Why I Write

Listen. It is morning. And warm enough to sit outside. The air is sweet with green mustiness and growth, though not much new appears above the ground yet. The birds are singing the morning. The creek is rushing full. A pale sunlight muted by clouds lays over everything, and a soft breeze blows. Gentle morning.

I am longing for my words to come back to me--to carve a space inside where they would begin again, where i could listen to their music untrammeled, coax them out of hiding, feel a rhythm, divine a flow, direction, urge. I miss my words, the dedication to craft and art, the sense of creating, the interiority becoming exterior and meaningful, becoming shapely.

I miss the daily devotion beyond just journalling, working towards something, working on something, having purpose and something to return to, having something i carry around inside that is precious to me, partly secret, growing, that i must feed and tend regularly, that i must follow and sense its way, that teaches me, inspires me, troubles me, enlivens me, challenges me.

I miss this grace--no one can give or take it from me, though many have done damage to it easily with their words, unknowing. I miss my calling. I don't need to justify it in any of its weathers, dormant or blooming, reckless or calm--how can i? Only i really know its name and form. Keep the questioners at bay, then, who, out of their own pain and self-doubt, would injure me in my progress. We know what's written in our souls, though we often deny it.

So what do you do it for? To make sense of things, to make the world shapely, to add beauty, to discover what's unknown or hidden to me, to speak a truth, to life the veil partially, to inspire, move, enlighten, open others and myself, to contribute what i can, to grow in delight, to walk in the world, to be alive, to become more alive, engaged, attuned, listening, attentive, responsive, to dance with the world, the seen and unseen, to know myself and come to know other things, to be surprised, to play. Because i love it, it brings me joy. Because i can't help it, need to do it. Because it brings meaning and purpose to my life. Because it brings connection. Because i dry up and grow sad when i don't.

Too many thoughts rattle and distract me, too many things to do. But this gives life, breath, slowness, grace, excitement, joy, fullness. Too many things etch at me, wanting my time and attention, often making me feel guilty, anxious, worried, agitated, tired, bored, unhappy. But is a river i return to where i can dip my cup and drink. Who cares if the taxes are done and the house is clean, if the river doesn't flow, if the meaning of it all is gone?