Finding Stillness in What Flows Both Ways
I recently moved into an apartment that is perched above the mighty Hudson River just north of New York City.
The river is about a mile wide where we sit and the mesmerizing fluid expanse often makes me drop whatever I’m busy with in favor of observing the tides, drifting clouds and, with autumn, the changing leaves.
I previously lived in northern California and I used to say that I lived on Tree Time. Surrounded by so many redwoods, I couldn't help but consider life in 1000-year increments.
But I now seem to be on Sky Time and River Time, learning an entirely new language.
My dining room table looks out upon the Hudson and it’s my new favorite spot to meditate.
The Hudson was originally named Mahicantuck, “the river that flows both ways,” by the native Lenape to describe how the saltwater from the ocean at New York harbor mixes with fresh water from tributaries as far as 150 miles north.
The varying tidal flows are part of what make the river so captivating.
I was recently meditating, noticing the direction of the tides, when seemingly out of nowhere tears suddenly sprang to my eyes.
This happens sometimes.
I’ll be sinking beneath the chatter of my mind and settling into deeper, quiet places when a painful thought or feeling will push its way to the surface. A memory might bubble up or an unrelenting expectation about who I “should be,’ or a fear about the state of the world.
The flood of emotion can take me by surprise, like bumping into something unexpected when walking in the dark.
In the silence of the morning, as I let the tears roll down my cheeks, a boat came into view heading south toward New York City. The river is a surprisingly busy thoroughfare of barges and container ships, fishing boats, sail boats and sometimes ferries.
My tears were rolling, the river was flowing and the boat was clipping along.
But then the boat seemed to slow to a stop in line with where I sat and, almost imperceptibly at first, it started to turn toward me.
Over the course of many minutes the bow swung a long arc, as if changing direction.
The direction of my sadness changed, too, and I became riveted by what this boat might be doing.
How come it didn’t drift with the south-moving tide? Had it dropped anchor? There is no marina where I live and I’ve never seen a boat stop smack in the middle of the river, so what was it up to?
This turn felt somehow connected to a turn within me, to a turn in the world. The moment held a confluence of the rush of forward motion, how much energy it can take to stop, what it means to change direction.
The question—where are we heading?
When the boat was almost fully facing north, I felt a flush of relief that it would finally move on again and waited in eager anticipation to see it finally start to pick up speed.
But the boat didn’t head north. It simply faced in its new direction and sat stationary.
And I thought, “Huh. Isn’t that just it?”
So much happens in the turn.
It can be important to sit before we move on.
Stillness can be motion, too.
This is as true in life as it is in meditation as it is in writing.
We’ll explore the explosive power of these moments in my upcoming workshop Mining for Gold: A 5-Week Writing Workshop to Unearth Hidden Narratives to discover:
What stories have been driving you?
What anchors you in the midst of a turn?
What new story wants to be told?
I hope you'll either join my there or leave a comment below and let me know: what is true for you?
When Writing is the Remedy
The curious thing about writing personal narrative, be it an essay or a book, is that we often set out to write something that we haven’t been able to fully articulate yet. The process itself is what unlocks the meaning and leads us to our insight.
But in pursuing this knowing that lives just beyond our fingertips, we often first run into what has kept the words only partially formed.
It could be that we need to complete additional research to better understand a topic. Or it could be that we need to improve a writing skill, such as nailing the idiosyncrasies of dialogue, to better bring an experience to life.
In many instances, however, we first encounter what has made the words difficult to say—a fear of being seen, an unhealed trauma that still lives large in our heart, a seeming lack of courage to own the truth that we’ve known all along, the unsettling feeling of writing against the tide of popular opinion, the questions, 'Who am I to do this?' and 'Am I worthy?'
This can be the real work of writing.
The invitation is to leave the shore of insecurity to follow our instinct to a truth that needs to be known and then written. To say the words that are ours to say means that we have to own the right to say them, trust that our inner voice will serve as our guide and live our way to the wisdom that arrives at the end of the story.
This is when writing through becomes our remedy. This is when our lives become mythic. This is when we become our own heroes and heroines.
Yet every heroine needs to attend to her own healing at times, and it can really help to have a few tools at hand when you hit an emotional rough patch.
“The Universe came calling and I had to say, ‘Yes.’”
Karen Solt wrote her memoir, Why We Hide, in Story Alchemy’s book writing course, Crucible (formerly Literary Alchemy). But to write that book, Karen would have to face a deeply traumatic event that caused her to hide in the first place.
Covid created time to write and after decades of silence, Karen finally committed to writing the truth.
Karen served in the Navy for 22-years. And within her first year of service she discovered that she was gay. She served before and during the Clinton Administration’s policy, Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell—the days when it was illegal to be gay in the military.
The Navy Criminal Investigation Service (NCIS) regularly conducted “witch hunts” to root out gay service members. To keep her job and avoid being convicted as a criminal, Karen had to constantly hide the truth of who she was.
While she ultimately came to love serving in the Navy and would rise to the rank of Senior Chief, Karen and those she knew and loved suffered devastating consequences for the hiding that became a requirement.
I recently sat down with Karen to discuss her writing process and what helped her to finally deliver the truth of her story to the page. We discussed tools for working with painful experiences and more (video links below).
5 Tools to Help Heal Trauma & Change Your Story
Find a therapist: While this might seem obvious, finding professional help might not be your first thought when you begin to write. But if your work begins to veer into challenging territory, additional support may be just the thing that allows you to process difficult experiences and deliver the story to the page. Somatic Experiencing and EMDR (Eye Movement Desensitization and Releasing) are two techniques that are especially helpful in working with trauma.
Join a Writing Community Where Your Feel Safe: Something shifted when Karen read her pages to the other writers in the Crucible book writing class—she felt seen and heard. This helped to ease the pain of carrying her story alone, build confidence in owning the truth of what happened and broaden her perspective, which ultimately helped her to move through the events of her past.
Read to Yourself in Front of a Mirror: Writing the experience down is the first step to diffusing its power. Reading the work aloud is an important second step. An audience of one—yourself—can be a great place to start. Ultimately, you are the one who needs to become comfortable, heal and find peace with what has happened. Take baby steps in the comfort of your home by reading in front of a mirror and witnessing yourself directly.
Pace Yourself: Writing might offer access to a powerful story, but we get to choose how to work with difficult material. Karen found that once she decided to write about what happened, she couldn’t stop. It was deeply cathartic and she wrote until she was done. But it can be equally beneficial to write small bits at a time. Choose the pace that feels best for you. There is no right way to do this.
Write to Discover a Wider Perspective: The pain of traumatic experiences often fix our perception of a given event. But writing can open that up. Empower yourself to try on different perspectives through writing. Create a list of all the possible scenes or topics related to your subject or the event itself. On any given day, choose what to write about—will you choose to write what’s hard? Or will you pace yourself and write something beautiful or fun or informational instead? Giving yourself this option allows you to keep the project moving along without being obligated to face hard things when you’re not feeling up for it.
Karen’s book, Why We Hide, will be published in spring, 2024. You can find Karen at Hideology, on Facebook: @solt.karen and Instagram: @karen_solt.
If you’re interested in hearing more about Karen’s story and other insights, I invite you to watch the short video clips below. And I’d love to hear what works for you when you write about hard things. Please leave your comments below.
Finally, if you’re interested in writing personal narrative or a memoir, there are two Story Alchemy courses to support your writing journey: Mining for Gold is a 5-week deep dive to help you unearth your hidden narratives and generate valuable material for your memoir, personal essay or work of literary non-fiction. And a new cohort for Crucible: A 6-month Book Writing Intensive begins in January. Applications to participate will be accepted in October, 2022.
Karen shares the events that transpired that inform her memoir, Why We Hide.
Writing your experience, reading it to others and being witnessed in the truth of who you are can give you the permission you need to keep going.
On the move from self-blame to allowing grief.
