I Hope No One Will Read this; I Hope Someone Will Read This
A page from Always Remember: The Boy, the Mole, the Fox, the Horse and the Storm by Charles Mackay
One morning, my mom went outside to feed the squirrels and dance with the trees.
She loves the trees. In their limbs, she sees dancers’ limbs. In their movement, she sees dancers moving. In their rustle and sway, their reach and their roots, their steadfastness and strength, their grace and generosity, she sees fellow bodies, all beneath the same sky that brings her such awe.
She giggled as she described their duet. And then she said something I found so evocative:
“I hoped no one would see me. Or did I hope someone would see me?”
Would people see her outside and judge her? Did she look kooky? Would they understand? (Did it matter?) Or did some part of her seek an audience for her performance, someone not only to see but to witness her dance?
I understood it immediately and intuitively. And I’ve been thinking about it all week. Why did I relate to this so readily? I voiced this question to M.J. last night over comfort food for dinner (they made hot dogs and beans, a childhood favorite, using my mom’s recipe). Talking about it with them teased out the obvious: The duality my mom articulated speaks to a familiar experience for me as a writer. I looked across the table at M.J. and blurted out:
“I hope no one will read this. I hope someone will read this.”
I have been blogging and writing publicly since 2007.
If I had a penny for every time I’ve published something and then wanted to retreat from the world completely, I’d be a billionaire.
But the need, and the choice, to express myself is greater – if only infinitesimally – than the risk of judgment, critique, or misunderstanding.
In this way, my mom and I are the same. She twirls and tumbles with trees; I write and struggle and love out loud on the page.
The impulse is internal – I hope no one sees me. I hope no one will read this. I hope I can just be free to be myself and not worry about how it looks or sounds. The critics are none of my business.
And the impulse is also to be witnessed as well as to offer something: An invitation, perhaps: Go and make your dance. Go and write your truth. Go and be willing to look kooky or be wrong or even judged. Go and be free.
I’ve spent nearly 20 years strengthening the muscle of “putting myself out there,” including sitting with the ambivalence and discomfort this can arouse – as well as knowing that sometimes, writing for myself is enough. Not everything needs an audience.