No one wants to be here, you know, not ever. No roll call, no welcome, nothing but overlapping glances of acknowledgment. Some of us nod to one another, many look down, a few look up. Some of us are already crying.
“Just a reminder that it’s first names only, and that you are all encouraged – but not required – to share.” More nods. She smiles and, even in their knowing, her eyes are brilliant. She is our fulcrum between trauma and its attendant stress and growth. She revolved from one to the other, and it shows in her hopeful smile. “Who would like to open?”
To open is divine; to share is a step down from that. We all share, and we try to open, but there are invisible people here, you know. We conjure them with words, with silence. They stand about behind us somewhere, and the negative space they occupy darkens this huge room with its circle of steel folding chairs and its bright lines cutting the floor.
“I was 13 –”
“I didn’t think –”
“Why? Why did – ?”
We whisper, we scream, we keep crying and sometimes, and with permission first and every time, we touch each other. Our revelations draw each other close, and something larger than ourselves rises up and hovers over us, right beneath the fluorescent lights studding the green ceiling. Our testimony weaves together, coalesces, and then openness seems to shine down on us. For a few minutes, anyway.
“Thank you,” she says, embracing each of us gently, invisibly. “Thank you all for coming here tonight.”
Membership is never free – and this group is no exception. Our fulcrum stands before us, golden and gorgeous beneath the fluorescents, and we stand up too, all of us as one, in an unbroken circle.
Ashley Woodward
“Just a reminder that it’s first names only, and that you are all encouraged – but not required – to share.” More nods. She smiles and, even in their knowing, her eyes are brilliant. She is our fulcrum between trauma and its attendant stress and growth. She revolved from one to the other, and it shows in her hopeful smile. “Who would like to open?”
To open is divine; to share is a step down from that. We all share, and we try to open, but there are invisible people here, you know. We conjure them with words, with silence. They stand about behind us somewhere, and the negative space they occupy darkens this huge room with its circle of steel folding chairs and its bright lines cutting the floor.
“I was 13 –”
“I didn’t think –”
“Why? Why did – ?”
We whisper, we scream, we keep crying and sometimes, and with permission first and every time, we touch each other. Our revelations draw each other close, and something larger than ourselves rises up and hovers over us, right beneath the fluorescent lights studding the green ceiling. Our testimony weaves together, coalesces, and then openness seems to shine down on us. For a few minutes, anyway.
“Thank you,” she says, embracing each of us gently, invisibly. “Thank you all for coming here tonight.”
Membership is never free – and this group is no exception. Our fulcrum stands before us, golden and gorgeous beneath the fluorescents, and we stand up too, all of us as one, in an unbroken circle.
Ashley Woodward
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