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Writing is mending. When I say mending, I can see a physical act of repair--needle and thread stitching a well worn garment, each act of sewing a part of putting together what has been pulled apart. When we mend, either by writing or sewing, our stitches stay. Whether they are easy to see or hidden within our fabric, they remain. Maybe we are always mending, whatever the intention or the form of our writing. Maybe we are always putting back together what has been pulled apart. I wonder if whenever we write deeply we aren't desiring to mend. One way to uncover what we are mending is by noticing the repetitions that occur in our work. Sometimes we convey our need to mend through subjects we write about again and again. Sometimes we repeat words or images. Sometimes certain stories, anecdotes or descriptions frequently recur. But how does writing help us mend? When it allows us to uncover new layers of meaning and experience or to discover much that we were not aware of before? When it allows us to construct a tangible object, one that we can examine, share with another, hold? Yes and yes. But there is more. When we mend through writing, we sew ourselves back together. We make the repair. Our writing tells us we are mending. Look. The stitches are there. |
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