Sometimes I wonder what it would feel like.
Not to write.
Not to have the urge to find a pen.
Not to spend my days scrambling for scraps of paper, napkins, wrappers, slips of notebooked lines, books of blankness.
Not to fill the blankness up.
With letters that form words that form sentences that form my thoughts about my life.
I wonder what that might be like.
Sometimes it sounds horrifying.
Sometimes (like the past few strings of nights shining like dull Christmas lights in my mind) it sounds nice.
Because along with these writing hands, I was given a place inside which carries things until I set them down on the page. Pin them in their proper place with my pen. Work them into some kind of working order as I scratch them out late into the night.
And do you know that a carrying place like that is difficult in actual practice?
Do you know that it works better in a Cummings poem than in a human heart?
Do you know that I carry you there?
You, who held my hands in prayer in a dark parking lot. You, who blessed me with an unlocked door. You, who broke my heart as you spoke with cold bitterness in class about the Lord who loves you so. You, whose eyes filled with tears as you sat across from me in the cafeteria and told me about what “lost” means to you. You, testing my capacity for friendship in the moments when I can only wish that you would do something radical like holding my hand. You, so tired from your working hours. You, so uncertain of your strength. You, so beautiful and so unaware of it.
I carry you there. In my heart.
In a place which makes me ache to think of all the ways we stumble through life and sprint through it. In a way which leaves me crying up to God, asking Him to help me reach out to you, love you, thank you, befriend you, cherish you right.
And I don’t even know some of you. But you’re carried in my heart with wishes for light in your life.
And some nights I wish that hadn’t been blessed with a carrying place, that I didn’t have fingers which best hold a pen.
But there it is, night after night.
The carrying place that fits better in the lines of a poem because it’s messy in real life.
It’s messy to carry you to my paper night after night.
Because you are so magical, so beautiful, so fearfully and wonderfully made, that it is hard to set you down in ink just right.
There are moments when I wonder what it might be like not to write.
And though there are seconds in those moments where I think it might be nice, I find myself shuddering to imagine empty where the carrying place is, nothing where the pen fits, and I find myself searching for paper once again.
-Jessi Sanders 2012
i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear;and whatever is doneby only me is your doing,my darling)i fearno fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i wantno world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meantand whatever a sun will always sing is you
here is the deepest secret nobody knows(here is the root of the root and the bud of the budand the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which growshigher than soul can hope or mind can hide)and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart
i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)-e.e. cummings