I wrote for Red Tent Living for almost exactly eight years before ever meeting Tracy Johnson in person. We had, of course, communicated via email, but I did not have the opportunity to spend time with her in “real life” until I attended the Sacred Interruption retreat in Knoxville last October.
I was deep in the most painful, isolating, horrifying season of my life to date. I had alluded to this in some email correspondence with Tracy but hadn’t shared many of the painful and somewhat shame-inducing details with her. I assumed that conversation would unfold as we spent time together at the retreat.
Ernest Hemingway said, “There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.” Now with the technological advancement of the computer, there’s really nothing to it!
I have never struggled much with “bleeding” my words out onto paper. Vulnerability, particularly in writing, comes somewhat naturally to me, though I had to feel things out here in the Red Tent before I felt comfortable really sharing myself and my stories with the community. Sometimes when people invite you to share your story, the unspoken request is that the filtered version is submitted. Minimal bleeding. Messy, but not too messy.
The more I wrote for Red Tent Living, the less I thought about the filter. My stories were never too much or too messy. Tracy really had created a space for us to “let our guard down, be real, and connect,” which are some of the words used to describe the original intention for this community.
So, when I finally approached Tracy on that crisp October morning with eight years worth of stories that hadn’t been “too much,” I figured I would continue to be seen, held, and welcomed by her. And yet, I was so weary and anxious. It doesn’t always feel so easy to bleed, Hemingway. Especially when we’re no longer behind the typewriter.
I burst into tears before I was even close enough to hug her. She wrapped her arms around me, and I cried even harder. We had shared a “table” for eight years but now had finally met.
I suppose that’s the power of bleeding out on a page; you form such deep connections that sometimes you forget you’ve never had the chance to be with a sister in the flesh.
On the final morning of the retreat, after I had taken a few minutes to both share a longing with and receive an offering from the large group, I found myself, once again, weeping in Tracy’s arms. They were guttural sobs, a mix of my tears and mascara soaking into the sleeve of her sweater. Completely unprompted, with no talk of the season of life I was in, Tracy leaned in closer to me and said firmly, “Mallory, I don’t care. I don’t care about the story. I know you. I know who you are. I know who you are.”
I could hardly catch my breath.
Sometimes, treating a person with honor is giving them a space to share their unfiltered story. Other times, treating someone with honor is telling them you don’t care or need to know their story because they are bigger than any one story. Tracy knows this.
When learning a person’s story feels like an invitation to insert our opinion or correction, honor is lost. What the stories shared on Red Tent Living have shown us is that we may not always agree with or understand someone else, but he or she still gets to have a seat at the table. We actually can all co-exist here. And when one woman wants to pass at sharing because she’s tired or scared, that doesn’t mean she is excused from her seat. Instead, as our brave leader at the head of the table has shown us, we can look her in the eyes and bless her, right where she is. Whether she has words or not. Because we don’t care about the story as much as we care about the person.
I had no idea what I was sitting down to when I first began writing for Red Tent Living in 2015, but the gracious, honoring, and healing company will forever be the highlight. Now, nearly a decade later, we all stand up together and walk away from this table toward the new ones at which we will sit. We bled, we were seen, we feasted. What a supreme honor it has been.
Mallory Redmond embraces anomalies—she is an adventure-loving homebody who keeps a clean house yet always makes a mess while eating or brushing her teeth. She loves dry humor, clean sheets, and gathering around the table with friends. Mallory has two daughters, Evelyn and Annie, who are raising her as much as she is raising them. She uses writing as a way to tell stories that surface the places of connection in our humanity.
Truly everyday is a new day.
Mallory – The echo of gratitude feels palpable reading your story here. What a gift you have been, what an honor to have held your trust, your vulnerability, your signature wit, humor and brilliance as a writer and as a woman. Thank you for being in our midst, and allowing us all to journey with you through the past nine years.
To be seen and known and honored as we bleed…this is the most sacred of gifts. It mirrors what Christ offers us. I’ve learned much from each of you monthly contributors. Thank you!