A Safe Place

  

     The first time I met her the sun was shining through the double windows in the yellow room. We climbed many wooden stairs to reach this place at the top of the old restored Mansion. Outside snow was melting off the trees. It was early spring but the snow had not completely receded yet. We sat on folding chairs in a circle. My heart was beating loudly, as I sat both nervous and excited.

   She had it, that hospitable ease about her. Like a seasoned professional she quieted our nerves with her kind smile as she asked us to share the reason we signed up for the class. I looked at the small group of women sitting around me. There was a small woman with dark brown hair sitting on my left. She seemed very reluctant to make eye contact as she explained her dream of writing down her legacy for her family.

    Next to her, a woman with an infectious smile and warm coffee brown eyes introduced herself. She was a newly wed who had recently moved from Costa Rica to our little Iowan town. Her accented voice had a bright and joyful ring to it much like the sun shining into the room on that early spring day. She too wanted to share a legacy, her mother's story.

    Beside her sat a tall woman with long blond hair. She possessed an earthy kind of beauty. She listened politely and spoke intently. Explaining that she was a teacher by nature both at her church and as a home school mom, she shared her hope to expand her writing skills.

    My turn, I felt a lump in my throat. "Please Dianne hold it together for goodness sakes!" I pleaded with my nerves. Looking at Deane's reassuring smile I went for it. "I'm Dianne Singleton I am excited to be in this class because I just rediscovered writing."

    Like riding a bike the skill was still hiding within me, but only recently had I felt free enough to let it out. Sure I had been writing skits for years. I had written in my journal for over a decade. I even wrote my own songs, but I always felt limited. In a resent therapy class I finally got honest about it. The fear of being judged for my true thoughts was the source of my writer's block. Deane Watters, looked me in the eyes and gave me a thumbs up.

"We are glad you are here with us,"she said. "This is a safe place."

     I studied her oval shaped face framed by frosted cropped bangs for a moment.  Her blue eyes glittered behind her stylish red frame glasses. She had a beautiful smile that lit up her features in a warm sort of tea with scones way.

From the beginning she had our attention like a mother hen gathering in her chicks. She shared her own writing journey. My mind was challenged by her boldness to write and to surround herself with writers. She shared useful tips and lessons from books about writing. We read poems out loud, and discussed how they made us feel.  Her face lit up as she spoke of the inner writer's critic. I nodded along with the other girls. I had believed the inner critic for far too long.

    Then it was time to do a writing prompt. For fifteen minutes we had to write about a picture. I chose to think of the old photograph of my mother's parents. It was a wartime wedding photo taken in 1945. I still can remember how the words jumped from my mind dancing onto the page through my blue inked pen. There was a quiet haste in the room as we wrote about our own snapshot from life. When the timer beeped, we went around the circle to share.

      Again I felt very nervous, I wasn't even sure what I had written. It was like an electrical storm in my head. Words just shot through my mind as I tried to quickly get them out. Deane shared first. She wrote about her father, who had died when she was still young. I pictured the black and white photo of him standing in the yard next to an old car. The delicate details and vulnerable words caused the little circle to lean in a bit closer as she invited us into this tender memory.

      Around the circle we read. In each story I heard a different and distinct voice. The tall blond read about her wedding picture. I could see the wedding day. I could hear her excitement. I could almost feel the silk of her train and the sheer beauty of her face behind the lace veil.

       Then it was my turn. I looked at the almost scribbled words and began to read. I felt nervous as I spoke, surprised by the emotion I felt. In my picture I looked into the heart of my grandmother. She was so young as she leaned into her new husband. He looked so proud of her. Normally I had a hard time looking at that picture because I only saw the alcoholics they would become. I only relived the horrible stories my mother would share of childhood under the bar stool. For the first time as I looked at her young face I realized she didn't know the pain her later choices would bring. In that photo she was simply happy to be chosen by the tall handsome man with blue eyes.

     As I finished reading the women looked at me strangely.  "Dianne how did you write all that?" One of the lady's asked.

     I didn't know, but I will be forever grateful for the freedom Deane brought to that circle that day. I felt something like electricity through my veins. It was like the words that had been held in all my life were finally free to come out.

    As the class continued that spring, the snow melted into cherry blossoms.  Our circle grew closer as we trusted each other with the words we dared to spill. We looked forward to the new lessons we would learn with Deane. She was wise, careful to build up with her words, tender with our hearts and yet fearlessly paving the way to write honestly. In Christian circles this was not an art form readily taught, still she bravely led the way.

    Looking back four years ago to that first class on writing, I am grateful. As the five of us gathered in our little circle in the yellow room to share our hearts we cheered on each other's words. We forgot the pressures of our lives for a moment and just gathered as daughters of God, mere girls, dreaming, giggly and free. I watched as she helped us to paint the inner world of our very souls and allow God's grace to linger there.

     Deane is one of the most beautiful people I have ever known.  This petite lady who loves sharing tea and homemade cakes has invited us to write with freedom. I think her writing is free spirited like a little girl running through prairie grass picking the wild Black-Eyed Susans to carry home to her mama. Older and wiser than me her greatest desire is for women to find the peace and love of God that she has found. Her writings reflect her rich faith and hope in her Savior Jesus Christ.

    So here's to a wonderful lady, teacher, and friend who has changed my life for the better. If you are reading this today and thinking you have a dream to write. Find a group to connect with. It can make all the difference. To carry out our dreams we need other people that are willing to say,
 
"We are glad you are here with us. This is a safe place."