My hand is gripping tightly and being squeezed in my mother’s as I walk into an office building on State Street, in Rochester, New York. Could I find this building today? I'm not sure, I was not yet five years old? I usually came to this space with my father’s hands grasp, as I remember he had a different force about his grip, I want to believe it was less fearful and more loving. Is this the truth, it is the vision I have. What I can remember is the largeness of the freight elevator we stepped into. The spaces in the wooden slats were what constituted walls as we rode up to the floor where my father had a rifle range. I stepped over a crack between the elevator and the floor we landed on, the jolt of the stop left me with the feeling of being drawn into the eye of a hurricane. Years later I still had the feeling; if any elevator break in the floor was too large I felt a sinking breath that left me troubled with emotions of being in a vortex of what I labeled my loss.
Writing is much more focused and I would rather be talking and telling you this. When writing I have to capture my reader with choices of language that will have them wanting to read more. I opt for talking; I can see the person’s response and change my words or stop. This is my expressive drama creating itself in a self centered conversation. The visions I create in my psyche continue to my senses especially with captive audiences. This is what I once found at my father’s rifle range, I’m sure of this. I now am much more secure and entertaining as I go chatting and laughing when possible.
In my family of origin sharing truths seemed to have a boring effect, almost frightening without immediate feedback. Personal lives were to be private. I really learned a lot about the need for secrets from my mother. If the truth was boring a lie was better. My secrets have taken a different form. The web of my life wants to tell one of my more shocking narratives. Beginning with the ones that gave me a sense of being a star as a toddler running around the rifle range. At this point in my aging life, I can acknowledge my quirky nature in entirety. My continual self dialogue in my honesty is to be given the right person to listen to me and I have to feel open. My aging life is honest but a new truth seems to be surfacing, giving me continual surprises.
