I find writing to be a deeply rewarding activity.
The first benefit is an internal one, derived from the process itself. Through the act of searching for the words to express something I'm thinking or feeling, clarity comes to just what it is that I'm thinking or feeling. Whole phrases pop into my head and I write them down and then I find myself literally reading my own mind.
The second benefit is external, and it comes later. It comes from you; friends, readers. It comes through emails offering reflections, perspectives and insights. A reminder of Henry David Thoreau's words, that "our truest life is when we are in our dreams awake". And an introduction to Mary Oliver's poetry.
Wild Geese, by Mary Oliver
You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
For a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about your despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting -
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.
The first benefit is an internal one, derived from the process itself. Through the act of searching for the words to express something I'm thinking or feeling, clarity comes to just what it is that I'm thinking or feeling. Whole phrases pop into my head and I write them down and then I find myself literally reading my own mind.
The second benefit is external, and it comes later. It comes from you; friends, readers. It comes through emails offering reflections, perspectives and insights. A reminder of Henry David Thoreau's words, that "our truest life is when we are in our dreams awake". And an introduction to Mary Oliver's poetry.
Wild Geese, by Mary Oliver
You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
For a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about your despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting -
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.