Writing

We have a friend who faithfully and regularly writes letters by hand, page after page of news of family, friends, and our former church. I marvel at her constancy and admire her discipline to sit with stationary, taking the time to handwrite a letter, surely a dying genre (and art form?). It is rare that I put pen to paper anymore, aside from responding to student work. On the occasion I do pick up a pen, I may even compose my thoughts on the keyboard before I write it out by hand.

This weekend, I spent time in the mountains of a neighboring county on retreat with women of my church. We were so cut off from “civilization” that my cell phone labored to connect well enough to tell my husband I had arrived safely. Our conversation consisted of me mostly saying, “Can you hear me?” Frankly, I found it unnerving, and that troubles me. As part of our retreat we were given time and space, along with several options of how to use the gift of such unfettered freedom. I chose to read scripture and to “psalm,” a verb form of writing I’ve never tried. Minus my computer, I pulled out a pen and a yellow legal pad. I wrote, crossed out, rewrote. Flipped to a new page. Copied the first page. Crossed out. Added. Rewrote. Turned to another page. Rearranged, revised, rewrote and copied. All tolled—four pages of writing with all its scribbled permutations there to see.

During this reflective writing, I pondered the role of technology, considering its omnipresent tug and the price it exacts. I cautioned myself not to neglect to turn off the computer (where now I write), and challenged myself to resurrect the practice of keeping an intentional journal, preserving words and logging life (and prayer) in a way that will not disappear with the flip of a switch. It starts tomorrow.