“All that I hope to say in books, all that I ever hope to say, is that I love the world.” - E.B. White.

My dear friend M recently told me she needs an unselfish reason to write her story. Without it, telling the story feels yucky to her, like some big ego trip. A voice comes into her head saying, “You’re just trying to get attention,” and that stops her words from flowing.

I get it. I’ve got those voices myself, the ones that say things like, Who the hell are you to think you’ve got something valuable to say? Everything worth saying has been said a million times over.

There’s no arguing with that choir. Those internal carpers will out-reason me every time. Which is why I try to put aside reason when it comes to making stuff. The reasons for our actions that our brains come up with are rarely the real ones anyway. Mostly, we follow our mysterious longings and invent rationales afterwards.

I told M that, from my perspective, you don’t need a reason to write. If you have the impulse to make something—whether with words, paint, clay, or anything else—you should do it—the impulse itself is divine.  

Really, Tanya? I thought you were agnostic.

I am agnostic. I know nothing with absolute certainty. But what I think—what I feel—is that we’re all conduits for a life force that expresses itself through each of us in a slightly different way. Our work here as incarnated beings is to foster that expression as best we can. We’ll know we’re on the right track when a vital, propulsive energy courses through us, pushing us forward.

This didn’t work for M, so we kept talking. At some point in the conversation, she realized there was wisdom that had been given to her by a loved one who had since left this earth plane. This person had entrusted this wisdom to her, and she wanted to share it. The image of herself as a link in a chain, passing these teachings from her hand to the next, was what she needed to free her voice.

When the naysayers in my own head won’t pipe down, and my brain demands an explanation for me sitting here with fingers to keys, I remind myself of the words of beloved children’s book author E. B. White. Like him, I’m on a daily quest to say I love the world. On crisp fall days, when I’ve rolled in a pile of crunchy brown leaves, giggling wildly with friends ranging in age from eleven to sixty-seven, it’s easy. On other days, when I’ve woken up to news of children trapped in a war zone without adequate food, water, or medical supplies and lost my temper with my teenage son before getting out the door, it’s a whole lot harder. But my practice, this practice, is to keep looking for the words, even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard. Because when it’s hard to love the world, finding the words to say I do connects me back to that fundamental life force which, I believe, is made of love.

I know my words are not water. They are not food. They are not medicine. Putting them forward anyway is my act of devotion. Perhaps it’s even a kind of faith.