Telling Our Stories Can Help Us And Others

Telling our stories can help us, and others. Unfortunately, we may be tempted to ponder “Why share those experiences? Who would care to listen?”

I’ve had those thoughts. Consequently, after pouring my life experiences on paper, I tear the pages in shreds and pitch them in the trash. Then hours later I may pick up a newspaper  or scan an ezine on the Internet and spot a story that moves me, because the same thing happened to me.

Now I’m upset with myself for trashing my work. So I reach over to pull my ripped up story from the waste paper basket, and I’m relieved–it’s readable.

I retype my story, do a few rewrites, and (take a deep breath) submit it to magazine. Oh well, the magazine goes out of business. So it’s returned to me. Well, that’s okay, I’ll save it until I find another taker. A few weeks later I get a phone call requesting that I speak to a group. The speaking engagement stipend is $350. I accept, gladly.

While I have the contact person on the phone I present a sketch of my trashed story, feeling hesitant, yet taking a risk at being rejected. Then I pop the question, “So what do you think?”–and hold my breath.

The individual answers, “Oh my!  Yes, definitely use it. The message is powerful.”

This is a true story.

Join me. Let’s tell our stories. It can help us–and others.

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Crippled Hands

We all have crippled hands.

I have physical ones and some of you do, too. The severity of hand functioning can range from minor limitations to total incapacity to use our hands. My degree of disability is less than 3% of my left arm and 7% of my right.

There are also crippled hands the world cannot see with their eyes, because they’re invisible.

“I can handle my life without any help. I’m young and strong and wise. So don’t try to convince me that I need to pray, ask for advice, or request a hand,” I heard someone recently say.

The word “hand” slapped me in the face, occupied my thoughts, and stirred my emotions.

“Crippled hands” — even the strongest have them.

Who Am I?

Every life is unique, yet we share commonalities. As I look over our apartment landscape I see beauty in diversified forms. In the memoir writing course I teach a simple approach to writing one’s story. Every person that writes about their life tells a different story, and yet a simple 3-step approach makes the writing process began, continue, and finish.

Descrimination in the Graveyard

Back in the late 80s-early 90s (I do not remember the date), I searched for employment, without success. Eventually  I landed a job doing telemarketting for an anonymous company. I eagerly accepted the position and started within the week.

Before I agreed to take the job, I checked out their bathroom, to make certain it was wheelchair-accessible. Unlike the inaccessible  restroom used by all of the employees– except the administration– there was a wheelchair-accessible bathroom off-limits to all employees, except the administration. It was located behind locked doors and adjacent to their office.

The person who hired me said they would arrange for me to get clearance to use those facilities. However, the first week on the job I was only allowed access to their restroom once. Other than that one time, I was not granted entrance. Among the reasons for denial: No one could find the key or the boss granting such go-ahead was not in. So I had no choice but to ride my motorized wheelchair to a neighboring graveyard, find a secluded spot, and go to the bathroom.

For some weeks this nightmare perpetuated. Some of my co-workers even thought it was funny. Of course it wasn’t them using graveyard “facilities.”

Yes, I complained. But it got me nowhere.

To be very frank, I can’t recall the date of this happening–or the name of the business. But even if I could, I would not disclose this information. I guess I had blocked those humiliating details from my memories.  

But you know, God heard my prayers. A beautiful door to another place of employment soon swung wide-open and drew me in. And yes, they had top-of-the-line, wheelchair-accessible bathrooms :).

I reported the previous place of work after I left–and soon thereafter heard  they had went out-of-business :).

God is so good!  He gave me the courage and endurance to live through descrimination in the graveyard. And the Good Shepherd found me another job–with wheelchair-accessible facilities.

Winging It or Silence?

Winging it can be a powerful reaction to life events, especially when we don’t know what to say or do. So we go by our “gut” and that often turns out okay. But winging it can create a disaster. 

A few years ago two adults came by for a few minutes with what appeared to be a dog. The moving body played in the floor of the vehicle while they stood outside to chat.

I was feeling so good that day. The sun was shining. The flowers had bloomed. The grass was green.  So while talking, I peeked through the back window of their car, watched the hairy body move, and with curiousity commented, “Oh, what a darling dog!”

They turned around, glared at me, and quickly replied, “That’s not a dog. That’s our child!”

I was stunned! Well, I winged it–for sure. I had no clue it was a human being in the floor of their backseat. But instead of being silent about the motion in their car, I assumed it was a dog (DUH!).

Anxious to clean up the mess I made, I responded to the embarrassment with “Oh, I’m so sorry! I saw all of that hair and assumed it was a dog,” hoping the explanation would excuse me. (Bad idea!).

One of them replied, “The child needs a haircut,” while the other one just half-grinned (and half-frowned).

By winging it I had put myself on the hot sea more than once. Now I felt like I had to say something to smooth it over, but I didn’t know what to say. So I didn’t try to zip my lip. I merely took a deep breath and responded,  “Oh, no, I didn’t mean they looked like a mop.”

Well, that wasn’t the best thing to say either. I had gotten in deep enough.

As the conversation dwindled, the couple said there were no hurt feelings, but I felt so bad.

Then the man turned to the woman, put his arm around her, and winked at me with the words, “We better get going before she insults us somemore” — and they both laughed.

This time  “silence” raised its hand and yelled to me, “Don’t wing it. PICK ME!”

Being human, we have lots of range for winging it–being spontaneous. There’s also great opportunities to practice silence. Take it from me 🙂

(silent).

Growing or Bloated?

If you’re a writer, do you keep an ideas notebook?

I have one I use. Sometimes ideas come to me in one or two words, while other times an image of a person, building, nature scene, etc. will pop in my mind–and return again and again. Many ideas remain on the page and stay there for weeks. While others throw up their hands, like children, and yell “Take me!”

“Growing or Bloated?” got picked up today.

“Growing or Bloated” are squirming around on my lap, uncertain–now that they’ve been chosen–if they wish to stay.

That’s the makeup of “Growing or Bloated.” 🙂 They’re so eager to become a grownup that they overdue it at times.

Slow down, “Growing or Bloated!”

Yes, sometimes it is hard to relax in the journey.

Several years ago I attended a prayer meeting. The leader said the first twenty minutes would be sitting still to listen to God. I must confess that I, along with over half of the group, habitually arrived five to ten minutes late (DUH!).  

I still laugh when I think about it. We didn’t consider that we’d possibly be missing anything by not being there on time. So some of us lingered at MacDonalds an extra few minutes or hung outside chewing the fat, instead of spending stillness time with God. We just wanted to be in the prayer meeting when it was time for us to offer our requests to God. And then leave.

Growing or Bloated?

Right now I choose growing 🙂

But I still like the bloated path 😦

Know what I mean?

Freedom on the Inside

Born with what the world considers a “severe” physical handicap, I learned as a little girl that the most powerful freedom in life is not physically-based, but resides in the heart. 

I once had a friend, we’ll call Sally. Sally and I were the same age, spend many after-school hours playing together, and talked alot. Sally amazed me! She could hang from the monkey bars better than circus folks I saw on TV, jump rope without even taking a breath, and jump rope? That girl could fly with a jump rope! But poor Sally was always worrying about something.

“Janie (one of my nicknames), I’m so worried about ….” would inevitably pop out of her mouth everytime we got together.

“Sally, don’t worry about it. Everything will be okay.” I’d respond, and try to comfort her.

“But I can’t help it, Janie! I’m just a worry wart–like mommy,” she’d comment, hanging by one foot from the bar. Then swinging in pronounced loops around the bar five, six, seven, eight,nine, and (Woo!) 10 times.

“Sally, you should go work in the circus when you grow up. You’re TOPS!” I’d yell from my wheelchair, looking up at her lanky body wrapping around the bar, like spaghetti on a fork..

“Janie, watch THIS!” Sally does an incredible swing from the bar by alternating feet.

“Sally, WOW!”

I still think about Sally today. I wonder if she ever joined the circus–and I wonder if Sally still worries. Sally had remarkable physical abilities. She was free physically, but Sally was tormented with ongoing anxieties. Her fearfulness made me sad. I always hoped she was happier on the inside.