There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.
“Guests, You are welcome here. Be at your ease. Go to bed when you are ready. Get up when you please. Happy to share with you – such as we’ve got – the leak in the roof and the soup in the pot. You don’t have to thank us or laugh at our jokes. Sit deep and come often you’re one of the folks.” – The Bathroom Door
It has taken me the better part of six months to sit down and even begin to think about writing a second blog post. You should see what my draft folders look like. An overflowing series of stories with no titles, titles with no stories.
Titling this entry, “Chapter 2” forces me to begin writing.
I’m not sure if that came from Oprah, Shonda, or Maya – I know I’ve heard all three of these women speak those words to me via book or podcast in the past 24 hours, so that has got to be something.
I’ve not yet found my creative space or groove.
But I need to write something. Anything.
So I chose to recite (yes I was saying it out loud as I typed) a poem that for the longest time resided on the back side of my Granny’s bathroom door and eventually made its way into my Mum’s house directly propped in front of the toilet. I memorized it – as did my siblings. I don’t know if it was because the restroom served as a place of solace from one another or it was the superb cuisine of the 90’s, but we spent a lot of time in the bathroom.