This Week: Write
For as long as I can remember, this is what I do. I saw my father do this. I saw my mother do this. And before I can remember much else, it was what I did. I did it alone for so much of the time, and now I do it in community.
This word-weaving, soul-baring thing that we do. Stretching ourselves out beyond what we think we can; pouring bits and pieces of our lives into a puddle of sometimes-incoherent whole – out for the whole world to see. But what does that tell you about why I do it?
|photo by farmer64|
Some create with paint and other textured dyes; with daubs and spatters that somehow come together to produce an image that makes one stand in awe. I can only dabble the imagination with a vision wrought with words and descriptions – from the softest breath of a baby’s whispered goodnight to the thundering echo of a glorious chorus of birds taking flight off the sun-kissed beach at the break of dawn.
Some develop chemical combinations that fight off the severest of diseases or the most mundane of colds; combining x and y strands and other elementals that I could never name to heal the things that bring us low in this life. I can only try and find words and phrases of empathy; give voice to the hurting; tell the story of pain – sometimes my pain if I’m feeling brave – and pray that in speaking words to life, that it will throw out a lifeline; a connection to someone else struggling in the midst of their own pain.
This writing thing I do, no matter what else I do in my life, it will be at the heart of me, the heart of what I am. It is who I am: I am a writer. Because words matter. They matter so much. Taking a risk and quoting Professor Albus Dumbledore from Harry Potter, He said, “Words are, in my not-so-humble opinion, our most inexhaustible source of magic. Capable of both inflicting injury, and remedying it.” I believe this with all my heart, and because I believe this, and because I believe that this gift of Words comes from both my father (and mother) and My father, I have to honor this gift and set about to do the very best I can with it.
So in the end.
When all else fails me.
When I can do nothing else.
I will write.
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