Looking out my Backdoor: Where lines converge

When passing by a mirror this morning, I thought, “Lord, oh dear, I’m composting.” Well, aren’t we all but that’s no consolation.

Which thought led me to a memory that shook me to my bones. My Aunt Mary, at 90, who had composted a lot by that time, said to me, “I’ve outlived all my friends. There is nobody with whom I can talk about how it used to be.

“And many can’t hear me when I talk about how it is now,” she continued.

Which memory led me to several threads, lines converging to a point of shared thoughts and ideas.

That’s what it often feels like living here. I have no history shared. I have only the present. It is a complicated situation. Sometimes I’ll start to tell a story about my past, realize my audience of one or two is not listening, stop the story and nobody notices. I find that amusing. We are all so into ourselves.

With poetry, I can talk to my past. I had finished a poem that I couldn’t have written a year ago because back then I still figured I had to wait until everyone died because what if someone recognized him-or-herself.

Yes, I agree. My reluctance to write certain experiences was ridiculous. It’s hard to be honest when you can’t be honest. Not only that, people see only what they want to see in my writings. And, what I intend does not matter one whit. We all read what we need.

I was playing with my poem on the computer when I heard from Cheryl. She talked about how good it was to share feelings of guilt and to be able to talk with our group of friends about family situations with honesty.

In England, Karen and her husband were dealing with a health scare. She felt safe to tell us about how scared they were, how relieved they were getting help.

Ellie chimed in with her experience with skin cancer, caught early, which she is treating with a cream.

Denise admitted that it is still hard for her to share deep thoughts and feelings with others. She agreed that sitting home alone in one’s head is a sure road to depression.

Cheryl wondered how much of our reluctance to speak our reality came from our families, from the ways we were taught.

All the metaphors we inhaled and ate and digested became a part of who we are. From “Don’t hang your dirty laundry on the line for the neighbors to see” to “don’t toot your own horn,” we were taught to keep it all, good or bad, to keep it all to ourselves.

A dozen years ago, when our small group of high-school classmates agreed to keep in touch regularly, to get to know one another, we began by sharing little bits and pieces. We found we hadn’t known one another at all. And our families were a total mystery.

Gradually we earned trust; we began sharing the larger pieces of our human puzzle, the pretty and the ugly, to be met with understanding, support, tears, laughter.

How can we know ourselves, how can we know our friends, until we can speak freely words which are true? When I tell you what is going on with me, I get to hear myself, my thoughts, my worries, fears, hopes, dreams and helplessness. Sometimes I laugh, I cry, I cringe, I shrug.

For me it is a great huge tinsel-wrapped gift to be able to talk to you, to my friends, my family. I don’t even know what’s true for me when I’m in the middle of it. I need to hear my own words.

Even in the same family, we each speak a different truth. It is important that I understand and speak my own truth. And if nobody else understands, that is none of my business.

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Sondra Ashton grew up in Harlem but spent most of her adult life out of state. She returned to see the Hi-Line with a perspective of delight. After several years back in Harlem, Ashton is seeking new experiences in Etzatlan, Mexico. Once a Montanan, always. Read Ashton’s essays and other work at montanatumbleweed.blogspot.com. Email [email protected].