Writing As a Release


We grow up with writing as a task. Given our ABCs we dutifully practice…

            Between the lines

            Upper case

            Lower case.

 Next we might be given a book report to write. Diligently we read, then invent some string of words we hope will please “…the author is making an allegory to…”Yet what we feel as we write might be that the day is so fine, we’d like to be out with our friends, or watching that program we so want to see.

Your parents remind you that a thank-you note is required. So obediently we write, yet our heart is far from a heartfelt “…Thank You…”

Then at work, we need to deliver a report. So while our heart is dreaming the next vacation, tonight’s outing, new companion, old friend; or struggling with our latest office faux pax.Our heart is out there, yet professionally we write “… costs of the project were above forecasts due to unforeseen …”

 Our heart is one place, and our pen in another.

So by rote and repetitive practice, writing is an errand, a chore to accomplish. Writing is decidedly detached from the heart. Even in journaling we write a chronicle “…we did this, I did that…”while our passions wander elsewhere. We lose the true purpose and charm of writing – to COMMUNICATE. The left brain writes, and the right brain emotes, in separate hemispheres, worlds apart.

But this is like running with your hands rummaging your pockets. There can be no momentum with the swing of the torso disengaged. The passions hang limp at your side. Read the Psalms of David and you will discover another form. All the joys and anguish; tears and swelling pride, are revealed at the nib of the writing pen.

The writings here are often borne on days such as this:

“So many long hours of labor

yet today I am not comforted

and melancholy descends

once again.”

But the seeds of transition are planted in the writing, and soon grow unerringly to such as:

            “The song is in the trees

                        though the storm’s approaching.

            How full of life

                        just outside my window.

            How full is life

                        just inside my heart.”

The pen is a mighty tonic, and you can take your fill without prescription. It is available anytime you can steal away a few moments. Most importantly it is available when the chaos of living and the alternatives of the future create only an inner miasma of mind, with no pathway out.

This is writing, giving all your feeling, all your sentimentalism, releasing all your passion, letting it all out, self-expression. And the reward is a gentle stilling of the heart, a release, an afterglow.

When the burden is too great, lay it down, lift it up, whatsoever feels of release.

You can do this, and better.

You can gain this reward, and more.


Long Valley, NJ