unfold for you everyday. When you recount the important (but not always monumental) stories to friends, family, or a journal, you help make sense of these events. Here's an example from one of the journals in the archives.
. . . . . . When I was sixteen, I had a mad crush on the captain of the basketball team. He did not seem interested in me, but I painted my dreams with Paul. I was in love… or maybe I loved his little red Falcon and his letter sweater. Maybe I hoped I would feel better about myself if I rode in a sporty little car with the captain of the team. That would explain why I spent so much time swooning over a guy who never gave me the time of day. Seems to be a habit of mine.
In the telling and retelling of a story such as this one, buried details and illuminating sidebars come forward. As words fall out of the pen, patterns take shape. Random events come into focus. Expressive and personal, this kind of writing allows us to make meaning from nonsense, to gain insight from both the mundane and the chaotic. Writing the sequence of events tells a story. Exploring how you felt during and after the event and reflecting on those feelings leads to self-understanding. By clarifying life experiences, ranging from the trifling of a teenage crush to the senseless death of an innocent Iraqi child, the writer helps settle inner confusion and unrest.
Personal story writing also helps us determine what we need to do to develop self-respect and fulfill our potential. The stockpile of journals in my attic represents my lifetime desire to make sense of my world. Recently my journal opened my eyes to why I became a Poetry Therapist. Writing about my career choices, I uncover patterns that pulled me to this specialization.
. . . . . . I started writing in a journal at age ten. Mother gave me a small pink diary with a lock on the cover. The lock was ineffective because Mom read my diary more than once. Nevertheless, I continued. The melodrama of my adolescence is preserved in colorful detail on the pages of spiral-bound steno pads. In adulthood I chose everything from composition notebooks to expensive journals as I marched through motherhood, midlife, and a divorce. More than anything else, I needed a listening ear when no one seemed to understand. My diar(ies) helped me listen to myself.
Poetry Therapy is the creative arm of journal writing. As a Registered Poetry Therapist, I have the opportunity to help others make meaning-filled lives. Whether at home or in a group, journaling and creative writing offers itself to the privileged and the impoverished. Recently I witnessed the power of Poetry Therapy to resolve a family feud. In the same month, I saw Poetry Therapy serve as salve for victims of disaster. Writing supports children, adolescents, adults, and senior citizens everywhere. Regardless if the skies are stormy or clear, taking up a pad and pencil provides a tool for growth and healing. Give it a try and fine out for yourself.
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