Words

If there was ever a person who was a human geode, it would be my friend, Donna Wheeler. Outwardly, Donna is a non-descript, average looking middle aged woman. Her hair is brownish, but not quite deep enough to be a true brunette. Her body is round and matronly, one you can image receiving comfort from in big bear hugs while you spill your tears and heartache. Her most attractive feature is her voice. It has the ragged and alluring raspiness of a seasoned jazz singer, her laugh sounds of smoke and earth. She does not hide one wrinkle, or gloss over any physical features what-so-ever, instead she wears herself in an honest acceptance that is rare and enviable to most women. But crack open her non-descript outside, and you reveal a hidden world of gems that is intricate and dazzling.

I have known Donna for years. I’ve sat across from her at tables in meetings, across rooms at numerous community events, and on occasion-- across my own kitchen table. She is a career real estate agent, a mother and a divorcee. She is also a published poet. Crack. She has been part of numerous civic and political movements in various parts of the world. Crack. And she has a depth for love and understanding of others that translates into a wisdom I marvel at. Crack.

She is the treasure in your midst you never knew you had because you might not have taken the time to see what was beneath the brownish hair, the matronly body. I have known for a long time that she shares a love for writing.

My writing has always been something I’ve enjoyed in ways I can’t even describe. It allows me access to places I could never go otherwise, and there are few things I like more than shutting myself in a room alone --sometimes for hours--with a glass of wine, jazz playing, laboring over a menu of words. Lately though, I’ve wanted to push myself beyond hobby. I want to actually become a decent writer. Say something that might matter. I thought Donna could help me. She said she would!

One of our agreed methods to improve our skills is to attend a monthly Practice Writing Class. I had attended several times in the past, and it had quietly slipped away like so many other things do. This class is particularly good for me, as it demands the opposite approach of how I like to write and forces me to be deeply uncomfortable. Someone in class chooses a word or phrase, and we must write about it in short (5-15 minute) increments and read aloud what we wrote.

It’s been interesting to see what I do. Mostly, I sit there until the last few minutes are up. A white blankness washes over me every time. But then in the eleventh hour, it turns crimson and I pound away at the letters to get the heat out.

This my friends, is an exercise in vulnerability and rawness I would never have had the guts to do prior to my partnership with Donna. Donna, I thank you for inspiring me to push myself, get out of my comfort zone and see what else is out there. And I can’t wait to see what is.

In our most recent class, a gentleman was eager to write about the word “word” or “words.” I thought this was fitting given my new dedication to how I use them.

December Practice Writing Class: Words

Words. A two sided coin: one side gleams with purity and inspiration. It can pulsate with a heartbeat that is tender and gentle, or be a pounding ocean wave that crushes your insides and swallows you whole. It is a love letter in all its variations, the impassioned speech shouted in crisp staccato, the gold nuggets that you hoard in-between your mattress-- or the secret pining that lives in the frail and worn pages of a journal.

There is too, the other side-- dark and painful. Words that once heard, or read, or felt, cannot be erased from your person. It is the argument that got away from you, it is another’s long nursed bitterness that marred you forever no matter how bright you learn to smile-- or the secret pining that lives in the frail and worn pages of a journal.

Words are the metronome to which we set our souls.

The Practice Writing Class is free and open to the public. It is held every Tuesday morning at Banfill-Locke Center for the Arts in Fridley from 10:3am-12:30pm under the excellent guidance of Joyce Nelson Shellart.