Recently I started another creative writing course held on Tuesdays in Burlington. Last week I received a note from my instructor, Brian Henry, asking me to do a "Show and Tell" piece for the class. The parameters were broad: pick something to show and then tell about it. Simple enough. Ha! I started the process at least 20 times and finally settled on this one.
SHOW:
TELL:
The Home Key
Creative Writing Class | 500 Words | 30 September 2014
I look at this small gold house key with cautious anticipation. It may be a small bit of metal with sharp grooves and notches, but it packs an emotional wallop! Will it be the last house key I have on my chain or is it just another one in a collection of many I’ve had over the years?
According to Dr. Brené Brown, the single emotion people are most afraid of is joy. Seriously. We are collectively conditioned to wait for the other shoe to drop so we never fully appreciate the moments of joy when they are right in front of us. We anticipate with more surety the promise of disaster or, at the very least, failure. Joy is terrifying.
I don’t want to be afraid of my joy and this house key represents my opportunity to overcome my history, my fear and lean into and fully embrace gratitude. Only then will I fully understand joy.
The journey to this one key is found in all of the keys before it. The house to which I was born in Saint John, New Brunswick, where my mum was a nurse and my dad worked at the sugar refinery and I spent my days with my grandmother. The tiny two-bedroom townhouse in married student housing in Watertown, Massachusetts, where I moved with my dad, pregnant mum and little sister so my dad could attend school to earn his business degree. The split-level ranch house just outside Cleveland where I was initiated into the lifestyle of quintessential (read: tacky) 1970s suburbia with dads gone through the workweek and cheesy neighbourhood gatherings on the weekends. The house in North Toronto where my mother thought wallpapering the dining room ceiling and putting indoor-outdoor carpet in the kitchen was some kind of interior design statement - it was, and it was not good! The house in the Chicago suburbs with the pool, the ping-pong table and the basketball court in the barn. The other house in Toronto, which would become home-base until I left for boarding school six years later. Then there were no keys since in the all-girls school of 165 students the idea of privacy was absurd. My rooms at university had keys but who ever thought to use them? We never had anything of any value to steal so why bother locking up? My first job took me to Buffalo, New York and a full-on transient existence with various roommates and a boyfriend or two. There were plenty of house keys but the only keys that mattered opened office doors. A favourite key was the one I got when I bought my first house after my transfer to Calgary: a sweet bungalow where I housed my fiancé-then-husband, my first baby and a second soon after. Another transfer brought us to Ontario where I had three more keys to houses that welcomed two more children, survived one bout with cancer, endured one near-death experience, lost one business, and initiated one divorce.
This key? This key is so much more than a small bit of metal with sharp grooves and notches. This key opens the door to a home as I no longer live in just a house. This key opens the door to my home.
* * * * *
I have always felt, to my bones, that more than anything else, I am a writer.
Growing up I was mocked, ridiculed and told regularly that my idea of being a writer was simply ridiculous. I was too sensitive, I had my head in the clouds, I had to come down to earth and make something of myself. When I was 15 my mother took it upon herself to take one of my hidden works and read it aloud at the Thanksgiving table. I was mortified and never wrote with the same freedom of expression again. It was time to stop dreaming and focus on more practical pursuits. Until now.
Lately I've found some workshops and courses that have lead me to believe that maybe, just maybe, I can tap back into the writer buried deep inside.
