Community Blog
These posts were all written by someone in a Soul Writing group or workshop in ten minutes or less—really!
Not only that, what you read is virtually unedited from the original, timed writing. Several pieces often have the same title since groups write together on one prompt. Join us anytime to try it out for yourself. For now, happy reading.
I’ll never understand
I’ll never understand the truly polite woman. The one who stands like a first lady on my left shoulder.
I’ll never understand
When I close my eyes in search of a memory, something comes to my mind right away. I see an escalator moving up and I am on it.
I need you to know / I don’t want to know
Dear Mom and Dad, I want you to know that the stories from my childhood still have the power to crack me up.
I need you to know…
… that I fail every day. I am stealing this line from a recent movie “The Dig”, and that’s the line I still remember.
I need you to know / I don’t want to know
I need you to know… That I care. That I hurt. That I didn’t mean to hurt you. I don’t want to know what you think.
A sure promise
As much as I may try to settle in to the relief one can experience with a “surety” / My body warns me of the lie.
I write into being …
I have to start today with a confession. Bless me, Group, for I have sinned.
I write into being …
I write into being the shape of my grief. Or, sometimes, my joy. I work things out on the page.
This cup we call life
I pin them carefully through the paper and onto the cardboard with the little stickpins provided. I choose a color: red, blue, green.
The road back
The road back begins with finding the right pen to write these words. Too fat. Too thin. Running out of ink. Is this a journey I am resisting, or is it a version of needing the right vehicle for the road ahead?
Crossing the threshold
I stand at the mouth of a bridge, long and stretching over a bubbling, sparkly river. The sun is warm and there is a cool breeze off the water that gently rocks the bridge.
If you look closely …
If you look closely you’ll see a ring of guardians standing around you.
I’m tired of …
Whenever I came home, my father called out: “the American.” I didn’t think of it too much until years later.
I always felt I must …
I want to pull off the velcro of my past. I want to pull the past off of me with a loud, satisfying noise that rips open like a rain rattle, like the single most satisfying belch ever to light up the inner esophageal and intestinal universe.
The moment I knew …
The moment I knew the story of prune juice was in some ways tragic, came after my father died.
For reasons known only to them …
For reasons known only to them, some people have endless energy. Not me.