Bone House

When I was in my twenties I lived in a bone house. It isn’t true, but it is not a bad way to start a story. I went to a writing workshop once and maybe never again. Thirteen or sixteen seasoned workshopping folks shared their stories in their practiced reading voices over the course of the long weekend. And out of thirteen or sixteen, I faded into the disappearance zone, making myself the one who got away. The girl who stood out was the one with the bone house. Her sentence was quite magnificent and the teacher even swooned. Her heart beat inside of there, and she loved and she lost from there, and once she told us about her bone house and the teacher swooned so strongly, I realized there was no way I’d be stepping forth for sharing.

We all have a bone house, though, when you really sit down to think about it. I made a flyer once with Microsoft word and a basic font in black and white and a simple printer-all I had-but I went for feel and lines and a general look and if I’m honest with myself and with my audience, it was my own personal bone house. It stood out amongst the other fliers with their pro logos and blues and purples and fancy squiggles and photos with poses. You put their bone house on a pedestal and it haunts you for ages when in fact your house is made of bone and it is living at the center of you this whole time. Two cents and a quiet moment where you ink forth from the simple truth of you gets you there. You, emanating out from its rafters rather beautifully and profoundly.

Originally published at https://www.milluminodimmenso.com on February 4, 2021.