Come as you are.

The page can hold whatever we've got.

Photo by Marcos Paulo Prado on Unsplash

Before Wild Writing class, I’ve started asking everyone to offer a check-in word for how they’re arriving.

Frazzled. Hopeful. Overwhelmed. Tired. Scattered.

Whatever is true.

Then, ninety minutes later, before we say goodbye, I ask for one more word.

Connected. Softened. Solid. Inspired. Grateful.

I’ve noticed that pretty much every time, people feel the ground underneath them by the end of our process together.

This morning I arrived with all the feels. I’d gone through a small, but painful breakup the day before and wondered if I needed to button it up before class.

Then I remembered something we say all the time in Wild Writing:

This is a come-as-you-are party.

We get to bring our messy, beautiful selves. The page can hold whatever we’ve got.

So I did just that.

I wrote my way through the sadness. I wrote my way into the realization that the grief I was feeling wasn’t just about this one ending. It was touching the vast well of grief - the one that holds all the losses.

Somewhere along the way I remembered Anne Lamott’s great line: “My mind is a bad neighborhood that I try not to go into alone.”

Mine wandered right into that neighborhood. “You’ll be alone forever!” “No one will ever love you!” the voices shouted.

But here’s the thing.

I wasn’t alone.

The writing held me.

The circle held me.

By the end of class, my check-out word was simply:

Breath.

I’m continually surprised by how sturdy this practice is. How much it can hold. How much muscle it has, being so simple.

We arrive carrying the weight of our lives.

And more often than not… we leave a little more able to breathe.

P.S. If you're curious about Wild Writing, September registration opens soon. I'd love to have you join us at our next come-as-you-are party.