What Merits Repeating

It's Sunday afternoon, and I should be writing because I have publicly committed to writing on this new blog on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays. Saturday flew by and so now I am amending the commitment to Tuesdays, Thursdays, and "the weekends." I'm trying to make this more enjoyable by sitting on the backyard swing with a fresh pot of tea. On the swing with me is Bones the cat, who cares nothing about my blogging life but knows to savor a swing in the sun when he can.

How do we come to this conviction that we must compose things for people to read? Does this grow out of a sense of giftedness or calling? Is it a dutiful response to others' expectations because I've been an editor, writer, and blogger a long time now, and this is simply what I do?

Or do I write to make meaning, to feel significant, to be valued?

Expressing anything in written language nearly always magnifies it. I can end a sleepless night by going to an all-night grocery, and all I'm doing is running an errand because I can't sleep. However, I might later write:

"I went shopping at dawn, the morning wet and the tired aisles ceaselessly bright. I bought mushrooms mainly because they looked beautiful to me."

--and I have transformed a nearly meaningless event into a "reflection" or a "scene" or perhaps with some work later, into a poem.

I look at this one way and it appears that I have found beauty in the mundane. I have practiced mindfulness or gratitude; I have tapped into grace.

I look at this another way, and it appears that I have blown an experience out of proportion, making myself seem wise and my mundane moment filled with significance when, really, it's not.

I don't even have to wax poetic to distort an experience; all I must do is speak it to another person or write it for public record--and instantly the thing is bigger than it is.

After a point, writing can thus become an exercise in pride and self-importance. It's a way of asserting myself, of trying to command others' attention. I am not comforatable with this. In fact, a lot of writing these days--whether my own or others' --just makes me weary. We are all trying so hard to be heard, to make history, or at least to make a dent.

It's probably better for everyone if I devote less time to throwing words out there and more time to enjoying the tea and the cat that is stretched beside me. My hope is primarily to live a good life and to write only what merits repeating.