You spoke and sounded my own
pain, a cascade of spilled
shame, the rolling arcs
of the ways
we break, reach back into
the dark to reshape
ourselves whole,
excavate, create from the ruins,
craft a kinder path from
earth and words; believe you this:
you are seen, you are heard.
Do you feel that others hear you?
What does it feel like to hear others?
What have you heard in your journey that make an impact?
(It’s funny that “hear” came right after “voice.” Ah, the joy of randomized lists.)
I’ve been thinking about what comes next after this year-long project ends, which of course requires me to think about where – and why – I started. Of course, I needed to be heard. I needed to help ALL of us be heard.
But there’s something else, a requirement for occupying this space with you, with all of you.
I needed to listen. I felt it, viscerally, as I made my way into the space and the work, the full force of your voices. And I learned it, am still learning it, will spend the rest of my life learning it.
To honor every articulated experience I came across – whether related to the primary subject matter of this account or the countless intersections between this work and the work of others.
To learn where to lead and where to follow. To recognize that I have expertise in exactly one person’s subjective experience – my own – and to take everyone else’s at absolute face value.
To treasure the act of trusting those voices, even when (especially when) when they contradict a belief I’ve held about myself or about the world. To challenge things I thought I knew, about myself and about others. And to change, even when change itself is a leap of faith.
You’ve heard me. I hear you, too. Whatever form this work takes when this year-long project is done, I always will. I will always, always hear you.
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