Writing childhood scares me more than writing death

During the Power of Words conference, I took a wonderful workshop called "Self-Elegy" lead by the lovely & grounded, Joy Jacobson.  Joy offered a variety of pieces written by authors near death or directed towards their future dying selves.

I attended because I want to talk about death.  I've recently had an intense desire to craft a living will and a final will.  Death doesn't feel scary to me.  It's presence makes me feel more alive.  I appreciate boundaries and limits and I want to shed light on what feels dark.

Joy invited the participants to write from her prompt: "I see you child..."  From the first prompt, we took one line, and let that prompt more writing.  This process continued until we had four short pieces.  These are the lines I took from the exercise:

You'll discover that a tightness in your
heart will remind you to feel it beating.
Find asylum in the land of those who know.
You are an exile among exiles, drafting
a new covenant of how to hold
your own.
Diminish memory-- let it inhabit
smaller corners of your body.
Until you outgrow it.

Interestingly, I found myself becoming more frightened and triggered by writing about my childhood than writing about my potential death.  I guess it's exactly what I'm supposed to do!

The piece, unedited:

I see you child, looking to escape, and scared
of breaking free.  You will find the door.  You
will slam it shut.  And then you'll sit on the
other side, defiant and devastated.  It will
make your chest feel crumbled.  You'll
discover a tightness in your heart will remind
you to feel it beating.  You'll watch other
beating hearts.  You'll place your
hands on other shuddering chests.  You'll
find other refugees.  You'll find asylum in the land of
those who know to build themselves
out of pain.

Find asylum in the land of those who know.
You are an exile among exiles, drafting a
new covenant of how to hold your
own.  In your mind's eye, the door is
always closed.  And that is what scares
you the most-- to go back.  To open the door
and to say to those on the other side-- those
who hurt you, those who were hurt--
I love you.
It's terrifying.  How do you love yourself
and those who crushed you?  How are you
worthy of love when you are the blood & bone
of those who put hurt & oppression into the world?
How do you love the oppressor & escape the
oppression?  How do you ally with the
disposessed & love the thief?  How do you
straddle & not break?  That is the call that
scares you.

You are an exile among exiles, drafting a
covenant of how to hold your own.  You each know
passage.  There is a silent, shared knowledge of
dark, lonely nights and plotting to be
released.  There is the unspoken, known
truth that your life is worth living.  You will
be in the world, with pain in your eyes and a
quick laugh.  Your joy will be more satisfying.  It will
go deeper in your belly, because your body
remembers absence.  You will always be far
from home.  Re-define home.  The default is
home is where pain lives.  You broke out.  Accept
sanctuary as home.  Know that you belong.
Make every day a haven.  Diminish memory.  Let it inhabit
smaller corners of the body-- until you outgrow it.

Diminish memory-- let it inhabit smaller corners
of the body until you outgrow it.  Flex muscles
new with strength.  Open joints fresh with possibility.
This body sheds, renews, sheds.  It lives on firm
ground, toes unclenched, spread heels.  Unbind.
Let go.  Make room to write yourself into the
next story.  You know a gilded cage and a slowly
dug tunnel out.  Wash the dirt from your nails.  Blink
into the sun.  Roll your shoulders, sore from crawling &
climbing.  Believe.  Believe that you are on the other side.
You will not be caught.  You have proven that
you will always bring yourself into the day.
Stand with the light on your face.