My Writing Whys
You may have noticed I’m going through an emotional upheaval, you astute reader, you. It’s true. My heart is being, has been, wrenched in nearly all the ways, but alas, she beats on. Remarkable, hearts. (You should write yours a thank-you note sometime, and I’m serious. We’re so quick to blame or bemoan our hearts despite their thankless perseverance, have you noticed?)
Back to my own heart. She has been shredded, but she’s healing back stronger than ever, which has unlocked a stream of creativity I didn’t know I had and I stare in shock at the page of mysterious words that flow from my pencil. I scarce believe they’re mine, and at the same time, I see myself in them so clearly, like looking into a freshly-cleaned mirror.
I have no idea–literally no idea–if you can relate to what I write or not because I quit worrying entirely whether I was making any sense at all to anybody but myself. So why post what may strike you as utter nonsense? Why reveal these soul fragments so dear to me only to see them potentially lost in a sea of misunderstanding?
Just in case these odd shaky poems are a buoy for one other drowning soul? Maybe.
It worries me that it might be narcissistic to write about myself all the time, but then, what other topic am I an expert on? I’m not so sure we need one more blog of theological opinion, though perhaps I could add an intelligent word every now and again. I’m not sure we need yet another voice of social commentary. (Why is it that we think ourselves experts on other people’s pain?) But I can write about one thing no one else on the planet can write about, and that’s my own story/my own heart/my own inner workings told in my own words and in my own strange ways.
Not writing to persuade you of any one particular thing but writing as in invitation to your own labored but wonder-filled journey of becoming. If I can do it, so you can you! Trust me, I’m not that brave. I am a big scaredy-cat who chooses one brave thing a day and tries to speak the truth in a thousand stilted ways which is ridiculously harder than it sounds.
These amateur poems are like the beats of my heart–thump, thump–keeping me alive despite the pain that wants me dead. And I haven’t got the slightest clue why I would do this, dear reader, because I am a very private person, but I’ve taken your hand and placed it on my heart and said, “Here, listen. I know we’ve all got one, but isn’t this remarkable?!” And I’m somehow enthused enough to imagine you’ll say, “Yes!” and then you’ll reach for my hand and I”ll listen for your heart, and maybe the world will be a teensy bit healed by this sharing. I don’t even know if that’s right, about the healing, but look at me, I’m telling you what I think anyway. What a strange compulsion, this writing through pain. Thanks for listening!