I wasn’t born with the blood of Francis Bacon, and so my words will never grow into aphorisms that seek the truth about usury and dissimulation and the goodness of nature.
I wasn’t given the hands and fingertips of John Donne, so I will never be able to construct conceits that leave you weak at the knees.
And I wasn’t formed with John Milton’s kind of seeing eyes, so my syllables will never move into a space which is meant to hold a gift written for Jesus on His birthday or an epic about the most important question a human being will ever face.
I’m just a girl. Young of body, old of mind. Insatiably curious, aching to understand, awake far past midnight, with pen in hand.
I cannot offer anything which will ever be dissected in a university classroom. Young women and men will never cram my timeline (born: 1992, lived: Texas, eyes: green, hair: brown, heart: shattered with passion and pumping with ink) into their heads before a midterm exam.
But I can write of my life. I can write of my confusion, of my desperate attempt to live life right, to seek God and beauty and love with all my might, and so I shall write.
The aspirations of my fingertips which find their homes on pages are not so high as to reach for a man who reads my words to students as they scribble notes sitting hunched over desks.
I just ask for a single pair of eyes. Your pair of eyes. To read my words and see my heart in them. To read my thoughts and see who I am in them.
And for me, this is more than enough. For me, your precious eyes, open and drinking in the rythym of my words is so much more than I ever dreamed of once upon a time when I realized that words held a magic far greater than anything I would ever be able to call mine.
This joy of sharing my hopes here, my dreams here, my fears here; this is a joy that I cannot hold in ink or Times New Roman fond quite right.
But I promise you, it is lovely. And it burns me up inside in a delightful fire of love and light.
And I find that I’m perfectly content with my own blood, my own hands and fingertips, my own kind of seeing eyes.
I find that the pen still fits in my hand just the way it has since I first learned to grasp it tight.
-Jessi Sanders 2013