I’m trying something a little different…for me anyway. Here’s a new poem with the text below accompanied by a little reading of it by yours truly. The volume of the recording gets a bit loud at times, so I apologize for that. But I hope you enjoy it nonetheless.
Yours, Mine, and Ours
My story is mine. I’ll share it with you, but I need to give it to you too. I need give it to you because it’s bigger than me. So much bigger than me. I need you to help me hold it. There’s no way my hands can hold it on their own because there’s no way it would ever fit neatly in something they can grip. Not even a book. No, my story can’t be confined between the covers of any book, printed neatly on the pages in size ten Times New Romans font. It’s so much messier than that. There’s no way my hands can grasp it because my head can’t even do that.
I need you to help me hold it. I need your help because it’s my story, but it’s yours too. You are in this unfolding story. You always have been. And I always have been. I was in this story before I was even born. We all were.
We all are. This is our story. Let’s cradle it together.
The dialogue has been spoken one word at a time by people of all ages and labels and from every nook and cranny of the world since the day naked became known. “I,” she said. “feel,” he said. “alone,” they said. Do you hear them? There are billions of voices attached to people who feel voiceless. Attached to human beings stripped of their God given clothing and then some who have said and say those very words. Do you hear them? Do you hear me? “I feel alone,” I said.
And I’m pretty sure I heard your voice in the mix of that severed choir.
But what would it look like if instead of that… If instead of wounded voices crouched in solitary confinement bleeding words of ache and doubt and shame from their bare skin we stood tall and we all said in unison, “We are one”?
We are one.
What if we pieced our stories together to see where they overlapped, sewed them up in this utterly flawed, but truly lovely quilt and draped it around all of our shoulders? Do you think in so doing we could sew up our wounds too and clothe ourselves in dignity and strength?
Oh, I think we could. I think together we could mend what others ripped apart. So you share— You give— You tell me your story and I’ll tell you mine. Because, after all, the stories are all of ours and they’re waiting to be told.