Stay

by Kathy Douglass

I went to a reading a few weeks back. It was filling up by the time I arrived. I wound my way through uneven rows of dented metal chairs, set in crooked lines on the hardwood floor between European Architecture and Science Fiction at Powell’s Books on Hawthorne in Portland.

I’d been intrigued by a blurb in the local paper about the young writer who’d be the guest.I sat with the appreciative group of readers, writers, seekers, on-their-way-to-somewhere-elsers who’d stumbled in with a cup of coffee and a bit of spare time.

I love being read to. Living on my own makes that tricky, so I attend readings when I can.

The young writer, she was delightful. Honest, nervous, funny. A little amazed that anyone would come out on a school night to listen to the words she’d had the courage to write. She read to us from her newest collection of narrative pieces. They were genuine, heartbreaking, tender. She received the polite applause with an embarrassed grin, and then patiently answered the questions that invariably get asked at these gatherings: “How much time do you spend writing every day?” “How do you disguise your characters so your family won’t recognize themselves?” “How can I get my own book published?” Her answers were gracious and thoughtful, as if she were hearing these questions for the first time. She took the cap off a new Sharpie pen, grabbed a book off the stack fresh from the publisher, and signed her name over and again on the flyleaf that still smelled of bookbinding glue.

I was glad I’d gone. I was glad to spend a slice of evening with other grown-ups who like being read to. I’d gone intrigued and left intrigued.

But it isn’t this young writer’s work or her particular story that has stayed with me since that evening. It was what someone else said along the way. Truth has a habit of doing that, showing up unannounced, making its presence known when we’re not looking or listening for it. She mentioned, as she spoke to us, of a writing workshop she’d attended some time ago where she had been under the instruction of one of her favorite writers: Katherine Dunn, an award-winning novelist and poet. Katherine, during her own Q and A at this workshop, had said the following to the writers leaning in to capture her every word: “I don’t write so I can escape. I write so I can stay.”

“I don’t write so I can escape. I write so I can stay.”

The young writer told us of the deep impact this bit of truth had on her. I left Powell’s that night knowing just how she felt. These are the words that resonated with me that evening, these are the words that resonate with me still.

“I write so I can stay.” So I can stay. Stay.

I picture that award-winning writer, staying, choosing to be present. Staying with a character til his or her voice finds itself. Staying with a plot idea until it unfolds and sets out on its own winding path. Staying with the doubt that she can ever write another story until the doubt passes. Staying with the noise of everything that’s calling her away from what she truly loves to do… write, to be… a writer. Staying with the noise until she can stare it down, until quiet takes its place and she can pick up where she left off. Not writing so she can escape. Writing so she can stay. Allowing space and time and stillness so truth can weave itself into the narrative.

We struggle sometimes to allow for space and time and stillness. There are so many escape routes, so many getaway cars. They screech toward us, we hop in and disappear. We grab hold of any distraction, and the very things that need stillness are avoided: an unspoken concern, an unuttered doubt, a bit of wound unattended, the weight of what overwhelms. Even a bit of hope or joy unexpressed.

The noises, loud and large, drown out the voice that is still and small. The voice that says “Come to Me. Be with Me. Stay with Me.”

My friend Elliott told me that he doesn’t possess the “fight or flight” instinct that’s inherent in most of us. He admits he’s all “flight or flight”. When confronted, escape is his only option. It’s all “get me outta here”. I smiled at that, just because it sounded a tiny bit familiar.

“The Lord your God is with you, He is mighty to save. He will take great delight in you… He will rejoice over you with singing… He will quiet you with His love.” (Zephaniah 3:17)

What if, increasingly, instead of escaping, we could “stay”. What if, tiny breath by tiny breath, we could allow ourselves to be quieted.

What if we could stay with our own story as it unfolds. Find our voices. See the path come into view a step at a time, and trust that we are not alone in the staying.

My heart is not proud and my eyes are not haughty, I am not concerned with lofty things

I have stilled my soul like a babe with its mother

And my hope rests in God, both now and forever

I have stilled, stilled my soul, oh my soul, be still

Be still my soul

I have stilled, stilled my soul, oh my soul, be still

Be still my soul

(Lyric from Psalm 131)

Set aside, for a moment, the instinct to fight, to flee, to escape.

Take a tiny breath.

Allow for the stillness.

And stay.