Writing because I have to
"Writing because I had to" brings memories of my high school years. We had to write dissertations on various subjects and the exigency of was placed on structural skeletons, the elaboration and unfolding of content, robing this experience of any possible pleasure. The focus was placed solely on the grades we got for writing them.
Many years passed before I came to appreciate this aspect of the French educational system. I still don´t enjoy writing in French, my brain becomes muffled and insecure, interrupting the flow of my writing because I question my grammar, proper conjugation of verbs or orthography. I am mainly concerned about the "right" way of writing, rather than the joy of it. It is sad to realize the long lasting impact of a linear method of teaching. I joyfully continue to read and speak French, hopefully a time when writing it freely will come.
I use these skills in other languages, writing mainly in English and Spanish. Writing clears my mind. When I am overwhelmed, upset, exhausted, writing brings me order and calm. A few years ago I was teaching with a colleague in Russia. We had just ended a challenging course with a group that had experienced intense feelings, with the complexity translation brings, in an environment very foreign to me. Adapting to the food, the facilities, the cultural identity and idiosyncrasies had stretched me.
The last day, just as we ended our workshop and said goodbye and thought "okay now I can relax a bit", I got a message from my daughters. Both wrote that they and my parents were okay but that Mexico city and its surrounding areas had suffered a traumatic earthquake. I felt my heart drop and had only one wish, to be there with them. I still had a few days to go and work before my flight back home.
I took the train to St Petersburg and sat in a lively wagon surrounded by a large group of Turkish travelers. They were amiable, conversing with everyone and sharing delicacies they had prepared with all the other passengers. I still smile remembering them. I sat among them, having an urgent need to write during those hours. I wrote a summary of the experiences and work we had done at the retreat, with observations and insights about how culture determines the framework of our experiences.
In hindsight writing in the mists of lively chatter, laughter and boisterousness allowed me to keep my mental stability, while knowing Mexico city was in crisis. I was able to hold the internal tension of doing what I needed to do, while aching for the crisis I knew my city was in. I watched the news, read reports, cried over the extraordinarily humane response that came from the citizenship, to support those in need. I continued to write for the rest of my journey.
Writing supports my mental health and emotional balance, it can be poems, articles for journals and magazines, or my journal. With the passing of time the call to write has become imperious and demanding. I have been encouraged to write a book on many occasions by friends and colleagues and share with others what I practice, experience and come know.
For years, I pondered on this subject, could I do it? Was it relevant to anyone other than myself? Could I write a book even without publishing, or was it worth publishing? Was it about ego and self satisfaction? Was there a greater purpose in this? What sort of a book would it be?
Today all I do is sit and write. I am weaving who I have been and who I have become as a woman, a mother and daughter into a meaningful tapestry. I share stories from 35 years of professional practice to highlight the extraordinary capacity of the human will and valiant spirit, when people decide to embrace their own developmental journey. I am excited, I find I have much to say after all. For now it is about the pleasure of expressing the richness of the written word.
