Not one Moment, but a Million

I can’t name the exact moment, but there was a time when I intentionally went silent. I got really quiet. I tip-toed through life not wanting to be heard or seen. I was ashamed of my presence, my voice. I hid myself in a myriad of ways. I feared that if people really noticed me they’d know the depths of my despair. They’d know the things that happened to me. They’d hate me like I hated myself.

Even as my healing journey was well underway and I was more comfortable and confident in my own skin, being seen and heard was a deep overwhelming struggle. I saw myself as undeserving. I heard my voice, my words and my thoughts, as meaningless and insignificant.

I attended Community College for many years working toward an Associate Degree. I enrolled in Psychology 101. I quit before I finished. When I did attend I never spoke or contributed.  I had so many questions I couldn’t bring myself to ask. So many ideas I desperately longed to share. I didn’t make eye contact with anyone, especially the professor.

Years later, I enrolled in an elective course with that same professor. I was surprised she remembered me. She asked me to stay after the first night. I was terrified.

“You’re different,” she said in a soft sincere tone. “There’s something different about you.”

Unsure of how to respond, I nodded nervously.

“It’s your smile and something in your eyes that wasn’t there before.”

“Thank you,” was all I could summon.

Our final project was a presentation in front of the whole class. I was scared and thought about throwing away a whole semester to avoid that last night. I don’t remember the topic, but I remember the professor clapping when it was over and again asking me stay after class.

She congratulated me on my presentation and upcoming graduation with honors. But really, she wanted me to know she noticed changes in me that showed real strength and courage. That was perhaps the first moment I remember thinking that maybe—just maybe—being seen and heard wasn’t to be feared. It was also a realization that being seen and heard is not limited to the senses of sight and sound.

Years later, I preached my first sermon and felt something similar. Each time I speak in front of others it gets a little less frightening. Every time, I tell a little of my story the shame becomes a little less powerful. Any time I allow myself to be visible, the internal angst lowers a level.

The first time I shared a poem with an audience was a nauseating experience, one I was too nervous to really be present for. When it was over I went outside to vomit in the bushes.

The second time, well, at least I didn’t get sick.

And then the third time I had an experience that still fills me with amazement. I was part of a fabulously quirky group of poets, who started performing poems in a church basement. We thought no one would come, and ended up having to find more chairs when the room filled to capacity.

I wrote a new poem just for the night about shoes. I still remember every pair of sneakers I had from 2nd grade through high school. I still feel the sting of being laughed off the playground for wearing generics. And the pride of owning my first pair of name brand shoes. Of course, the poem wasn’t just about shoes. It was about living in tough conditions, feeling not good enough, and discovering where our value is really found. It was about the liberation that comes in the moments we release the idea that our “old” self is bad, and our “new” self needs to be protected from who we once were.

A few weeks after sharing that poem, I ran into someone who was there that night. From across the room they yelled, “Hey, it’s the poet who did the dope shoe poem.” I felt seen and heard. And it felt so good.

When I share and perform poems, I’m sharing pieces of myself and my story. Not for recognition, but for healing, and with the hope that others will know what it’s like to be seen and heard, and find creative ways to tell their stories. Vulnerability is an unbelievably difficult risk. I’ve also experienced how being vulnerable creates space for others to chance vulnerability. The transformative rippling effect is unending.

Someone asked recently if I remembered the moment when I first knew I was ready to be seen and heard again. I said, “It wasn’t one moment. It was a million of them.”

10 Camels is on the road this week. And soon we will be doing what we once could only momentarily imagine. We are debuting our first ever poetry tour, New Laces In Old Shoes: Untying the Knots of Church & Scripture. It’s 6 original poems and of course, includes the shoe poem. All telling stories of belonging and rejection, making meaning of the moments in life that pushed me live silently hidden, and celebrating my coming out and getting out of that lonely lifeless place.

Maybe you’re not sure about church and scripture. Maybe you’re done with it. Maybe you have questions to ask or ideas to share. Maybe you aren’t crazy about shoes. Maybe you’re a shoe fanatic. Maybe you’ve questioned your worth or value. Maybe you’ve struggled to believe in yourself. Maybe you’ve worked hard to blend in, to live quietly and unnoticed. Maybe you’re considering stepping out into the light. Maybe you’re warming up your voice. Maybe you’re wondering when your moment will arrive.

Whatever your maybe, I see you and hear you. I honor you. I recognize the changes you’ve made. I celebrate your strength and courage. I invite you consider that miracles are found in the millions of moments and not just the one.

“No one puts new laces in old shoes. But what if we do?

Water-fully Yours,

Rebecca & 10 Camels