I have a wry
smile on my face. Going back to writings from the past - words that I’ve kept
sequestered in a vault, hidden from the light of the world - I feel the twang
of embarrassment. I giggle at the younger me.
There was an
epoch of my life during which I was finding a new voice, a mature one: a voice
that did not speak the language of the head but was, instead, diving into the
depths of heart and soul. I sought the woman’s voice…full of grief, or the
wisdom of joy, or a longing for compassion. But I did not yet have a sage
practice for cultivating these.
The writing
itself was just.so.young. And it was
young. I was young.
My dear hospice patient calls me “little
girl.” She is a centenarian – twice my age in years, decades and scores wise in
life experience; I appreciate her affection, her perspective.
We need at least
these two for wise writing:
1. lots and lots
and lots of time spent actually
writing, reading, shuffling, cutting, reading, adding, tweaking, writing, editing,
revising, editing some more, polishing, copyediting, reading, glossing.
2. evolution and
maturity as human beings, learning from those experiences we are handed or that
we claim, figuring out the pathway through adversity, growing our compassion
for self and others, giving of our best selves to the world.
My writing –
from long ago – reflects the immaturity of writing experience as well as life
experience.
Life experience.
Writing experience. Really wise manuscripts are borne from the convergence of
these two. The ecotone between maturity toward wisdom within ourselves and our commitment to writing practice is
where the real goodies grow.
I’ve learned volumes
since those early writings. I have written volumes since then too.
We must cross the
temporal bridge from an older life to a fresher one. Move toward a life of
vibrancy, bright color, firelight-warmth-in-the-winter,
tingling-cool-breeze-in-the-summer. It is a journey.
Even yesterday’s writing can look a
little bit raw, can evoke the sense that I’ve learned something, perhaps
small - but powerful – since even twenty
hours ago.
Looking at a
piece of writing (such as this one today), I make note of the seventy-three
edits I would need to make in order to deem it wise, or accomplished, or savvy,
or useful.
I realize that
the courage it takes to put out something for the world that might be a little
clumsy or a little unrefined (or a lot “less than”) is much more worth
mustering than the scared-keeping-quiet-wordless place of years ago. I would
rather put out the in-progress work than to wait (until when?) for the moment I
decide it’s worthy or wise, finished or finessed.
Isn’t this one of
the definitions of growth: to choose the red-cheeked-blush of our imperfection-in-retrospect
over the stagnant-marginal-safety of not bothering to chance it at all?
The risk is worth it, even if I do still have
that wry grin plastered across my cheeks as I press the “publish” button on the
blog site.
All blog images created & photographed by Jennifer J. Wilhoit unless otherwise noted. Please circulate images with photo credit: "©2015 JenniferJWilhoit/TEALarbor stories. AllRightsReserved."
