redefining The Work

an exploration of the purpose of language

I’ve been marketing myself as a writer quite a bit lately. More than I think I am comfortable with. At first, it was a way for me to lean into my desire to write; to grant myself permission to do it. I was raised on the belief that to do a thing you must become it. And, thus, I am a “writer”.

At first, it was empowering. A moment in my life that I can point to and finally see myself in. What I was not anticipating was the shame that dangles in the space between myself + my abilities and the expectations I have of what it means to be a writer. It seems I have gifted my mind a new way to bury me in comparison and relentless self-judgment.

I am so, painfully hard on myself (if you couldn’t tell by now) (as if it is not the whole theme of this thing at this point) (i mean JEEZ).

Suddenly, writing for writing’s sake is not enough. To be a writer I should (the most insidious of words) have something to say. That something should only be about the Most Important Things. The word I should seldom be involved. Publically writing about anything but the world you are striving towards, the lives you would like to see change, the systems you wish to see crumble, is, suddenly, a waste of breath.

I say suddenly because not once in my life have I felt this way before turning an eye on myself. In fact, my love of writing as an art form is not for its ability to prove the existence of suffering or to solve it. My love is for language and all of its limitations. How it mimics the limits of ourselves. Our oft inability to directly translate ideas. Conversations between people who do not speak each other’s native tongue— the need to find other ways to communicate when language fails. The way poetry dances on a page; the line breaks and blank spaces speaking just as, if not more, resoundingly than the words themselves. Forgotten phrases. Things left unspoken. Freudian slips. Silence.

As someone who works more technically in a social justice/public health space, I started to feel like I was not contributing to The Work via my words and that was somehow a fatal flaw. That writing about my trials in love or the inner workings of my mind had no space in an already crowded landscape of thought. A question of who am I to speak of light when most of the world feels drained of it?

I then thought of the words that I turn to most. The poets and fiction writers and musicians that speak only of their “surface-level” view of the world—the gentleness of a lover’s touch; the humor of a hummingbird. How these ideas, most times, reveal more to me about life than dense theory ever could. How language at its most simple makes the most sense. (& here I am overcomplicating it all. the. time. :) )

The beauty of language is that there is an evergrowing chasm for it to explore. No defined purpose. To sequester it to a single meaning would be to undermine its power.

After reflecting on this last night, I jot down some thoughts that I’d like to share;

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each moment passes just as swollen with life as the last— each moment just as worthy of mourning its loss.

each deepening the pocket of our feeling; forcing its hand through ripped seams at the bottom; threading its whole body through to discover new grounds, new ways of feeling the same feelings.

what is The Work if not commemorating these moments? weighing a shared, stolen glance just as wonderous as the end of war.

there are differences, of course, but pretending our joys, our pains, our moments of body-tingling levity are forever eclipsed by something, somewhere grander than what we know is denying the grandness of our own, individual lives.

what is The Work if not a strive towards allowing these small, individual lives to be as they are, feel as they do, take up as much or little space as the container they seek?

what is The Work if not a pin to press into the map of time? to have proof— if only for a moment— that you were here, and there, and here again.

The Work is not the suffering or talking about the suffering or finding the exact correct combination of answers to the suffering.

the suffering is but one piece of the many avenues for The Work to take place.

resist the urge to find meaning in only the proliferation of suffering’s existence.

The Work is far more expansive than that. you know it to be true— you feel it in your longings; your yearnings.

what is The Work if not to say I am here and that is enough?

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cover art: The Bacchanale by Malvina Hoffman