Welcome to the Cherished Blogfest. The idea is to dish about something that you don’t just favor, but adore, relating all the delicious details and the reason for such unwavering dedication. The instructions were to talk about an object, something difficult for me because I tend to cherish intangibles over objects. Things like friendship, the view from my room, and living life on purpose come to mind. Also silence. When was the last time you had a silent moment where the only audible sound was that of your own beating heart? You probably don’t remember. Neither did I.
I adore writing, another intangible, but it’s not the end product I adore as much as the actual act of writing, pen to paper, thoughts flowing, sometimes pouring out, sometimes stuttering and slow, but always percolating. Writing rounds out my anima (as opposed to animus), Jung’s term for that part of my psyche that directs itself inward, and has daily conference calls with my subconscious, the place where we’re all connected. I like these calls. Getting to say “hey, hi, hello” to the subconscious feels a bit like hanging out at God’s favorite pub on a Friday afternoon. So much fun and the weekend has barely started!
Writing rejuvenates me, allowing me to puzzle out what I’m really thinking, and that, besides being a great and valued service, is way cheaper than therapy. Writing has been the easiest thing for me to do even when many other things seem difficult or insufficient — and then I hit on it, my most cherished, most desirable of darlings.
My pen is a metaphor for anything allowing me to speak my mind through the written word (laptops count!). I’ve got dozens of pens and two or three very nice pens, Mont Blancs, I think. They sit in drawers, putting on airs of superiority and rarely get taken out for a spin because the maintenance on them (refills) is ridiculously cost preclusive. I mean, it’s a pen, not a Lamborghini, right? Plus I prefer the cheaper, super fine uni balls that roll across the page with ease and come in packs of twelve or eighteen.
My pen helps me live life on purpose, holds my hand while I get silent enough to hear what’s bubbling up in my anima, and allows me an inward view with an outward result so no one thinks I’m just wasting time daydreaming. I prefer a room with a view when hanging with my pen, anywhere in or around nature. Working with my pen is like reconnecting with friends you’ve known for thirty years. You can skip the explanations, the histories of how you came to be, and just be.
And I’ll leave you with this thought, on the wall of a historically certified printer’s shop in downtown Lancaster, Pennsylvania:
On the printed word
depends our entire system of
education, government, law,
An entire society, because of the pen.