By Robert C. Koehler
Need some spare change? If so, this is your lucky day, because I’ll bequeath you more “change” than you know what to do with. But first, I need to set the context with some honesty.
I don’t want to be writing this. I’m only doing so because my inner parent (mom? dad? . . . both?) is insisting that I do so. This is Tuesday, the day I’ve devoted to my weekly column for the last quarter century. This is who I am! This is what gives my life kick-ass meaning and allows me to transcend my shyness and self-doubt. It allows me to declare – privately – that I’m not wasting my life.
But here’s the problem. I don’t wanna! Or rather, I don’t feel equal to the standard I’ve set for myself. The column’s purpose and aim is to face the world head-on and squeeze out a hidden truth, and in the process I participate in humanity’s collective evolving.
And the world I keep telling myself to face is far, far bigger than my personal life. The world is at war. We’re killing one another: We’re killing ourselves. My outrage is buried under the rubble. All around me, I see . . . children, murdered children, robbed, by political fiat, of the chance to find themselves, to grow up. I will not reduce the hell of war to an abstraction, I say to myself.
I will not . . . will not . . . will not. Yet I do – more so than ever, this last month or so, since I moved from Chicago to a retirement community in Appleton, Wisconsin. Complicating this is the fact that, within days of my move, fascist What’s-His-Name has declared that he will send federal troops to Chicago to “restore order,” kidnap possible immigrants and punish (kill) the city’s dissident soul. His words have intensified my love for the city I have left, pulling me back to it emotionally, even though physically I remain here.
The psychological result: I don’t know where I am. And, to put it politely, such a state of mind makes writing f-word difficult, enough so that I feel like all I can do I scream. And that’s how my day began – with me screaming to myself in utter uncertainty. And the more I did so, the more impossible writing a column became. If you don’t know where, or who, you are, you can’t write with honesty, which means you can’t write at all. Combine this with my determination to write a column this week no matter what, and . . .
Words fail me. the inner screaming wouldn’t stop. It was all I could do. And then my sister, Sue, and my great-nephew, Jackson, popped over just for the heck of it and became, without knowing it, my rescuers.
What happened was this: They asked to do a “free writing” with me. A free writing – a term coined multi-decades ago by English professor, and my mentor, Ken Macrorie – is, as far as I’m concerned, the core of the writing process. In terms of the written word, this is where truth comes from: Set a time limit (10 minutes, 20 minutes, whatever) and just start writing. Don’t worry about spelling, don’t worry about grammar – don’t stop! Let the words bleed from your pen. If you don’t know what to say, write “I don’t know what to say.” Or anything else. But keep writing. Your truth will begin emerging. Suddenly you may surprise yourself . . . ta da! Keep going. Let it flow. This goes well beyond cleverness or “good writing.” Buried truths will emerge. You will emerge.
Free writing is where it starts. The point is to find your soul – and let it find presence in your words. Over the years, the mantra I’ve declared in my writing classes is: Every time you sit down and write, you become a better writer. Writing for publication requires care and struggle to say what you mean, but free writing sets the truth in motion. It launches the process. It makes you the writer. This doesn’t go away.
Except, of course, when it does. I felt so lost this morning when Sue and Jackson showed up, they must have sensed that. I’ve done free writing exercises with both of them over the years and Jackson just tossed the idea out there: Hey, let’s do a free-write now. I was skeptical, enmeshed as I was in despair and self-annoyance. But I could hardly say no.
Often, but not always, the exercise will have a theme. Jackson suggested “Change.” Here’s part of what I wrote – the spare change I now offer you. Don’t necessarily expect it to make sense.
“. . . Greatness is an illusion, a lie – but it’s the quiet lie I whisper to myself and I can whisper it to you as well, as long as you promise to listen and believe me. Here, have a banana. I can’t just blather. I have to convince myself I’m saying – or hoping to say – something important, and not yet known. What’s not known by virtually anyone is how much coffee I have left. What’s not known, even by me, is the word I am about to write. The word is:
“Sissy.
“Yikes! That used to be the worst insult for a boy – oh! Am I a sissy? Hey, soul! I thought I tore you out. Cruel crush and lost bananas. What do I want? I want a sip of coffee. I also want to love it here and be loved, be admired. I want to open minds. I want to . . . I want to . . . I want to . . .
“Oh wobblesoul Where are the trees? Where do I climb? Where do I jump? The queen is eating a banana. Why does that make me scream and cry? Hey, can you spare some change? Sure, you can have all the change in my pocket – by which I mean my metaphorical pocket. . . .”
And life goes on. War goes on. Let’s open our souls and dance.
Robert Koehler (koehlercw@gmail.com), syndicated by PeaceVoice, is a Chicago award-winning journalist and editor. He is the author of Courage Grows Strong at the Wound, and his album of recorded poetry and art work, Soul Fragments.
