Soul Work on the Page: Finding Myself in Poetry

Last year, I went to my mother’s house to snag the rest of my things. I donated most of my old clothes and leather jackets and kept my little journals. The stories I wrote as a kid, the poems I scribbled to release that teenage angst, and the bold lines of a faith that I thought was a warm hug....turns out, it was constriction. Anyway, it was a nice moment of nostalgia when I recently reviewed my old writings. I’ve come a long way, and I feel I still have much to learn and grow from when it comes to my writing. Nonetheless, I’m proud of how far I’ve come.  Always daydreaming, making up stories, imagining scenarios in my head and eventually...writing them all down.  My parents, grandparents and the elementary school I attended definitely gave space for me to roam in black and white.  I appreciated them. I appreciate it now.

A story I crafted when I was a wee-thing! Lol Chaline, the great!

Looking back, I realize those early writings weren’t just stories or poems.  They were definitely little survival notes. A way to breathe when words felt too heavy to speak aloud or when certain adults around me felt as though they needed more shush than syllables. I didn’t know it then, but I was already learning how language could hold emotion, give my thoughts some room to dance in memory, and...freedom. My grandmother’s memo pad was my first blank page of freedom. Those wide lines and soft pages were a quiet invitation to dig into who I was becoming, even before I had the courage to ask. Let’s be clear, she was not too happy about me using up her memo pads. Lol. I eventually stopped once she told me, “I’ll cut ya’ behind!” I need my behind to sit, walk, shake, and bounce, so I took heed. You know....booty-protectin’

In church, I’d scribble lines in the margins of my notebook where study notes from sermons should be. Half prayer, half rebellion. The words came out crooked, sometimes confused, but always reaching for meaning for a self that was too indoctrinated to reach so easily.

Now, when I sit down to write, I still feel the hints of that little girl (I mean...the little us’ never leave us, do they?)  the one who wrote for the hell of it, for the relief of it, for the joy in it... who believed that words could change her world, maybe even heal it. That’s what I mean by “soul work.” It’s not just about making fru-fru fancy sentences. No... It’s about tracing the path back to myself through the language I’ve always known: Poetry.

Eight poetry projects later, I still bleed my heart out in black ink. Every page feels like a nice lil’ offering to whoever needs it most: the exvangelicals finding their footing, the late-blooming lesbians learning to love their reflection after unpacking, the oddballs who never fit the mold, the snack lovers who understand the comfort of small joys. They’re my people, even if we’ve never met.

HEYYYYYYYYY, Ya’ll!

via GIPHY

“Soul work” ain’t glamorous. It’s messy, tender, and often solo. It’s revisiting old wounds and finding new language for them that doesn’t make you say “ouch” anymore. It’s giving tribute to  the stories that made me....well...ME. Even the ones that hurt to tell.

If my words reach even one person who sees themselves a little clearer because of them, then all those years of ink and tear- stained hands and sleepless nights have been worth it.  Because in the end, this isn’t just about writing...nah... It’s about remembering who I’ve always been.

If you’ve made it this far, thank you.

Truly.

Writing still feels like a conversation between who I was and who I’m becoming.  I’m glad you’re here for it. Drop a comment, share a memory, or just sit with me in nostalgia for a lil’ bit…maybe a shimmy or two?