i write

I want to write.

I am about to commence the last week of classes of my sophomore year of college.  In the past two days, I have written twenty-six pages of final papers, research papers, academic papers, explanatory and persuasive papers. Tomorrow, I will write twelve more.  By the end of this trimester, I will have written twelve papers – approximately eighty-two pages in sum. 

And yet, after a total of twenty-one hours spent working on final school work in the past two days, I am left with an aching desire to write.  A desire so strong that it pushed from the security and order of my never-reducing to-do lists, of check-lists, of schedules to a blank page.  A desire so strong that it pushed me from the warmth of my room, of others surrounding me, of sticking to the task at hand to the chilly outdoors where I sit, alone, wrapped in Kenyan fabric with a blank page in front of me. 

I want to write.

In the winter of 2011, as a seventeen-year-old so thrown by the diverging realities I was experiencing, this desire began.  I wrote, wanting to figure out a way to explain what I was a part of, explain how at seventeen I was having to search for vocabulary, thumb through dictionaries and thesauruses for words to describe a child’s, a baby’s, death.  I wrote, looking for some way to remember, discover, learn, grow, challenge, and remain a part of something where my physical body no longer was but that my soul yearned to live continuously.  I wrote, afraid of how to be in a high school which was suddenly full of unfamiliar faces save but the few who so wonderfully challenged me through their listening, grounded me through their reading, through their valuing and paying attention.

On March 16, 2011, in the midst of this all, I wrote: 

“Now, I write.  When I miss Kenya, I write.  When I have trouble figuring out why I’m telling these stories, I write.  When my mind becomes too full with ideas and thoughts and analysis, I write.  When I find out that a 5-year-old named Britney, whom, while working with her at Sally Test, I once declared “my new best friend” has died, I write.  When I give a stupid answer to a question, I write.  When I want to cement these stories and reflections that fill my heart, I write.  When I want, more than anything, to not forget, I write.”

 

Today I find, reading back over those emotion-filled words, that I am comforted to see that they still ring true.  And yet, now, in the midst of hundreds of pages of writing for school, I am also saddened to see how rarely I have allowed myself to take part in this writing, a practice which in many ways has shaped so much of who I am. 

The other day my friends and I were discussing challenging professors; one friend was worrying if she should ask a professor — who through personal experience and the rumors of others, is seen to be the most challenging and terrifying of faculty — to be her senior project advisor.  As we discussed this, I considered my own experience with teachers and professors and thought to my independent study, that winter of 2011, where I was challenged to make something of my time in Kenya. 

I remember distinctly the day I asked my former English teacher to be my mentor for the project.  He was arguably considered the most challenging and (sorry, Mr. L) terrifying teacher in my high school. When I went to discuss my ideas and ask for his mentorship, I shook in fear; before my first meetings with him, my friends continually had to give me pep talks to motivate me toward his office.  It wasn’t that I was afraid he would be unkind, but that I was afraid of disappointing him and losing (or not gaining) his highly-esteemed respect.

And yet, I now consider the year and a half that he was my mentor — before, during, and after Kenya — to be the time which most greatly shaped me into the person I am today.  Yes, I was terrified for much of that time and yes, I did have multiple anxiety attacks in his office. But, as I told my friend the other day, I can’t imagine how my experiences in Kenya would have shaped me so fully had it not been for his challenging me throughout.

As I was describing to my friends the power of this experience and the ways in which his challenging me, particularly through my writing, strengthened me into the person I am today, looking toward a potential future doing end-of-life care for children, I experienced a similarly-immense gratitude which I always feel when considering my independent study, but also experienced a deep sadness as I realized how long it had been since I last wrote. 

During my independent study, when those first desires to write flourished, I used my writing as a way of communicating that which only in those moments, finger to keyboard, did I learn how to convey.  Through writing, I conveyed hopelessness, helplessness, deep joy, panging sadness, grace, confusion, life-fulfilling passion, beliefs and gratitude.  As I allowed first my mentor, then a trusted friend, then other teachers, and then just recently any who might stumble upon my blog, to read my writing I felt and re-felt, learned and re-learned, thought and re-thought, shaped and re-shaped myself and these moments which define me. 

 

In realizing the longevity between not just blog postings, but between letting my own words reach paper, I was saddened and once again felt familiarly challenged by and terrified of my mentor despite his not being present to give me an anxiety attack in reality.  I was terrified, once again, to disappoint and to lose respect because I have neglected a practice which returns me to my deepest humanity and reminds me who I am, the narratives I desire never to forget, and the life of kindness I strive to lead. 

I want to write.

So I will finish and turn in my papers for grade, I will pack up my sophomore year of college ready to begin the next awaiting adventures and I will write. I will write not just to fulfill my desire to do so, but so as not to disappoint and lose the respect of, if not others, myself.

The process of learning and living out my self and the life of grace I wish to fulfill each day did not end when I finished my independent study.  It is continuous and ever-challenging.  

I want to write, and I will write.