Those who have
read my blog in the past may note that this post follows a quite extensive
period of time during which I did not share any writing. Here, I break the
spell, but only to muse on what I have learned during this time.
For quite awhile
I believed writing was an essential part of who I am as a person. To separate myself from the pursuit of writing even temporarily, it seemed, was to separate myself from my own essence. Like many individuals who find that they are
seemingly unable to express themselves artistically or verbally in the way they
used to (or quite as prolifically in the way they used to), I felt that I had
wavered in my own worth. To not be able to do the thing that is my very heart
and passion, that must be a shortcoming or something over which to worry. But
this, I have learned, is simply not true. For I am, at the end of the day, more
than the words I write. I, and everyone else who lives, is also someone who is
occupied with complexities of existence, curiosity towards people and
surroundings, striving for that which lies ahead and reflecting on that which
rests in our past. We are metaphysical and material; we are tension and dogged certainty.
To speak to and understand others, to walk outside by the moonlight, to read about ideas, to think without having to express, to lay down and
dream, to have a crowded or empty mind, these are all endeavors equally important to that of writing. They
develop something different within us and make us certain of the other pieces
of our life.
I have learned, am learning, the toughest lesson of all: that I was not intended to experience only the one certain thing of my life, but rather many that I do not yet know.
