Why I Write ~ Containing Chaos, Creating Meaning

I’m kind of a mess. I don’t say this in a self-pitying way, nor do I believe, as I once did, that I need to fix those parts of me that are complicated and contradictory. But ask anyone who loves me; I can be unwieldy to hold. Not only for loved ones, but even for myself. Like the colored mosaics in a kaleidoscope, tumbling, turning into ever shifting patterns, I am never quite settled. Inclined to morph at the slightest touch. Beautiful maybe, perhaps intriguing and fun, but frustrating if you expect consistency, constancy.

Working on the assumption, however, that God doesn’t make any mistakes, I must accept that God was going for the tossed and tumbled kaleidoscope effect. “Oh, yes, this one”, He might have said, “Expressive. Dramatic. Moody. Sensitive. Funny. Maternal. Critical. Philosophical. I’ll mix equal parts tender compassion with cut to the bone honesty, throw in a fair amount of vanity, a pinch of arrogance, and a yearning for the Divine. This will be fun to watch.” And then, before moving on to the next person, did He stop to think, “What to give her as a compass to find her way back home to herself and Me? Of course, writing!”

Writing is my spiritual practice. It is both prayer and the answer to prayer. Praying with clasped hands leaves me lonely in the silence. Meditating on the mat leaves me relaxed, or asleep, but not enlightened. Talking with friends can make the knots in my mind tighter. Writing is the only way I can get to my essential truth. It is the way I work with the chaos of creative mind, not against it. I don’t empty my mind by counting my breaths. Instead, I write, permitting every thought and feeling to spill recklessly onto the page. Then, like scanning the sand for shells, driftwood or sea glass, I can choose what to keep as treasure, what can be regarded as dross and tossed back into the sea.

Diving right into the mess, I surface with illuminations, poems, stories. Twisting my way, pen on paper, through the labyrinth of my own misunderstanding, I untangle emotions, tell secrets, have a good laugh. Each mosaic inside of me can now be held, line by line. The messy, confused, heartbroken. The enraged, afraid, conflicted. The tender, loving, wise.

The writing mirrors my soul’s reflection the way a kaleidoscope fits and refits shards of light and dark, warm and cool, symmetry and chaos. I am the kaleidoscope that holds beauty within, if I will only stop to peek.

Inside is sensuality and desire. Curiosity and surprise. Sorrow and grief. Confusion and hilarity. Inside is a dreamer who wants to play with images, ideas, imagination. She wants to be free to go back into a summer day when she was four, and the clover was purple, return, and lose herself in the rustle of autumn leaves outside her window. She requires attention to stay alive. When I don’t carve out time to write, I may look to the world like I am present and accounted for, wearing all the proper garments of responsibility, but Kathy is missing in action.

Writing, I am fully present, steeped in soul like a tea bag brewing in a mug of hot water. I find I like this woman who is an artist. Her quirky mind, her courage at facing the tough questions. I love how she celebrates the beauty of her loved ones, the beauty of the world. How she can craft words to make people laugh and cry and feel loved. Kathy, the writer, is the finest gift I have to offer. I’ve been less than a perfect wife, mother, daughter, friend. But the writing is my innocence on the page. My desire to do better. My willingness to try again. The writing is my devotion to Love.