Why I Write

digging treasures out of the trash

Photo: Steve Burke on Flickr

I write with the same intention I once had as a child, foraging through trash cans in the alleyways behind our Beverly Hills home. When I was little, an unusual bamboo hut playhouse would become my own private space, almost invisible in the overgrown shrubs against the southwest corner of my parents property. Even with all of the square footage inside that big house, I still needed a place to feel like I could be myself. Foraging through crumpled, discarded junk, and tortured old throwaways that no one else wanted, little Laury gathered fodder for the creation of her 9-year-old sanctuary.

It was necessary - to withdraw, to create space, to find peace, and ultimately, to discover what sort of environment could provide shelter, comfort, and joy.

But just creating a space for oneself isn't as satisfying as one might hope. There's nothing more gratifying than inviting an other into that space, offering sustenance and desperately needed respite care.

Several times in my life, at the point of surrendering dreams I believed would never come true, I realized that I had not built the sanctuary I had intended to build. Not for me, not for my children, not for their father. Not for my friends. Not for anyone. Through immaturity and carelessness, I had caused pain, and had denied my part in it. I had only created a cave where I could withdraw, defeated. Where I could spend my time grieving what could have been. Where I wouldn't have to be seen, like every discarded item in the tidy, upscale Beverly Hills alley.

The thing is, there were some real gems out there in the alley: thrown out, covered up, and buried. Maybe it takes a childlike perspective to focus in and catch the glimmer, the value, in unwanted treasures? To have faith enough to dirty up our hands, and search through the trash.

My writing is my sanctuary, and it's a place I want to share. I have been digging around for decades in these alley trash cans, finding soiled, devalued articles that still have purpose, ripping apart an old story that has lost its luster to create something more nourishing. The old story has become too heavy to carry.

You have to have an eye for this shit. You have to see the beauty, the value, in de-construction, and re-construction. How do I turn this thing around? You have to ask yourself, can I take the garbage of these personal failures and losses, and create a space, not just for myself, but the other trash-diggers like me?

It's peaceful here, and you're invited to sit on my stained and stolen rattan chair with its busted up ottoman, sip some plain, clean water from that antique, cracked teacup. We don't sweep the ugly stuff under the rug; we hold it in our hands, and honor the gold and the glitter that has been woven into its residue. Mining for gold takes time, and we're here for it. We talk about our losses and how surrendering them has created space for the acquisition of our surprisingly-satisfying-contentment. We have given up our fixations on fame, embracing instead the deliberate validation of the perspectives of all those inside our cohort. Which just happens to be everyone who has taken the time to discover beauty in the ashes.

The failures. The sinners and the shamed. The traumatized. The silent. The re-purposed. We are not lonely, and we are not alone.

Welcome.