There are things happening in, to and around me. Many of which I’m not too certain about. But I wish to be. Like we all do. Though, I believe the degree of uncertainty you’re comfortable with dictates much of your fulfillment in this life. Still, consistency and certainty are creature comforts not easily conceded.
So I write.
Often when I write, I’m processing how I think and feel about a particular idea or happening. Now is no exception. I try it on for size, sometimes. Sometimes, I’ve only got a whisper of a truth. I see its shadow as it scurries about in the background. I know it’s there, but I can’t make out it’s form let alone its essence. I need to draw it into the light. I need it to stand still for a clip so I can observe its countenance. I wish to inspect it, to see its reaction when I step in. I wish to suppose its intention and recite it. I wish to give it a chance to defend itself, to correct my errant observations. I hope it’s being honest. I hope I have honest senses to know the difference. I hope I see more than what I want to see. I hope I see what there is to see. But of course I don’t. I can’t imagine I ever do. Which is enough to silence some, the gap between your understanding of an idea and perfection. But silence isn’t my gift. Though sometimes I pretend like it is. But seeing as it isn’t, I share what there is to share. Then it’s out. Then I can hold it and see if there’s any finish work to do.
That process of sharing grants me something too. Though, I’m not able to compare it to what it gives the recipients. To me they’re different endeavors. Opposite sides of the same coin. Which means they spend the same. Whatever that means. Which probably means I should write about it sometime.
For me, writing is a way to process life. Which we all have our version of, I think.
Have you figured out yours yet?