To pursue it–and pursue it wholly–you must leave parts of yourself behind.
The parts which veil pain and make it look pretty.
The parts which smile when the heart is cracking in a million tiny pieces.
The parts which make gliding through life appear easy. Right. Normal.
Or so it seems.
As much as it hurts sometimes . . . to write . . . to put things “out there” that hurt and make folks think less or different of me . . .
. . . in the end those hurts becomes life.
LIFE in the hearts of others, whose threadbare pulse needs to know they aren’t alone.
LIFE in the arms of the broken, who need to know they can be whole.
LIFE in the throat of the songbird, who thinks she’ll never utter another note.
Writing . . . writing well and from the heart . . . is like Maya Angelou wrote below.
Oh, how I often wonder, too.
Wonder, by Maya Angelou
drunk with the nectar of
weaves its way between
to find itself at the flophouse
to sleep and be seen
Will I be less
dead because I wrote this
poem or you more because you read it
long years hence.
I hope and pray we’ll all be more fully alive . . . after we press through the pain . . . to another day of promise . . . another day of tasting the nectar of being real and being alive and being healed.
If you’re a writer, do you leave those parts I mentioned behind?
Or is it difficult for you to shed them?
Do you wonder, like Maya Angelou describes?
Who will be more
Who will be less
when they–after they–read the words you’ve penned?