It’s Sunday as I write this. (The joy of scheduled posts and all that.) The Dude is at work, and I have abandoned Little Person downstairs to the Disney Junior channel. And I am still wearing my pyjamas. Because Sunday. And hayfever.
Sunday is, according to my faith, supposed to be a day of rest and reflection. Time together with family to refill your heart, to remember why you do what you do the rest of the week. Reconnect with who you are, and maybe dream about who you were meant to be. In our family, we don’t always get that right, but today, I think I may be doing alright. Even with the hayfever.
My daydreams for today have been about writing. About what I want to write, about what I do write. About how much the two match up. Sometimes I think I’m doing okay, because the word count goes up on my novel, and the little graph on my blog stats page goes in the “right” direction. But then I think, is that it? Is that all? Just because the numbers say it’s right, does that mean it is? Or are the numbers just a distraction? I didn’t start writing so that I could get lots of people reading what I said.
I don’t write for lots of people. I think I may just write for one.
I write for the invisible one, who feels no one can see your pain, or your hard work, or your struggle with depression, anxiety or any number of unseen issues. I have been invisible too. You are not invisible to me.
I have been invisible, stamped down and ignored because I dare to be different. I have held up a mirror to my soul and thought that there was nothing there worth looking at. Writing has helped me tilt the angle and realise that what I may have thought as nothing was merely depth of feeling. Passion rendered meaningless by a trick of the light, the way sunlight makes a fast and deep river look tranquil.
I held up a mirror to my soul and saw nothing, at first. Now I see the invisible, their silent voices screaming for a way to be more than this. Tethered down by the crying baby, the special needs child, the insurmountable debt, the crushed dreams, the abusive relationships, the rejection, neglect, addiction. The every day invisible walking among us.
For now, I write to you, echoing my experiences and lessons to say that there is hope. Hang on. You’re not alone. You’re not invisible. I can see you.
I want to write for you. I want to say “Look at these people, these ones that you overlook. Look at the bravery, the way that they rise again each morning and try again. The way they stand up knowing that it means only they will be knocked down again. Look, and don’t see the label. Look, see the person and know that they are worth the looking at.”
I want to know your story, so I can tell it back to you, and you can see your own strength. I want to be that tilt in the angle so that you can see how deep and strong you really are. Like a river in the sunlight.
I write to be a mirror to my soul.
I should write to be a mirror to yours.