Power of the Pen. That’s what it was called when I was elementary, middle school. It’s what the artistic kids did. They wrote poems. With verses and rhymes and words I never tried to write but knew from greedily reading books.
That was before I decided to be a writer. That was when I didn’t believe in myself. I mean, I believed in myself to finish my homework and get up at 6:20 am and never skip swimming practice. But I strongly disbelieved that I am artistic. It wasn’t natural. Nothing was natural. Except following the rules, making others think well of me, hiding my badness.
And I’m here with my wooden Hiram College Alpha Society pen (obtained by following the rules) writing in my friend-made journal. I drew an identifiable mermaid and wrote my name across two pages and recorded how to become a peaceful person. This pen is POWER, I think, and it takes me back.
Those artistic kids knew it in seventh grade. They knew they were created to create.
I know it now. But the same thing stops me from creating. I live conflict. There’s no peace in my nature. I thrive on the conflict and I forget my purpose, my peace. I chase myself and fall. So that record of what it means to be peaceful is the point. Without it, I’m chasing others’ thoughts of me.
When I choose peace, I face my ugliness. I give up control. I strive for pure motive. I wait. I look to forgiveness from the all-time-forgiver who gives me more and more and more.
And I can create. I claim that graceful (not the type of movement but the unconditional kindness) power.
I haven’t written for months because I’ve been choosing miserable conflict. In this small moment I choose humility and self-control. Peace. Creation. I hope for more.