The Aliveness Project
by Wendy Brown-Báez
My passion for words has resulted in two storage boxes stuffed with journals, hundreds of unpublished pages, dozens of notebooks filled with scribbles, and files bulging with advice for writers. I finally created the writer’s life I dreamed of when I began to bring writing for healing workshops to non-profit organizations, schools for at risk youth, healing centers, prisons, and women’s retreats. The purpose of the workshops is to access intuition and allow the story you are compelled to tell rise to the surface.
The idea of writing for healing came directly out of my son’s death. One day I realized that I had a passion for words and language, I had the wisdom of experience, and I wanted to be of service. They say we teach what we need to learn. My own healing would take years of counseling, detours to Mexico, poetry performances on Día de los Muertos, retreats, healing circles, spending time with grandsons, finding spiritual community and my own writing practice. But writing in groups propelled me forward to both tell my story and to reconsider it from the angle of what it might mean, what I have learned, and what gifts I have been given through tragedy.
I begin with a circle. Circles have power. In a circle a resonance takes place between us as we give and receive support and encouragement from each other. In a circle we are equals. When we hear what others have written, we hear our own thoughts, fears, worries, painful truths, regrets and failures, joys, and resiliency. When we read aloud, we hear our own words, as if for the first time. If we have just written them, they may seem raw and unformed. How many times have I heard a participant in a writing group say: “This isn’t very good.” Or, “I didn’t follow directions, I didn’t understand the prompt, this is just rambling,” and then proceed to read something astonishingly honest, heartfelt and deep, often well written. It’s the emotional turmoil coming to the surface that may make it hard to recognize one’s own profound insight. Also, the emotions surface in a way that is organic and so it doesn’t feel like the effort we imagine writing must take.
Often we do not recognize the power of our own voice, the impact our words have on the rest of the circle. It is a process that is spontaneous, natural, and always a marvel to witness. What arises may be completely unexpected or we may have something troubling us that we need to articulate. My experience as a facilitator of writing circles is that we each have a unique voice but common threads run through our writing, the threads of being silenced, wounded hearts, loneliness and longing, coping with painful choices and memories of loss, betrayal and despair, broken promises and lost dreams, and the resiliency of choosing to move forward. Often I feel that someone writes what I wish I had written. I recognize myself and I recognize my own strengths.
I tell the writers that the story we need to tell, the one we are compelled to tell, will come to the surface, especially if we practice spontaneous freewriting on a regular basis.
I write with the group and share my writing. I write in a way that is personal, intimate, honest, and revealing. This self-reflective writing was first made popular by Natalie Goldberg, author of Writing Down the Bones, Freeing the Writer Within by Shambala Press, and the instructions are simple: keep the pen moving and ignore the critic’s voice in your head demanding perfection, cleverness or style while pouring your guts out. But I have learned that although I can write quickly in spontaneous freewriting, I can control the direction my work takes. I start with the same prompts I suggest to the group: What I left behind, what I regret and what I don’t, what I didn’t know I loved, what brings my joy, etc and during the writing process, reach a place where I can choose to go down one path or another. I can travel deeper into the story of what happened to me or I can change direction to a shift in perspective. I can choose at which angle to view my story: is the glass half empty or half full, can the hurt spawn forgiveness, the wound become wisdom? I choose the path of an uplifting interpretation deliberately as leader of the group. And it has been transformative for me.
When I share my own healing stories, I tell them about the death of my partner Michael, and how it released a burst of creative energy, but it was followed by the death of my son Sam, which shut down my writing completely. Then I give them some advice: I tell them that writing is like riding a bicycle. If you have been practicing, whether it is journaling or writing exercises or working on a story or novel, it comes back. I tell them that writing groups encourage routine, that they can be similar to support groups, that the members become friends. I explain how when I was blocked, I didn’t think I could write, but I could listen and be part of the group; just being there helped. However, once I had a pen in my hand, it was natural to put it to paper. The writing was raw and emotional and rambling but I was writing, at least in the group. At home, by myself, still nothing was getting onto the page. It would take months before I could access my voice again. But over time, it came back to me, naturally, and with deeper meanings and stronger images.
By sharing my own story, it opens hearts. It enables the participants in the circle to trust me and to have confidence that I will be able to hear their deepest secrets, darkest hours, and most shameful failures. They can trust me that I won’t judge and that I won’t be shocked or dismayed by what they share. I hold the energy and space for the group. I don’t consider myself a leader so much as a facilitator although I know I am responsible for the well being of the group and the feeling of liberation at the end.
Occasionally, even in a short two-hour workshop, we will witness someone making a breakthrough. Tears, laughter, and deep sharing will bond the group together and enable the other writers to become aware of what may have been holding them back and what they can do to nourish their own creative spirits. I thank the participants for their vulnerability and their courage. I remind them that it takes courage to write and to share their writing. If the session was particularly emotional, I might end with a brief meditation and ask them to place their hands over their hearts, pat themselves on the back, visualize a successful project completed, or stand up and shake the energy out to ground themselves.
One of the first classes I taught before receiving the Minnesota State Arts Board grant was at The Aliveness Project, a resource for people living with HIV. I wrote with a group of men, many of whom had never written anything before. In this class, I had to quickly create a sense of trust and intimacy: the men had to trust that I would not judge them, their lifestyle, choices they had made or were making, the ways they coped. It was fortunate that I was able to share that I had been married to a man who was HIV positive and that I understood the daily task of staying optimistic and taking care of oneself. I knew that it was up to me to uplift the group no matter how deeply we went or how many tears we shed. In order to lead a class like this one, you must have a writing habit that enables you to take the path of finding the meaning, the lesson learned, the beauty and mystery inherent in all of life; you must believe in the possibility of healing and end the session with something positive, funny or kind.
Due to the funding constraints of the program, we were only able to meet twice but in each session the writing was powerful and honest. In the second session, one of the men shared that he has been part of a support group for 6 months but had never formally introduced himself. “This past meeting, I read what I wrote in class as a way to introduce myself,” he said. This brought tears to my eyes.
The week before my class, there was a gas explosion in north Minneapolis. The next day I received a call from Sam’s dad. He began with, “Did you hear the news about Elizabeth?” Apparently Elizabeth, Sam’s fiancée at the time of his death, was one of the women burned in the explosion. I was horrified and stunned. I had lingering anger over what Elizabeth had put Sam through and felt that if he hadn’t been impacted by her dysfunctional mental state and her controlling behavior, burdened by the impossible mortgage they had taken on so that she could stay in the neighborhood she wanted, and if she hadn’t let the responsibility for her children fall on his shoulders, he would not have been stressed to the snapping point. I thought Sam’s suicide was largely her fault despite all the spiritual guidance I received that year, that Sam and I had an agreement on a soul level and it was his choice to take his own life, that I could not have stopped it nor was I supposed to, that it was inherited unresolved grief, that it was for me to learn about the dark side, or that it was spiritual karma. No matter how hard I tried, I could not forgive her even though I had experienced both the anguish and blame of a partner’s suicide myself when I knew I had done everything possible to keep my partner Michael alive.
However, I felt compelled to visit Elizabeth in the hospital. I don’t know what I thought I could do, beyond offering my presence. I had been trained as a hospice volunteer, and I believe that the dying can benefit from reassurance and love. I knew she had burned her bridges with respect to other relationships and there would not be anyone to sit with her. It felt like the right thing to do.
When I called the hospital, the nurse advised me to come immediately; she was in a coma with third degree burns over 75% of her body. They didn’t know how much longer she would survive on life support. I basically walked out the door as soon as I hung up, gathering into my bag the materials to teach my first workshop at The Aliveness Project that evening.
Arriving in Elizabeth’s hospital room was a shock, even though I had been warned to expect the worst. Most of Elizabeth’s hair was burnt away, as were her eyebrows. Her body was swathed in bandages and beneath them, her skin was burnt black. I almost gagged on the smell. It was horrifying to see a human so damaged by fire and it occurred to me then that our bodies really are just meat.
When the aid came in to check her respirator, I asked if it hurt her to be moved. He said, “Most of her nerve endings are burned away, so she doesn’t feel much pain.”
I choked back tears as I walked to her bedside. I told her quietly several times, “I forgive you. I know Sam is waiting for you. I give you permission to leave, to fly away to the light.” Then I prayed, repeating prayers over and over. When I said good-bye, I couldn’t even touch her.
On the way to class, I felt numbness, grief, shock, and dismay all tangled together. All the grief after Sam’s death reawakened. The facilitator of The Aliveness Project’s health and wellness programs escorted me to the dining hall to eat with the clients. I was uneasy and wondered how the class would go. But as soon as I had a pencil in my hand, the writing habit kicked in and the relief of putting words to paper poured through me. Of course, I didn’t write about what I had just experienced. It was too raw and horrific to share. I just wrote, knowing that self-reflective writing creates serotonin and dopamine in the brain and that the benefits are similar to meditation and yoga. I was living proof, as the discomfort lingering from the hospital washed away. I stayed focused on listening and responding with the heart.
I meant it when I told Elizabeth I forgave her. I didn’t think she needed to suffer any more. But to acknowledge her relationship with Sam, that he loved her and was waiting for her—this stretched my heart wider than I ever thought possible. The attitude that she was to blame did not completely go away but it softened. In the heart of compassion, while writing with men infected with HIV who did not know how long they had to live or what the quality of life might be in the future, I was willing to let go of judgment and just be present.
Wendy Brown-Báez is a writer, teacher, performance poet and installation artist. Wendy is the author of the poetry books Ceremonies of the Spirit and transparencies of light. She has published poetry and prose in numerous literary journals and anthologies, such as Borderlands, The Litchfield Review, Lavandería, Mizna, Talking Writing, Minnetonka Review, The Chrysalis Reader, and The Heart of All That Is. Wendy was awarded McKnight and MN State Arts Board grants to teach writing workshops for youth in crisis and non-profits. www.wendybrownbaez.com
by Wendy Brown-Báez
My passion for words has resulted in two storage boxes stuffed with journals, hundreds of unpublished pages, dozens of notebooks filled with scribbles, and files bulging with advice for writers. I finally created the writer’s life I dreamed of when I began to bring writing for healing workshops to non-profit organizations, schools for at risk youth, healing centers, prisons, and women’s retreats. The purpose of the workshops is to access intuition and allow the story you are compelled to tell rise to the surface.
The idea of writing for healing came directly out of my son’s death. One day I realized that I had a passion for words and language, I had the wisdom of experience, and I wanted to be of service. They say we teach what we need to learn. My own healing would take years of counseling, detours to Mexico, poetry performances on Día de los Muertos, retreats, healing circles, spending time with grandsons, finding spiritual community and my own writing practice. But writing in groups propelled me forward to both tell my story and to reconsider it from the angle of what it might mean, what I have learned, and what gifts I have been given through tragedy.
I begin with a circle. Circles have power. In a circle a resonance takes place between us as we give and receive support and encouragement from each other. In a circle we are equals. When we hear what others have written, we hear our own thoughts, fears, worries, painful truths, regrets and failures, joys, and resiliency. When we read aloud, we hear our own words, as if for the first time. If we have just written them, they may seem raw and unformed. How many times have I heard a participant in a writing group say: “This isn’t very good.” Or, “I didn’t follow directions, I didn’t understand the prompt, this is just rambling,” and then proceed to read something astonishingly honest, heartfelt and deep, often well written. It’s the emotional turmoil coming to the surface that may make it hard to recognize one’s own profound insight. Also, the emotions surface in a way that is organic and so it doesn’t feel like the effort we imagine writing must take.
Often we do not recognize the power of our own voice, the impact our words have on the rest of the circle. It is a process that is spontaneous, natural, and always a marvel to witness. What arises may be completely unexpected or we may have something troubling us that we need to articulate. My experience as a facilitator of writing circles is that we each have a unique voice but common threads run through our writing, the threads of being silenced, wounded hearts, loneliness and longing, coping with painful choices and memories of loss, betrayal and despair, broken promises and lost dreams, and the resiliency of choosing to move forward. Often I feel that someone writes what I wish I had written. I recognize myself and I recognize my own strengths.
I tell the writers that the story we need to tell, the one we are compelled to tell, will come to the surface, especially if we practice spontaneous freewriting on a regular basis.
I write with the group and share my writing. I write in a way that is personal, intimate, honest, and revealing. This self-reflective writing was first made popular by Natalie Goldberg, author of Writing Down the Bones, Freeing the Writer Within by Shambala Press, and the instructions are simple: keep the pen moving and ignore the critic’s voice in your head demanding perfection, cleverness or style while pouring your guts out. But I have learned that although I can write quickly in spontaneous freewriting, I can control the direction my work takes. I start with the same prompts I suggest to the group: What I left behind, what I regret and what I don’t, what I didn’t know I loved, what brings my joy, etc and during the writing process, reach a place where I can choose to go down one path or another. I can travel deeper into the story of what happened to me or I can change direction to a shift in perspective. I can choose at which angle to view my story: is the glass half empty or half full, can the hurt spawn forgiveness, the wound become wisdom? I choose the path of an uplifting interpretation deliberately as leader of the group. And it has been transformative for me.
When I share my own healing stories, I tell them about the death of my partner Michael, and how it released a burst of creative energy, but it was followed by the death of my son Sam, which shut down my writing completely. Then I give them some advice: I tell them that writing is like riding a bicycle. If you have been practicing, whether it is journaling or writing exercises or working on a story or novel, it comes back. I tell them that writing groups encourage routine, that they can be similar to support groups, that the members become friends. I explain how when I was blocked, I didn’t think I could write, but I could listen and be part of the group; just being there helped. However, once I had a pen in my hand, it was natural to put it to paper. The writing was raw and emotional and rambling but I was writing, at least in the group. At home, by myself, still nothing was getting onto the page. It would take months before I could access my voice again. But over time, it came back to me, naturally, and with deeper meanings and stronger images.
By sharing my own story, it opens hearts. It enables the participants in the circle to trust me and to have confidence that I will be able to hear their deepest secrets, darkest hours, and most shameful failures. They can trust me that I won’t judge and that I won’t be shocked or dismayed by what they share. I hold the energy and space for the group. I don’t consider myself a leader so much as a facilitator although I know I am responsible for the well being of the group and the feeling of liberation at the end.
Occasionally, even in a short two-hour workshop, we will witness someone making a breakthrough. Tears, laughter, and deep sharing will bond the group together and enable the other writers to become aware of what may have been holding them back and what they can do to nourish their own creative spirits. I thank the participants for their vulnerability and their courage. I remind them that it takes courage to write and to share their writing. If the session was particularly emotional, I might end with a brief meditation and ask them to place their hands over their hearts, pat themselves on the back, visualize a successful project completed, or stand up and shake the energy out to ground themselves.
One of the first classes I taught before receiving the Minnesota State Arts Board grant was at The Aliveness Project, a resource for people living with HIV. I wrote with a group of men, many of whom had never written anything before. In this class, I had to quickly create a sense of trust and intimacy: the men had to trust that I would not judge them, their lifestyle, choices they had made or were making, the ways they coped. It was fortunate that I was able to share that I had been married to a man who was HIV positive and that I understood the daily task of staying optimistic and taking care of oneself. I knew that it was up to me to uplift the group no matter how deeply we went or how many tears we shed. In order to lead a class like this one, you must have a writing habit that enables you to take the path of finding the meaning, the lesson learned, the beauty and mystery inherent in all of life; you must believe in the possibility of healing and end the session with something positive, funny or kind.
Due to the funding constraints of the program, we were only able to meet twice but in each session the writing was powerful and honest. In the second session, one of the men shared that he has been part of a support group for 6 months but had never formally introduced himself. “This past meeting, I read what I wrote in class as a way to introduce myself,” he said. This brought tears to my eyes.
The week before my class, there was a gas explosion in north Minneapolis. The next day I received a call from Sam’s dad. He began with, “Did you hear the news about Elizabeth?” Apparently Elizabeth, Sam’s fiancée at the time of his death, was one of the women burned in the explosion. I was horrified and stunned. I had lingering anger over what Elizabeth had put Sam through and felt that if he hadn’t been impacted by her dysfunctional mental state and her controlling behavior, burdened by the impossible mortgage they had taken on so that she could stay in the neighborhood she wanted, and if she hadn’t let the responsibility for her children fall on his shoulders, he would not have been stressed to the snapping point. I thought Sam’s suicide was largely her fault despite all the spiritual guidance I received that year, that Sam and I had an agreement on a soul level and it was his choice to take his own life, that I could not have stopped it nor was I supposed to, that it was inherited unresolved grief, that it was for me to learn about the dark side, or that it was spiritual karma. No matter how hard I tried, I could not forgive her even though I had experienced both the anguish and blame of a partner’s suicide myself when I knew I had done everything possible to keep my partner Michael alive.
However, I felt compelled to visit Elizabeth in the hospital. I don’t know what I thought I could do, beyond offering my presence. I had been trained as a hospice volunteer, and I believe that the dying can benefit from reassurance and love. I knew she had burned her bridges with respect to other relationships and there would not be anyone to sit with her. It felt like the right thing to do.
When I called the hospital, the nurse advised me to come immediately; she was in a coma with third degree burns over 75% of her body. They didn’t know how much longer she would survive on life support. I basically walked out the door as soon as I hung up, gathering into my bag the materials to teach my first workshop at The Aliveness Project that evening.
Arriving in Elizabeth’s hospital room was a shock, even though I had been warned to expect the worst. Most of Elizabeth’s hair was burnt away, as were her eyebrows. Her body was swathed in bandages and beneath them, her skin was burnt black. I almost gagged on the smell. It was horrifying to see a human so damaged by fire and it occurred to me then that our bodies really are just meat.
When the aid came in to check her respirator, I asked if it hurt her to be moved. He said, “Most of her nerve endings are burned away, so she doesn’t feel much pain.”
I choked back tears as I walked to her bedside. I told her quietly several times, “I forgive you. I know Sam is waiting for you. I give you permission to leave, to fly away to the light.” Then I prayed, repeating prayers over and over. When I said good-bye, I couldn’t even touch her.
On the way to class, I felt numbness, grief, shock, and dismay all tangled together. All the grief after Sam’s death reawakened. The facilitator of The Aliveness Project’s health and wellness programs escorted me to the dining hall to eat with the clients. I was uneasy and wondered how the class would go. But as soon as I had a pencil in my hand, the writing habit kicked in and the relief of putting words to paper poured through me. Of course, I didn’t write about what I had just experienced. It was too raw and horrific to share. I just wrote, knowing that self-reflective writing creates serotonin and dopamine in the brain and that the benefits are similar to meditation and yoga. I was living proof, as the discomfort lingering from the hospital washed away. I stayed focused on listening and responding with the heart.
I meant it when I told Elizabeth I forgave her. I didn’t think she needed to suffer any more. But to acknowledge her relationship with Sam, that he loved her and was waiting for her—this stretched my heart wider than I ever thought possible. The attitude that she was to blame did not completely go away but it softened. In the heart of compassion, while writing with men infected with HIV who did not know how long they had to live or what the quality of life might be in the future, I was willing to let go of judgment and just be present.
Wendy Brown-Báez is a writer, teacher, performance poet and installation artist. Wendy is the author of the poetry books Ceremonies of the Spirit and transparencies of light. She has published poetry and prose in numerous literary journals and anthologies, such as Borderlands, The Litchfield Review, Lavandería, Mizna, Talking Writing, Minnetonka Review, The Chrysalis Reader, and The Heart of All That Is. Wendy was awarded McKnight and MN State Arts Board grants to teach writing workshops for youth in crisis and non-profits. www.wendybrownbaez.com