For Love

I've done a lot of work with personal essay writing...sort of creative non-fiction work and what that does to us spiritually...i just found this thing I wrote last year that is pretty interesting and i don't really remember writing it which is also interesting...if anyone is interested in this type of work I have a short list of topics and exercises that go into this stuff and would be happy to share

What does it mean to bring my words to the page? What does it mean when I can stream thoughts, conscious thoughts, through my fingers onto the screen? If it flows uninterrupted, is it a clearer depiction of what I think and who I am? Or if I sit, and contemplate, run over different options and possibilities in my head, what does it mean then? Writing is a strange, sort of scary process. It is in a way like visual media and sound, but there are so many gaps in language, especially of the English kind. We cannot really describe what we feel; we cannot truly describe what we saw. Often what we say are mere articulations, or reason-induced speculations. In other words, what truly happened does not always make its way to the page and in that case, what’s the point?

I often find that song and smell bring forth what I see as unprecedented meaning in life. A song or a smell can send a chapter of my life into a new light, that when combined with the present circumstances or knowledge, in turn creates something permanent, like a bookmark in the timeline of earthly existence. I attribute these occurrences to the words of poet W.H. Auden who wrote, “Somewhere are places where we have really been/dear spaces/Of our deeds and faces/scenes we remember/As unchanging because there we changed…” Auden’s words also accomplish this feat, as I can remember distinctly when I first read them. A train started rolling through my mind, taking me back to all these places. Serious places these are in one’s mind, especially if we think too hard.

If I decide to write about such occurrences, the event can sometimes take on different meaning which trickles down into various areas of the life. Writing, unless the words are emitting from the depths of the interior, has become much formalized. We think about the past enough as it is and reflecting on it through analytical means is a difficult and sometimes painful task. Sometimes going back is necessary, but sometimes when we go back we can convince ourselves that it is necessary. If the words fly from the sparkling neurons in my brain, however, I feel as if something true is happening, a voice is coming through and presenting itself in language, because it must. Because it is trying to tell me something about myself and my life, about where the next step lies, and make a record of this divine intervention for a later time when I can look back and see. Nobody likes getting held up on things, but I think we do it to ourselves terribly

The essay can take me so many places, that I feel like it is like a weapon or a drug that can only be used responsibly. If sufficient effort is not given, especially when writing an analytic meditation, the consequence of possible hindrance in personal development can be grave. By sufficient effort I mean, the right basis for the piece, long enough time frame, and ability to revise and look at it when in different states of mind. It’s so strange what our minds can turn out. Our slightly schizophrenic society is a major contributor to this. But what if one could essay the unconscious life? Psychologist Carl Jung talked about the noble attempt of fusing the conscious and unconscious self while investigating our spiritual selves. This whole other world that is so dark and dimly lit in my mind, I think holds some of the greatest mysteries to the meaning of life. Let’s say we essayed an unconscious event, but did not speak of it is an unconscious event, giving it our full attention, and analytic powers in hopes to create some of the same revelations of waking essayist work.

I met a dog one night, a beautiful brown lab. She reminded me of Hershey, Chris’s dog that died a few years back. I was a little tipsy from the party we were having at Chris’s house earlier that afternoon, and this dog’s excitement was too much for me. She was so excited to see and play with me, pacing back and forth, jumping up and down as I got closer. I think it’s so funny how some dogs can smile. I always like those dogs a little bit more than others. Brown lab and I played for a while, smiling and laughing, until a profound compassion began to stir inside me. I suddenly felt like I was in Alaska and hadn’t seen the sun for three months, and now here it was, shining hard and fast from this dog’s big heart. But soon after this feeling arose, a cloud crossed over the sun and a voice came through, telling me she was sick, that she was dying. I grappled with this thought for a moment because she was so lively, so happy. I guess her death did not scare her. She was going to live and play until that moment came, or in other words, dance till the music is over. After this realization, I burst into tears like I hadn’t done since I was a child. With her face cupped in my hands, I looked in her eyes and still saw only joy even in the midst of such saddening news. As I cried, she licked my tears that had fallen from my eyes. Whatever I was experiencing at this moment, was the most powerful emotion I have seen to date, so I want to call it pure love. I’m missing something I realized, and whatever it is, is a truly beautiful thing.

As far as I will ever be able to tell, this dream was real in every aspect, and writing about it cast it in stone. Writing about it moved me forward in some sense, which is my biggest goal of all. Rather than dwelling on something of my past that I know happened, this event of neither past nor future, carried symbolic meaning like that of the song or smell or poem. In a certain sense, the power of this event and the reflection of it are ‘unreasonable’. I cannot use my intellectual strength to fully comprehend every aspect of it, but I can feel it, deep in my bones every time I recall that beautiful incident.

I think when writing in this nature, much more can be brought to light, but I am going to have to wait and see what life brings my way before I can make any conclusions. “I just don’t know,” I’ve grown to realize, through the writing process, is one of the most honorable answers there is. Either way, as wise woman once told me, “The art of the personal essay, this genre, is for love’s sake.” It seems this couldn’t be closer to the truth.