A little ramble about writing ...

I find that, the more I write, the more integrated I am, the more like myself I feel.

It’s not a matter of catharsis, though some catharsis does occur as I write my way down dark paths.  

It’s a matter, more than anything else, of being at home in myself.

It’s something I fought for a very long time and, truth be told, something I hid from.

I was busy being married, busy being a parent, busy trying to build a career, busy trying to absorb information and insight, busy taking care of the yard, busy being a problem solver, busy in social action, busy in church & community, busy being stable and safe - busy in varying degrees with a great many good and proper things.  Busy-busy-busy.

I was also busy being invisible, keeping my head down, maintaining family secrets and family shames, and simply staying safe.  From birth through divorce, I was a willing participant in enabling the codependency of my youth and of my first marriage.  “Shhhh – if your words might make someone uncomfortable, keep them to yourself. Don’t rock the boat.”

I’m now – for the first time in my life – in a relationship that encourages me to do what I need to do for my own well-being, and expects me to grow and thrive.  But aside from how that melds with writing and creativity, that’s a thousand other stories for other times.  It’s taking time to unpack – and burn – the baggage I’ve accumulated, however.

Now that I’ve committed myself to write, not only “when I can,” but when I need to, I find I write every single day. I write every day because I need to write every single day. Turns out it is much less optional than I tried for years to pretend.  Whereas before, it was a challenge to get 3500 words out in a week, 5000-7000 words are eager to land on the page or the screen.  

Are they all golden?  Surely not.  Some are just noise, and some have potential.  Some, perhaps, are good and help connect me with other people.  What is golden is the feeling of health and refreshment that I feel as I continue to let the words and situations and characters flow.  Every day reinforces the feeling of “rightness” and grows a feeling of health and vigor within me.  

I’m encouraged that what I’m writing may be resonating with people, but beyond that, it’s the feeling of resonance with myself that encourages and invigorates me.

I’ve long had a slow-growing frustration, anger and depression within myself over my sense of what I’m doing here, what I’m accomplishing, and what I’m contributing.  As Thoreau says, “To affect the quality of the day, that is the highest of arts.”  I’ve become increasingly convinced that all of the “good things” I’ve been doing for decades really weren’t getting the job done, really weren't affecting the quality of the day in the way I wanted.  Not that I wasn't doing any good, but that it wasn't authentic, it wasn't me and what I felt called to do.

I’ve had an ongoing quarrel with God about a number of things, which I’ll spare you, but a key portion of that argument has to do with whether I’m being faithful to who I’m supposed to be, which is a different kind of integrity than simply “doing things that are good.”  Have I been avoiding the type of good I’m supposed to do; the kind of me I’m supposed to be?

I think so. Writing – even if the words go nowhere – make me feel like I’m making the right kind of commitment, and the right kind of contribution.  It unknots something in me.  It diffuses my anger and leavens my hope.