saving what is sacred

There are beautiful things in this world, things that I often overlook. When I realize that they're there, I get the inspiration to write poetry about them. I want to capture this beauty in words. And, even if it is vane, to wear those words like a badge of my awareness. But I worry that the act of writing is a sort of defilement. It's me barging into an ancient ceremony and taking pictures with a cheap digital camera. It's sending these photos to National Geographic. It's transforming experience into a commodity. "No sooner are words pinned down then they fold their wings and die."

Maybe there will be a point when inspiration fills me with such abundance that I can write about it. It will spill over at all hours of the day, and to put it into words would only be to catch the droplets falling over the side. But for now, I need to keep these things in me. I need to nurture them, water them, keep them warm with my breath. To twist them into words would kill them. And I can't do that.

But maybe the problem isn't with the act of writing, but with the way you write. It is your perfectionism, your need to twist an idea to fit it into words. If you could write about these things without hurting them, without coercing them, then maybe it would only make them stronger.

As you walked home from the grocery store, you watched the trees. You became aware of them. And the bag of pretzels in your hand. It was sunshine and golden wheat. These were little sacred things. If I were to write about them, I would put them under the microscope. I would tear at them with a scalpel and examine what was inside. That is what writing has become for me. But no longer.