In the US we have a holiday we call Thanksgiving. I remember this time many years ago. I was in 3rd grade, cutting out shapes and glueing them together to create Pilgrim hats, buckles for shoes and little doily collars. We cut out orange, yellow and brown turkey feathers and believed a story we were told about Pilgrims and Native Americans coming together to celebrate friendship and the fruits of the land. I now understand this, and so many other stories we were told as children, to be fabricated tales of convenience. And although I was not there to witness the thousands of scenes as they played out across these vast lands of the Americas, I feel the stories of both joy and sorrow that the land remembers.
I found this over the weekend as I was going through some old files deciding what I could recycle and what needed to be shredded.
It was tucked in amongst my divorce papers. Thousands of pages of legal filings, custody assessments, attorney fee statements, copies of horrible email and notes I'd received from my ex-husband and more.
It was back around 2005 or so. I was packing my bag, tucking away my notepad and pen, preparing to leave the office of the second attorney I'd hired to help me navigate a custody battle.
Writing releases the thoughts you didn't know you had.