Written August 29th, 2020 after a month of pre-planning for a school year none of us could even fully plan and prepare for. I didn’t have the words I wanted to say, but I knew I needed to write anyways.
All week long I have had this craving to write. An energy building up inside of me. A need to return back to my computer to see what comes to life as I take space for words to leave my mind.
I wrote a lot this summer. More than I ever have in my life. I broke new ground as I entered into uncharted territories of writing for me. It was my bread that I feasted on.
Writing was healing.
Writing is healing.
I also read a lot this summer. I absorbed memoirs and poetry. I wanted to read the words of women who have gone before me. Women who have written their way through their healing. Memoirs and poetry are almost always filled with the dichotomies that I am struck by.
The companionship between grief and joy.
The mystery of the utter beauty and and also utter brokenness of humanity.
The contrast of light and darkness.
Usually, when I sit to write, I try to write about one of those dichotomies, but my words never seem to get it.
They are insufficient.
So, I read.
I read the raw words of others who have been brave enough to let their words and their stories be out in the open for anyone to take in. They let their words be up for judgement. They let their stories be out there with the risk of being misunderstood, abused, or ignored. People can be cruel with other people’s words.
Every poem shared, every song sung, and every memoir put out into the world reminds me that we write anyways.
We have to approach the page with humility. And then, we have to release the page with patience and a gentleness with ourselves because the words may never actually be read or may very likely be misread.
But, with the small chance that our words could be read and could bring someone else healing, freedom, or empathy, then we have to let the risk in the release be worth it.
Yet, I sit here, stuck. That energy I was feeling early in the week has seemed to fade away. I feel tired. I feel scattered. I have tried writing four different pieces now. I’ve left them all unfinished.
But, I will write anyway.
Because even when my words fall flat, my creativity stays a bit trapped, and I’m tired, my words still matter.
Writing stills heals.
I acknowledge that I am here.
I acknowledge my breath.
I acknowledge the weight of this week and that words can’t yet capture the grief.
Words cannot capture the loss. Words cannot capture the division of our nation. Words cannot capture how utterly a mess everything is. And words also cannot capture beauty that still persists in the midst.
But, as I sit, in many ways, wordless, I am at rest knowing someone somewhere else is writing. Poems are being written.
Songs are being sung.
Stories are being shared.
Others are bringing words that heal, that release, and that paint a picture of the dichotomies,