His business card slipped out from a pile of stationary as I decluttered my writing space. I set his card to the side. On my walk earlier that day, I thought of him and what a big part he played in my life. I decided to reach out to him. After all, he saved my life.
Writing is heroic because through the written word we carry ourselves and others across thresholds. Writing is heroic in its vulnerabilities, which make us and the reader courageous. Writing is heroic through the legacies left behind when the writer is no longer with us. Memoirs, letters, essays, poetry and fictional stories are bread crumbs left to be discovered and used to get through life's many passages.
Our stories and poems are our legacy, placed down like crumbs for future readers to find. To consume. Other's may live because of what we leave behind.
Davis Taylor was my therapist back in the early 1990's. He led me to Colleen Brenzy, whose Psychic Development course I took and now offer on-line myself. Several of my books and teachings have evolved from her class. My weekly sessions with Davis freed me from the bondages of shame and blame I had carried with me till then. I am here writing this blog to you, dear friend, because Davis listened to me, saw me and loved me.
After cleaning out my writing space (a monthly practice), I got on line to google and find Davis Taylor, so I could reach out to him. I first landed on his obituary. He had made the great transition in September of 2016. He passed 5 years ago. I found myself grieving and searching for more of him on line. And there I found his bread crumbs!
He left behind Poems. Such a sweet legacy for me to find. Of course in me he left a legacy of hope, love, recognition, and trust. I am a better human being and therapist because of him. His bread crumbs become part of me, crumbs I will leave on my departure.
What bread crumbs have you found that helped you? Write about that.
What as a writer are you leaving behind? Write about that.
Who is your favorite poet? Read their poems; write and dedicate a poem to them.
UNEVEN RAIN by Davis Taylor
drops quietly from heaven,
then, gathering into syllables,
taps the rusted gutter.
Facing the year’s darkening,
I wonder, is this enough–
a sufficiency in pain,
the heart easing into gentleness?
When I listen
neither word nor silence,
the uneven rain.
All Write Wednesday blog: Some Wednesdays and my Come as You Are blog are some Friday's.
Read the past posts.