Story 101 – Conference call
On the weekend, I had a video conference call with my writing group. One of the questions posed to us, was ‘who, or what, is our muse?’
I had never really thought about it much before. It could be heartache, or loneliness, or hurt. I know that often, music has inspired me. There are a few artists that I can listen to that will ignite my imagination, and usually, it is their music, if any, playing while I am writing. Often I like silence.
We were asked the question, ‘what would it do to our writing if we believed God, the Spirit, the universe was our muse? God my source? The universe?
Well, I will tell you, when I first contemplated if I was going to partake in this writing course, I sent an e mail, asking if it was religious based. I did not want to write about God, I did not want to write about religion, I just wanted to write. I was assured that although there were many religious people in the course, it was not religious based. I was good with that. As it turns out, these women are amazing!
I explained that while I am not a part of an organized religion, I do believe. I refer to him as ‘my God’. All I mean by that, is that I believe, and he may not be the same God you pray to, and we may not have the same beliefs, but I do believe that there is someone bigger than me, someone more than me, someone who loves me, and guides me. I have my own unique experience with religion, with the church, with God, but have always lived by the belief that there are two things you only talk about with a few trusted people, politics and religion. I still stand by that.
Anyway, our task at hand was to take 10 minutes to write about God, the Spirit, the universe, (whatever was our belief), being our muse.
Here is what I think:
I have a story within me that will not come out to be shared.
Is my muse, my God, my universe, going to give me the most divine opportunity to share my story?
If I would have been asked this question a few days prior, I would not have been able to answer it. I had NO answer. This day I did. I could see, that God had an injustice happen upon my daughter, allowing words to bubble up, my story, beginning to come to the surface and he was speaking to me through her, likely knowing, through her, is the only way I could truly hear him. If he truly is the reason for all things, he needs to protect my daughter. This light, this spark, within me is enough to light my fire.
He has fuelled my need. If the universe is my muse, I have put out there, a need to find my voice.
This is her story, yet it is mine...
The Unwanted Kiss
She came in the front door, her bag slung across her chest, her hair wild from the humidity.
“Mom, can I talk to you, tell you something that happened?
I shut my laptop with a “snap”, I know when she says this, that she needs my undivided attention.
“Sure honey, what happened?”
She was at her friend *Connors house, so I quickly scanned my mind, he annoyed her again, she ran into someone at the school yard on her way home, or she saw some bad kids. These are all some of the things she regularly reports.
I was in no way prepared for what would come out of her mouth; that perfect, small mouth, with those beautiful full lips. My lips.
“Connor forced himself on me and kissed me! I pushed him away, but he did it again, three times!”
“He WHAT?” is the first response that came out of my mouth. As I asked her to tell me what happened, I said a quick request to God in my head to please let her be able to get it all out, let her find her communications skills enough to be clear about what happened.
She described how he asked her to go in the garage he wanted to kiss her. She admitted she was curious too, she thought it may feel good.
Then she got nervous, she thought it was wrong and told him so.
He kissed her anyway.
She got hot and started to sweat, she didn’t feel right, she felt like it was wrong, and once again told him no, she didn’t want to kiss him again.
He put his hand on her lower back and pushed himself toward her to kiss him again, she pushed him away, both her hands on his chest, she explained, showing me with her hands outstretched. He kissed her a third time, and she yelled at him.
As she told me this, she began to cry.
I sat in front of her, holding her hands, reaching out to comfort her.
I closed my eyes.
Oh God, his rough hands.
Oh God, the searing pain.
Oh God that horrible taste in the back of my throat, what the hell is that?
Oh God, my back is killing me, my head, oh God the pain.
I opened my eyes and it was her I saw before me. Her red, hot face, tears coming down her cheeks.
My anger boiled inside me, bile coming up, I nearly puked in my mouth.
I was devastated for what she just experienced, yet thankful for what did not happen.
God, don’t let it happen to her too, please, not ever. Please, no!
I scanned her for the truth.
I knew there was more, so I asked her.
“He asked me mom, oh God, he asked me if he could see my boobs, he pulled my shirt, my bra away.”
Then it ended. His mom came into the garage.
My girl tried to tell his mom what happened and she told me that they both got into trouble. This mom, this woman, this stupid bitch said to my girl over and over again that it takes two. It takes two. She didn’t know what it meant, but his mom kept saying this to her.
It takes two?
If this woman had been in front of me, I would have punched her. I would have spit on her.
I let my girl cry. She needed to cry, to be rid of the feelings I knew were overwhelming her. The shame, the confusion, the hurt, the betrayal of her friend.
As she put her face in her hands, I closed my eyes.
I had to ask her if she knew what it meant. I knew I had to ask her a serious set of questions and be prepared to answer the ones she asked me.
Should I tell her my story?
It was all too much, I wanted her to keep her face covered, and I couldn’t let her see my face. I can’t let her see my tears; I can’t let her see my truth.
Not yet. Not now. I’m not ready. She’s not ready.
Oh God, if you are there, please spare her.
*name has been changed.
I believe that this was God telling me, that the time is now, to share my story, and share my truth. This is her story, yet it is mine.
Thank you for stopping by.