I speak less now. I think less now. I laugh more and differently, cry more, listen to simpler music except when I feel lonely. I am deaf, mute; I grow blind and am losing even my ability to sense the loss.
I remember that I wrote, once. Could I again? Maybe not. I suspect that having something to say is less knowing what you will say than it is knowing how to say it.
I persist in the hope that I’ll eventually become something else, someone who could write better or more glorified things, and I await her coming. I await her coming in silence, and my silence gathers around me. My world grows smaller each day it goes unsaid. What you cannot name, you cannot see. What you see but refuse to name, you will lose.
We refer to a writer’s “body of work” but somehow disregard both the body and the work involved in language. Corpus? No, corpse, I think. What a horror to say lifeless things.
But again, what if I must speak, and all that I say is dead? I suspect this is the case, so I’ve been forced to conclude that generation of a dead child is better than its abortion. I write for the same reason all people do: to sustain my own life, to keep the dark at bay. I don’t have the luxury of considering whether or not the writing I do is itself animate or beautiful. It is. I am. That is all I offer, all I know.
But this talk forgets Christ. Today is Holy Saturday. We mourn God, await Him in silence as He conquers death with death. He is harrowing hell, inviting Adam to partake in the new covenant, and we wait. Our world is preparing for a violent expansion, and all we can do in the presence of such a miracle is wait and accept the rupture it will occasion.
I am not the source of my own value, or the guarantor of life in what I write. I am a child of God, invited with the rest to embrace Him and love and safeguard His creation. I cannot change what I am, but can only trust to God that He will help me be and become fully alive in Him.
Write, then, as you might dance: with rhythm, for yourself but with others, to the point of exhaustion, for the sake of itself and (if and as you are graced with knowledge of it) for the sake of the form. Your concern is to write as well as you can, write within the limits of your competence and understanding, to write truthfully what you see and be transfigured by love of the world and divine person in which you live and move and have your being.
T.S. Eliot: “I said to my soul, be still and wait without hope, for hope would be hope for the wrong thing; wait without love, for love would be love of the wrong thing; there is yet faith, but the faith and the love are all in the waiting.”
The world is silent as it waits, but this silence and all can yet be full of faith and love.