Flag Abuse

I am scanning my memoir of living communally for ten years from pages that were written on a word processor to computer files, editing as I go. On the one hand, I am grateful that I wrote everything down because I see as I edit, that I have already forgotten many details. On the other hand, this is reawakening old memories, some of which are not pleasant. My naivite surprises me, and yet I was young and idealistc, why should this be a surprise? I am glad that I captured that naivite and that I can look back at that young girl with more kindness now. At first when I started writing the memoir, I was angry that she was so stupid, so gullible, so eager to please, that she didn't stand up for herself and wasn't aware that she was placed in situations that were dangerous, demoralizing, and emotionally damaging. And worst of all, despite her strong maternal instincts, subjected her children to situations that were also dangerous and emotionally damaging. And yet, I envy her the joy, the daily miracles, the faith, the encounters with others who were special, seekers of truth, pilgrims to the holy center.

In writing a memoir, we want to tell the story, share our experiences, brag about how we survived or perhaps how we transformed. Were transformed. We want to remember. But we also process, we come to understand who we are through where we have been in a different way. Through the objective lens of words on a page. They may be our words but we craft them, we seek to have a fine literary sense, we want our reader to be inspired enough to read to the end, to want to know what happened to us. To cheer us on, to sigh with relief, to become our friends, to know we are more than just acquaintances passing in the night, that we, too, have suffered and survived, grew and celebrated, took wing and soared.