“Writing is the painting of the voice.”-Voltaire
Writing is the vessel in which I sail my inner workings across the ocean of life. It is the carrier of my thoughts and ideas, stories and lessons. It is the way I am heard, the way I share.
Deep within the matrix of our minds, thoughts and ideas are formed. Like trapped birds, they are released as the spoken word. Despite their beauty and complexity, each sound, each word, lasts only seconds before it’s gone, flittering into empty space. Though the message may linger, the words themselves are fleeting and seem to dissipate into thin air. The spoken word is easily forgotten or mistaken.
But ink that leaves a pen remains, permanently inscribing the words its master dictates. Thoughts put into readable form, the written word is a record. It’s a document. It is not the mumblings of a drunk or the talking in ones sleep. It is intentional. And it never lies or forgets.
When I talk, often I feel like a bumbling fool … awkward, disorganized and redundant. Words pour out of my mouth like children off a school bus … clambering and loud and clumsy. And my thoughts and ideas are often misconstrued and misunderstood.
But when I write, I am like a well choreographed dance. Every move rehearsed, every step cautiously placed, every word carefully chosen. And the words flow together like movements, creating a beautiful piece designed specifically to carry my message.
Words are like flowers. When I write, I walk through the most bountiful garden, hand selecting each blossom with careful and purposeful intent. Arranging the words into a bouquet, each arrangement is unlike the one I made before it. Each flower holds a unique purpose and aroma to the ear. There are no bad flowers, no bad words. And I yearn every day to discover a new variety, to uncover a new specimen to place in my piece.
Like every artist, my art, my bouquet, is not always appreciated. At times it is overlooked and ignored. Not unlike the painter along the sidewalk, the musician in the subway, the dancer dancing in an empty theater. But if only one person enters that theater, the heart of that dancer becomes full and she is no longer just a dancer, but a performer. When art is recognized, the artist gains the greatest fulfillment.
And yet, even without an audience, without a buyer, without coins in an otherwise empty case on the floor – those strokes, those notes, those movements, those words, are therapy for the artist. They soothe his soul and at the same time, they make him come alive. They are his heart and he cannot walk away from them. They are a part of him.
The highest honor is knowing that my words have touched another soul, hearing that my message has spoken to another heart. Feeling as though I have made a difference, I am fulfilled in my work. Like the chosen carrier of precious cargo, I feel worthy. I am grateful for my talent.
But even without recognition, without payment, when I put my pen to paper, it is therapy for my soul. Kneading through my angst and sorrow, the darkest part of my life, like clay, I create a sculpture of my life that is beautiful. And looking at that sculpture, I see how I have turned misery into joy and pain into lessons and I am proud of who I am and from where I came.
Life is a journey and each of us, an artist. We are handed a canvas and asked to fill the world with beauty. Be that canvas, a pot in which you cook, an instrument from which you play, earth in which you plant, wood from which you build, hearts of which you nurture … use your canvas to create beauty. My canvas is paper. And my paint, is words. Thank you for receiving my words. Thank you for taking the time to smell the flowers, to hear the notes that my heart sings, to feel the energy that my soul releases.
