Tusitala
To me writing is truth work. It is thrilling and revealing. I know I am always going on about truth telling, and diving into the meat of your life. The fruit of your life. How the sweetness and thickness of its stories unravel. The people and friendships that make up your life. The missteps, miscommunications, the joys, hurt and experiences. We tell our side of the stories through filters, evidence and preconceptions we have formed. Our truths are not always complete and true facts. There is a line always being drawn in the sand of our ideas. Do I have a right to this story more than others? Am I more entitled to them because I can tell them better? No, I just think I am better at telling the ones that I have experienced.
I am always struggling while writing up my memoirs in poetry. Divulging in the truth of my life. Unpacking what might upset some people. I heard a poet ask, “are you the kind of person who suffers from vulnerability hangovers after revealing yourself?” YES, YES, YES I AM. But I’ve never been a person that throws rocks and hides my hands. No, no, no. I own my wrong just as much as I own my truth. I think it is a noble thing to want to be a writer. A tusitala; a writer of stories, storyteller. To brace yourself in the art of making yourself clear to the world. I like to say it is a gift to be able to articulate them. I pray for it daily. Articulation and comprehension. Whether it is on social media or published form I want to be clear and concise but that doesn’t come without ambiguity or being pushed away by trolls fussing about “proper” English, or that I made a grammar error. Yet I am clear about my meaning and purpose. E le papeva se upu. (not a word stumbles)
I have never known a love that doesn’t end in tears. “You have kept count of my tossings; put my tears in your bottle. Are they not in your book?” Psalm 56:8 And so all the unwritten words are at the altar beckoning for me to leave some, write some, sing some, pray some. There is this uncontrollable urge to tell our stories, or our side of the story. I try not to make all my writings one sided. All the things I am processing against the growing ills of the world. Our ideas of doing the right thing are always being added or taken from. Part of growing in my writing has been, being okay that everyone won’t get it. Some will think that you’re too deep, too dramatic, too sensitive, too emotional, too different, too wrong, too right. I know, I know what shall we write then? Is it sensible to be selective about sharing your gripes, growing doubt and quiet unrest? Discerning, yes, but do not write your stories in vague. Do not let doubt rest in the faithful hand of moving beyond the unknown. I almost let that dark cloud be the foundation of sitting this one out. Almost let hurt cradle my heart for my love of writing. If God is the ultimate author of every line written between our stories, then grace be held in my obedience to tell them. He is the filler in every sentence. His mercy is the guide to keep living a life worth telling.
And so, I am finding the mercy of God, right where I am standing. It is beautiful, it is blinding and it is inviting but most of all I can claim it’s mine. Even when I write it.
I am writing you love letters from Hilo.
I pray you read this with hope and love. With joy and expectation— knowing Jesus loves you but more importantly He needs you to grow up— in your word reading, praying, believing, hoping, looking for His return.
All my love,
G.
