My Search for Inner Peace

I look at the newness of the pencil in my hand and smile. Graphite and clay combine to form long, elegant threads of pencil lead, capable of smirching the crisp, white paper I pull from the shelf. It will be worn soon enough, I think, as I piece together my thoughts and ideas and turn them into written words.

There are two things in my life that calm my inner beast. One can translate to many types of activity - repetition. It can be almost anything but it must have a rhythm; the swish, swish, swish of my paintbrush, the clack, clack, clack of my knitting needles, the click, click click of my keyboard. The hypnotic effect of repetitive action stills my inner cacophony. I figure it is my own form of meditation.

During the worst of times, I fed the mantra with destructive habits; now, not so much. I've often used fairly benign means to achieve the desired results - PacMan, the Claw Machine, casino slots. I perform the required ritualistic maneuver over and over and over until my mind feels empty.

What is most satisfying to me, however, is writing. The need for writing came first. A small, voiceless child, with larger than life opinions, has to find an outlet. Self-preservation kicked in. Smothered in feelings and thoughts and dreams, I instinctively wrote and wrote and wrote; but, being raised in a stern and cultish religion, I had to tear up those writings for fear of reprisal.

With the passing of time, I played with writing. Poetry, prose, songs and stories filled my trashcan. A few pieces survived into adulthood, but most did not. I aced my writing assignments in school. I used the skill of writing in the work force. As an adult, writing has continued to be a tool of survival and an instrument of joy. In fantastical moments, I see the tip of my writing implement like a tiny shovel digging through debris, trying to find what it is I'm searching for. Writing can pull at any emotion and purge the foulest of feelings. You can splatter that little voice inside you all over blank pages and feel the relief it brings. You can choose to share your words or hold them tight. You can find joy in making a story, poem or song or just fine peace in writing your truth.

Thoughts trudge on inside me like the Trail of Tears. When I write, it requires focus and the focus stifles my obsessive thoughts. I see myself lying in a tub of water which barely covers my body. Stark reality stares back at me. When I add bubbles, my imperfections are obscured. Words are like bubbles that obscure the defects and darkness in my mind. I lose focus on those images that never leave me - my dead child, my dead sister, cancer, accidents, failed marriages, rape. The bubbles give me time to process, to regroup, to rest my mind and to find the strength to stay here. At times, when revisiting writings from the past, I do not even recall writing them. The topics are usually painful and I think - what an incredibly powerful tool for healing.

It is poignant to find understanding of self. This invariably comes with age. I guess that is why wisdom is seldom associated with youth. I've become more self-aware of the role writing has played in my life. Undeniably, I clamor for artistic expression. Painting, pottery, etching, crocheting, jewelry-making, sewing - I've used them all, but writing remains forever the victor!