The question hangs in the air whether it is asked aloud or not. It may be my own or that of a friend or family member. Coming to embrace the written word this late in life makes me my most outspoken critic. It is not “Who do you think you are?” but “What do you have to say?" And so I write hoping to find the answer.
I write to discover what I think. It is here I confront what I thought I knew but is no longer true and what I didn't even know that I knew. It is only when I put pen to paper that I see for the first time what lies beneath the surface, what I have kept hidden even from myself. I am the catalyst and the conduit. It comes through me, not from me, and upon reading the hidden wisdom on the page, I nod in agreement and say amen.
I write to explore language. It is in the unbinding and juxtaposition of words that I find beauty. They spill out unabated and align themselves in shapes and streams of alliteration and metaphor that I once only knew by definition. And yet, I am constantly discovering that these words, beautiful as they are, can never be enough; they fail time and time again to express my innermost thoughts and emotions and so I keep writing, searching for the right word or combination and somehow always falling short.
I write to begin to understand how I got to be here in this place in time. I take the journey through my life in words and at long last begin to make sense of it. It is in this long view that I can see the how and why of decisions and dilemmas. Moves were not mistakes but gentle nudges edging me ever closer to where I was meant to be. It is here on the page that I confront the ghosts of my past, both real and imagined and hear the voices of those that have gone before me, each of them clasping my hand and trusting me to tell the stories.
I write to tell the journey of faith in my own words that may possibly only be understood by one. The summoning lies hidden in my writing. “Go and tell everyone.” I come to witness in solitude but the word seeps into the community; a solo act that when sent out into the world exposes my place on the mountaintop. I write because I can not speak but the written word is more than enough.
I write to announce to the world that I too am the Beloved. With pen in hand, I begin my morning ritual to welcome the day and embrace the wonders that have been promised. LIfting my head, I relearn again how to hold the loving gaze of my Creator. I write to whisper that love in return, still afraid that it’s all a dream.
I write to discover what I think. It is here I confront what I thought I knew but is no longer true and what I didn't even know that I knew. It is only when I put pen to paper that I see for the first time what lies beneath the surface, what I have kept hidden even from myself. I am the catalyst and the conduit. It comes through me, not from me, and upon reading the hidden wisdom on the page, I nod in agreement and say amen.
I write to explore language. It is in the unbinding and juxtaposition of words that I find beauty. They spill out unabated and align themselves in shapes and streams of alliteration and metaphor that I once only knew by definition. And yet, I am constantly discovering that these words, beautiful as they are, can never be enough; they fail time and time again to express my innermost thoughts and emotions and so I keep writing, searching for the right word or combination and somehow always falling short.
I write to begin to understand how I got to be here in this place in time. I take the journey through my life in words and at long last begin to make sense of it. It is in this long view that I can see the how and why of decisions and dilemmas. Moves were not mistakes but gentle nudges edging me ever closer to where I was meant to be. It is here on the page that I confront the ghosts of my past, both real and imagined and hear the voices of those that have gone before me, each of them clasping my hand and trusting me to tell the stories.
I write to tell the journey of faith in my own words that may possibly only be understood by one. The summoning lies hidden in my writing. “Go and tell everyone.” I come to witness in solitude but the word seeps into the community; a solo act that when sent out into the world exposes my place on the mountaintop. I write because I can not speak but the written word is more than enough.
I write to announce to the world that I too am the Beloved. With pen in hand, I begin my morning ritual to welcome the day and embrace the wonders that have been promised. LIfting my head, I relearn again how to hold the loving gaze of my Creator. I write to whisper that love in return, still afraid that it’s all a dream.
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