Metabolizing

An observation (for better or worse:)  writing helps me to digest and integrate my experiences more fully.  I sit in silence, first find the words to describe, then without knowing where they will lead, I seek the words that grasp and reflect my experience.  What happens in this process?  It seems that when I write into the experience* I discover more of what the experience stirred, taught, nourished, transformed, or created within me...  I also get in touch with my gratitude more fully.  To write this way, unselfconsciously in a spirit of exploration, actually leads to greater consciousness of the blessings in the encounters of my life.

*Brief example (just the naming of the events, not the deeper explorations, which I will do when I am able to devote more focused time).   On Saturday of this past weekend, I went to an all day conference called "Building a Home," about independent living of individuals with intellectual and developmental disabilities.  I sat in a conference room (that happened to be rented from my alma mater) in which 350+ parents had gathered.  I was there with my son.  I heard presentations by professionals in the field, parents, and by several individuals with Down's and other syndromes.  I have SO much to say about being in that vast field of hearts—all those parents whose dedication was palpable!   Being there with my wondrous son, making his way to shake the hands of all those who presented.  And what of the seed in my heart, just starting to germinate, about offering delicious, safe, inspiring writing groups for family members of differently-abled persons.

All this to explore inwardly—in addition to visiting a chapel on the Brandeis campus where 45 years ago (!!!) I found refuge in the deep of many dark nights.  Passing the spot where I first kissed the man of the "wrong race and religion because of whom" I would be disowned by family of origin, and with whom I would bear a remarkable son, now almost 40!  How much is this all to digest and metabolize.  Words help more than I can say in this process.

There is more in the container of this two day weekend waiting to be more fully absorbed in the fire of contemplation—contemplation fueled by words chosen carefully by the heart.  Nothing rote.  No commercial logs feigning a glow in some facsimile of a hearth.  The words and the fire have to be genuine and burn hot or it isn't worth the time. (I know I switched metaphors: but digestion is its own kind of fire, isn't it?)

 I'll be back.