Winter 2012 | Volume 110 | Number 662

Daily Bread

Power of the Pen

Sharing our stories with others can be unexpectedly healing.
by Deidre Jacobson

My knees shook under my skirt. It was my first men's writing group at a treatment facility. As a social worker, I usually worked with elderly clients. I had little experience with addicts.

Roughly 20 men were sprawled on couches and chairs. They were all ages, from 18 to 60, and all sizes and colors. Many sported tattoos, long hair or shaved heads, earrings and nose rings, some lip and tongue rings. They eyed me with curiosity.

"Good morning. My name is Deidre, and I believe in writing. Does anyone here do any writing?"

"As little as possible," someone called out. There were snickers.

"I write every day," a slender young man said softly. "I write poetry."

"I hate writing. I can't spell, and my handwriting sucks," a middle-aged fellow said loudly.

"Well, that's why this is the place to be. Your writing is only for you. No one cares about your spelling or handwriting. The purpose of writing here is expression. I want you to share your thoughts and feelings."

I tried to appear confident. "Take out your paper and pens. I want you to write for 15 minutes. You can write about your first memory of childhood, or you may write about a grandparent. Capture everything – smells, texture. Use all your senses. Let's go."

A few of the men began to write, but most just looked at me.

"I don't remember my childhood," a heavy-set man growled.

"You can write about anything you want," I said. "Just write."

"Anything?" someone sniggered. I didn't answer, but just began my own writing.

I scribbled away. "I'm so nervous," I wrote. "These guys are going to eat me alive." Fifteen minutes passed, and I looked over the group. Some were writing intently.
"OK, time's up," I said. "Would anyone care to share what they wrote?" No one spoke. Silence. I felt myself start to sweat.

"I'll go," a tall man finally offered.

I breathed a deep sigh of relief. "I remember my grandpa," he read. "He took care of me a lot when I was little." He continued with a beautiful tribute to his grandfather.

"I'll go next," an older man said. "I don't remember much about being a kid," he started, "but I do remember we had a dog for a while. It was black with white spots, and my folks named it Sparks."

Around the room we went, as almost every man shared his writing. They wrote of abuse and love, sharing humorous, beautiful, painful memories. The sweat had dried, and I had the courage to return again and again. But my miracle happened that first day when I witnessed the healing power of the pen.

Diedre Jacobson, a Thrivent member since 1994, lives in Spokane, Washington.