in praise of writing - first birthday :)
reflections on my relationship with the ink, poems from David Whyte, Lucille Clifton
The light is washing up everywhere. A particularly redemptive swell of radiance flashes across every eye I meet. The thought of the clocks moving ahead makes me chuckle. The illusion of fishing for an extra ounce of time amuses me, yet I am grateful for the light. These longer days feel like the return of an old friend - the perennial homecoming of hope.
With this invisible surge of power, the ghosts of writing whisper into my ears to pen down my thoughts. Writing is my holy altar. It is my form of prayer. These are conversations that I have with myself and the world to make sense of this one glorious life. The inner monologue about what to write or not is a never-ending debate.
What should one write on the blank page filled with questions, answers, thoughts, aches, and joys? Writing is a way to map the territories of the self to better understand me. It's been a year since I launched this substack. I take comfort in these personal essays and blurbs, like a hug from myself. I hope this makes sense to you.
It's a joy to have you, my dear reader, on this journey. Thank you for your support.
My first recollection of writing dates back to my eight-year-old, shy, quiet self, trying to put some words and stickers in a ruled line notebook. The notebook was a testament to my growing-up years. Little did I know how sentimentality would form an overarching theme of my life. Poems, thoughts, and self-indulgent expressions dwelt in those pages, now lost in sandstorms of time.
I've clung to writing as a balm for healing since my teenage years. The peeling of the layers, finding a voice, and meaning-making are getting better with age. My morning pages are neither prosaic nor poetic. It's filled with raw honesty and sometimes an utterly dumb, funny take on my life. I call it my stand-up show, where I am the jester and the spectator. The only thing lacking in these daily encounters is performative play. It's a relief to write for the joy of it. Martha Nussbaum, in her book "Upheavals of Thought: The Intelligence of Emotions" writes,
"Through the act of writing, people discover a new unity in themselves, between their rational and emotional selves. Writing allows people to articulate, and then reflect upon their own emotional states, and this process often leads to greater emotional self-awareness and understanding."
I've been on this sojourn of understanding the self for a long, long time.
I am reminded of a time during my school days. On the last day of fifth grade, my best friend wanted to meet me during the snack break. I waited in anticipation of plans to be made for the summer break. She reached ten minutes before the end of the break. We became best friends a year back. Her unassuming nature drew me to her when she joined my school a year ago. I offered her company as she got acquainted with our school. We got along well. I experienced the joy of having a best friend for the first time. The shy me who never had a best friend was on top of the world. Those were good old memories. She approached me and proclaimed, "I've got a new best friend." My heart welled up, knowing the inevitable separation hovering in the air. I wished her luck. Dejected at my fate, I walked back to my classroom. That summer day became a part of my personal history.
That night, I filled the pages of my notebook with my emotions, reasoning around the loss of a best friend. I offered comfort, grace, and advice to myself through my writing. I am still in touch with this friend and feel childish to write about writing it here. As you know, some parts of our life become etched in our making.
A few weeks back, something similar transpired, and I found myself at the same playground again, but this time as an adult. This time, words were exchanged, but everything crumbled like a house in ruins. I rushed to my sanctuary to write again. It was the writing kintsugi time. The words flowing out of me might mend the cracks. Thank heavens for the ability to express myself even if it's not the best :)
Writing is a tool for gardening the self. A journey of self-discovery, courage, questioning the uncomfortable parts, and rejoicing in the feelings, all held together with authenticity. Writing helps me dig deep and preserve the soil of my being. Through this process, I can gain clarity and the capacity to reconfigure and renew myself. I show up as me I am in whatever I share and write. Writing uncovered the parts that I never knew existed in me. A sense of agency bestowed by the sacred ink.
Writing is my art that sometimes doesn't comply with literary guidelines. My way of expression is only for some. I can almost find the faint pulse of everything I write beneath the words. There is an underlying sentimentality and vulnerability that I bring forth. The ghouls of shame and fear knock at my door, scaring me not to share these unpolished, raw, and non-logical feelings. I have shooed them off until now. If I am inclined to share, I do that with all earnestness. Anne Truitt writes about vulnerability as a guardian of integrity in her book, The Journal of an Artist. She writes, "Artists have no choice but to express their lives." Anais Nin's writing as an emotional algebra expression resonates with me.
Writing holds immense power as a force of resistance for someone like me, who enjoys the shadows more. It allows me to reclaim my story and break free from the societal norms that seek to define and limit us. Simone De Beauvoir once wrote in The Second Sex that "Writing is an act of freedom, of resistance to a society that seeks to define and limit us. Through writing, we can create new meanings and new possibilities for ourselves." I think, course-correct, rebel and fall into new rabbit holes through the act of writing.
I view my inner self as a country with rough and gentle places, some explored and some untouched, some shared with the world, and some quiet corners filled with sacred pains. Writing allows me to resolve my paradoxes and create trails to reach the troublesome parts of my inner country.
The scene in the movie Infinity Wars where Thanos sacrifices Gamora constantly meanders into my mind as an analogy of personal writing. The difficulty of reaching the place and deciding to destroy the soul ring must have crushed Thanos's soul. For me, each time I choose to publish something deeply personal, it reminds me of the scene. It takes love and courage to explore the quiet hard corners of the self, let alone write about them. I am borrowing from Leonard Cohen's famous quote on poetry and reframing it,
"Writing is the information that leads to creating a constitution of the inner country."
The truths within us are like holy offerings. Many people will read what we share, but only a few will hold their attention and truly understand it. Some may mock or ridicule our writing, dismissing it as individualistic garb, but preserving the sanctity of our writing and remaining authentic is vital. I share only a tiny portion of my writing with the world. Sometimes the ink wants to flow while the mind wants to stop. The dilemma of offering a part of your bare soul to a world is daunting. The good news is that there will be people who will uplift you as you go along this path.
Writing also serves as a sail to my creativity, allowing me to navigate the waters of life. I catch myself, noting the ordinary and mundane. Sometimes, inspiration strikes unexpectedly. Last week when I was washing lentils, and stopped to type a note on my phone: there is always enough water to clean our worries. The key is in finding the right tap. The other day I found the inspiration to write about a tiny plant that grew out of the moss growing on a broken piece of wood. I can write a micro-story on the plant and moss, a cinematic script in my mind. Writing and painting have opened my awareness of the world more deeply.
I find myself closer to the author whenever I read a personal essay. It feels like an invitation to an intimate and sacred place of invisible communion. Writing is like the invisible thread that goes around the world, and based on the type of writing, some people hold it unbeknownst to each other, like islands connected by words.
For me, writing isn't just about self-expression. Each piece is like hemming the open seams of my life, creating a coherent narrative that I can look back on someday.
Writing brings light to my life, like the return of the summer after seasons of departures, failures, joys, and heartbreaks. Writing, my companion for ages. It's found its way back to me even when things get tricky. It is a lighthouse for my soul, reminding me I'm alive despite the treacherous human condition.
Writing will be a lifelong Odyssey as long I walk on this earth.
Yay, The Poetry Lantern is one year old. Thank you for your support. It means the world to me.
On that long note, here are two poems that I chose for this edition.
won't you celebrate with me? by Lucille Clifton won't you celebrate with me what i have shaped into a kind of life? i had no model. born in babylon both nonwhite and woman what did i see to be except myself? i made it up here on this bridge between starshine and clay, my one hand holding tight my other hand; come celebrate with me that everyday something has tried to kill me and has failed. Second Sight by David Whyte Sometimes, you need the ocean light, and colors you’ve never seen before painted through an evening sky. Sometimes you need your God to be a simple invitation, not a telling word of wisdom. Sometimes you need only the first shyness that comes from being shown things far beyond your understanding, so that you can fly and become free by being still and by being still here. And then there are times you need to be brought to ground by touch and touch alone. To know those arms around you and to make your home in the world. just by being wanted. To see those eyes looking back at you, as eyes should see you at last, seeing you, as you always wanted to be seen, seeing you, as you yourself had always wanted to see the world.
Until next time, stay well. Have a wonderful Easter Break.