Image by junsung back from Pixabay
Hello friends,
You may have seen my post yesterday about an article I wrote called To the Christian Lady Who Called Me a Snowflake Today. Just a quick update. The article is truly resonating with readers. I am still receiving messages and comments regarding how much this piece is making people feel less alone. I think this, alone, makes for a successful piece of writing. Aside from that, the article was double curated and has received nearly 250 views in roughly 12 hours. If you have not yet had the time to read it, I invite you to give it a moment of your time.
(Note—read the bottom of this newsletter also for an exciting update on the Live Your Best Life series.)
Now, onto the second truly vulnerable piece in 24 hours
—this one kept me from sleeping very well last night. I decided it must be written. Here is a sneak peak and a link for contiunue reading if it catches your attention:
The Games We Play
a personal essay, true story
Trigger warning — this essay depicts some uncomfortable sexual assault/abuse situations. Please be aware of that if you find this may be too difficult to read.
There’s a place where the two fences don’t meet and it makes a sneaky outside hallway I can wriggle through. Then it’s two houses and I am at Danna’s, behind the shed. We sift the dirt.
We scrape it up with our hands. If you put it in small piles on the screen and shake the screen, the softer dirt falls through and leaves the rocks to rattle in bouncing circles. We pick through the rocks for treasure and pile them up to the side. Sometimes we find a coin. Cigarette butts. Glass.
We sift the soft dirt from the bucket all over again, handful by handful. I like the dirt perfect.
Danna tells me stories with her big mouth. She has big words that I don’t know, but pretend I know the words. I try them out and wait to see her face. She has a wide-mouth laugh. She is bigger than me but I am older than her. The boys like her better. Today she says a new word I never heard.
She laughs at me. Told me to ask my mom what it means. I didn’t know why she wouldn’t just tell me herself, cuz we’re friends. Sometimes she is not my friend. Like when she tries to get all the kisses from “Hide and Go Kiss.”
“What is rape?” I ask, careful with my new word.
My mom’s face gets all shadowed like the clouds passing over sun. I know then, it is an adult word…
Thanks for reading and for your incredible support in these very personal essays. I look forward to hearing from you.
One piece of exciting news—on the “Live Your Best Life” series—I have reached out to the folks who make the Monk Journal and I’ll be getting a copy of this beautiful journal to work through, cover in the blog series, and review. You are welcome to order a copy of your own and work through it with me as this series unfolds.
Poetically yours,
Christina M. Ward
author of the best selling poetry collection ORGANIC--FIDDLEHEADS & FLOSS VOL. 1