The Risky Business of Silence #NaBloPoMo.

I have come to believe over and over again that what is most important to me must be spoken, made verbal and shared, even at the risk of having it bruised or misunderstood. That speaking profits me, beyond any other effect. ~Audre Lorde

For years I’ve carried a story untold. Two decades. Thank goddess I finally realized the untelling was its own telling; my silence its own story. Like an ill-trained architect, my silence designed a life that might not have been. And I suppose it had my permission – my silence was consent. But as of late I have been telling the story, rereading it and writing a new ending…building a brand new life.

Silence wasn’t a strategy. Not a conscious one, in any event. I didn’t know I needed to tell it. I didn’t know there was even a story; that there was anything worthy of telling. So I didn’t. I didn’t share it with anyone.

Not even me.

I carried a story untold, never bothering to see if the heroine, teenager that she was, needed to share her version of events. I never checked to see if she wanted to claim her space. Lift her voice. I gave her shelter, but no platform. I thought nothing of it, and without so much as gut check, I muted her.

And with each passing year, her story was reduced to a chapter, a vignette, a scene, a beat. A moment that no longer mattered because it was all those years ago, and here we are in a new time, and space, with new characters. No need for digging up the old untold.


What are the words you do not yet have? What do you need to say? What are the tyrannies you swallow day by day and attempt to make your own, until you will sicken and die of them, still in silence? ~Audre Lorde

There is a risk in the telling, yes, but the greater risk is in the untelling. In the silence. In the denial of your story. In the casual disregard of your truth. Voicing your story does not have to mean telling it out there to them, but at the very least, you owe it your life to tell it in here, to you. What truths are hidden in your silences? What love is lost? What life is secreted away, literally buried alive? Can you save it? (Tell it). What is the story that remains hidden so far in you that you barely recognize or remember it? (Tell it).

Funny thing about a story untold. We deny it audience, yet it finds one anyway. We hear echoes of characters past in the voices around us today. We recognize the scenery in our present circumstances. We don’t quite understand why the script, the players, seem familiar. It’s untold story, demanding recognition. When if we could just tell it and see it for what it is, we could get on with the very important business of writing the life we really want.

And of course I’m not promising that telling is easy. Sometimes storytelling is a dangerous, triggering business. But you are the author of your life. Name your reality. Share your story.

And then? Keep writing the rest.

To an epic March. #NaBloPoMo.

I am risk-averse.

I generally play it safe. But I woke up this morning, overjoyed, excited, and inspired to tweet this:

It’s because I’m on planes every week, logging hundreds of miles in rental cars, memorizing favorite dishes in restaurants, and yet rather than wait for all of that to slow down, I’m writing anyway.

It’s because somewhere amidst my hectic lifestyle, I have to pack up my apartment in paradise, and return to my roots. Something I hadn’t planned to do… possibly ever.

It’s because the last day of March marks the first day of a new life. And I can’t wait!

I’m not sure who this risk-taker is or where she’s been hiding all this time, but she seems to have relegated safe to the margins, allowing LIFE to take center stage.

#30in30. Part Deux.
On a whim, I wrote 30 posts in 30 days last August. My stomach churned a bit as I mulled Aliya’s tweets, asking fellow writers to join her on the quest. It seemed reckless. I had planned to write more in August, but not for all the world to see. Publish every single day? For a month? I’d never done it, despite my claims of being a writer. But because I’d been pushing myself beyond my comfort zone, the discomfort assured me this was likely to be a good decision.

And it was.

It was also very difficult. Like, very.

But I grew as a writer and as a person. And when the 30 days were over, I found I missed the discipline. I gave myself permission to vacation from blogging, and slack off a bit, but eventually the bit became a bite, became a double portion. I wanted to try “something like that” again. I thought I would start in April, when I was logging fewer miles and fewer calories. But two days after my birthday, I found I could wait no longer. March feels like the right time to write.

So here I am.

I have no clue what I’ll be sharing with you here. But I’ll be here every day. I hope you will, too.