An Empty Pen

I’m not sure what to write, though I feel the need to. So often I get the urge to put down my thoughts on this or that but I almost never know quite what to say. It’s as though I have a blank page in front of me and my pen in my hand, ready to go, yet I am out of ink, I am out of that which forms the words, that which makes the ideas pass from my mind to you.

So far, with a couple of exceptions, I’ve written very little about politics or things going on in the world. Instead of discussing my views on the Supreme Court or how much of an idiot I think Bush is or even a commentary on the deep impact The Simpsons has on modern society, I have written about me. I know there are more important things going on out there, larger issues that concern local, state, national and international affairs, really I do. But sometimes I think it’s easy to talk about those things. Even though our personal opinions can run very deep and often connect with a very personal part of who we are, adding to the ultimacy and immediacy of the issue, it’s easy to talk about things that happen outside of our Selves. It’s easy because there are sides to take, support to draw on, and often somewhere beneath the complexities we feel that there is a “right” and a “wrong.”

For years I’ve kept a journal of my thoughts, my joys, my struggles. For a time in college I was part of a small group that would gather once a week to share our journals with each other. By opening ourselves up to that level of vulnerability we became very close. It is in this group that I first felt comfortable expressing who I really am. And, I suppose, it is why when I write I tend to focus on what’s going on on the inside. It’s harder to talk about those things. There’s rarely a clear-cut side to anything, rarely a “right” or “wrong” conclusion. And everything is intricately complex.

There was a time when I really felt like I knew who I was. Time happened and I found myself changing – through education, through life experience, through interactions – and my picture of who I was began to evolve. As more time passed I began to feel as though I knew this newer version of myself, until the next time the world around me changed and I adapted. You see, deep down there are some things that make me who I am that won’t change all that much. But as time goes on and the shifting environs of my life reveal and conceal themselves I am constantly rediscovering who I am and how I will live in response to it all.

I guess I did have something to say after all…

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