It felt like a lofty but limiting thing as I humbly admitted that I didn't know much. He just laughed and said that he never heard words more false. That is where he left me.
I went home that night and sat at my desk and I realized I wanted to write the world. I had words to fill the deep vast and vacant spaces within my heart and I bore a heavy sadness, which I now realize, at least for me, is the greatest inspiration. And so I thought about all of the things that weighed heavy and the sadness that threatened the spaces of creativity that were beginning to come alight and alive. As I considered it more, it wasn't so much sadness that was pervading my thoughts and feelings and overall demeanor, but rather worry.
It was then that I decided to list all of the things I was worried about. The list came up rather short and contained a few people and a few unknowns. I wanted to call them and have them assure me everything was okay, but what was really the good in that? Would that really relieve the worry within me? It was more cathartic to crumple the list and toss it in the trash. I prayed. I asked God to give them peace and hope. I prayed that I too could experience only a peace that comes from Him.
He answered my prayer because it was then that I began to think a bit more clearly and the words that were bubbling up were not tainted by worry and sadness. Now, I do think great words can come from worry and sadness, but that isn't the place where my words were coming from and I feared that if I wrote what I knew, it would never be honest and true if I were to write from a place of worry.
Then I began to type. I wrote words that felt sincere and unforced. They flowed freely for hours upon hours. As I began to run dry, I remembered something he had said to me earlier that night, so I began to write an email to him. Subject line: "Write What You Know". I started with a single line, "This is what I know..." and then proceeded to copy and past what I had written that night. With no hesitations I sent the email and climbed into bed. Sleep came fast and easy. The writing had brought such profound release that I was able to let go of the day and resign myself to a dream I may or may not remember.
The next morning I expected a reply. Surely he would be waiting for my email. Surely he would have read it by now.
Nothing.
Days later, nothing.
Weeks and months passed. Nothing.
I could not forget that I shared with him the truest words I had ever written.
Did they require comment or reply? I suppose not. The point was to put them "out there", to follow the challenge he set forth, to not only write what I know, but to share it. For some reason, in that season of my life, it had only felt right to leave my truest words in his hands. And that is where they remain.
After such an outpouring of truth, it seemed for a time that words, sincere and true eluded me. What I wrote from then on felt to be a bit forced, lacking in the originality of an honest look at life and the world around me. I didn't know what to write anymore. And so I let it be. I still would write, even when it felt so undesirable and uninspired. I did not give up on the effort.
Before the new year began, I went through the usual pains to clean and organize my little nest. I wanted to rid the clutter that had accumulated in 2015. I went through a desk drawer stuffed with old mail, letters and magazines, dumped it all on my bedroom floor and sat in the midst of it. As I worked my way through what to keep and what to trash I came across a note from him. It was a crumpled post-it, one in which he wrote on when we shared a cup of coffee together. I probably had the thing in my possession since June or July. On it was scribbled something I couldn't quite make out, damaged by a splash of coffee, but then followed these words: "there is no specific time in your life in which things are supposed to happen." I could only vaguely remember the context of our conversation, but I was certainly remembered why he had written these words down. He wanted me to have them so that I could carry them with me, and hold them in my hands when I needed the reminder. The funny thing was, they didn't mean much to me at the time. They felt like words intended to placate the disastrous direction my emotions were headed, and to be honest I felt offended. But what useful words these suddenly were. In emotional upheavals words like these hold little value or meaning, but on days of clarity they suddenly make so much sense.
I sat in the middle of my bedroom floor surrounded by paper, cards, letters, trash and keepsakes and I felt a burden lift. I resolved to keep everything. I gathered it all up and placed it back in its proper drawer in a slightly more organize fashion and then I texted him.
What do I write when I feel uninspired and have no distinct direction?
I didn't expect a reply. I just wanted to send the words out into the universe hoping for some kind of answer, tangible or not.
My phone buzzed.
He had replied within the minute.
I held my breath as I read his text: write a poem that contains the whole of life.
I sighed, displeased.
He replied again.
I gathered myself up, trying to eliminate any sense of profound expectation before I read his next text. Exhaling as I read: the world is awake, pulsating and pounding, thumping and throbbing with the thrill of life. just write what the world offers you.
And that was all. And that was enough.
The night is alive
briefly aglow with
the candle of hope.
The moon-beholders and
the star-gazers; they
find their buoyancy
in vast and scattered landscapes
of speckled black and white.
This is the thrill of life:
A vast expanse of natural beauty
and the eyes and heart awake enough to see it.
I keep this poem of sorts posted behind a clutter of notes and news clippings above my desk.
It is not worthy of anything more than a simple reminder that for me it contains the whole of life.
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