The Pen: A long lost companion

I used to write a lot. When I say write, I mean using a pen and paper, not the whole typing thing (that’s fake writing — exactly what I am doing now). When I say a lot, I mean everyday and everywhere. I used to carry a tote bag to most places. It usually contained my phone, purse, journal and pens. Sometimes I would throw a book in there too. My journal was gifted to me by a kind sister who I didn’t know well, but whom appreciate my small volunteering effort and wished to thank me. It was a beautiful, pink journal with blank, white pages. The cover was embdedded with pearls and gems and my name was written cursively at the centre of it. It had a pink frilled ribbon that ran down the side of the book. That journal, was more than a pretty face though. Even though it must be said that the outside of the journal didn’t quite reflect my non-girly, hate-pink, plain-jane personality. The inside though — what those pages carried, was a part of me walking around in a lousy tote bag.

The inner pages told a different story. Of broken hearts, deep reflections and straight-from-the-heart poetry. There were dried tears that smudged the inked scribbles and there were pages dedicated to my love for Autumn leaves.

However, as with everything in this world, good things come to an end. And so did that journal. The pages had been used up and the ink had dried. Around the time that happened, my life had also got busier. As a full-time home-maker and mother of two toddlers, and then a full-time student, meant I was traversing rockier terrains. Harder to climb, but always worth the view. I no longer carried a tote-back but a nappy fill back-pack with crumbs at the bottom. Not to mention, my writing now was mostly instant, frazzled mumblings, (read: instagram) or academic jargon for my lengthy assignments.

My time for reflective writing over the years had diminished and even more so when it came to writing by hand. I thought purchasing a new notebook/journal would help revive that love or remove that writers block. I was so sure that this time selecting a book, that was more ‘inspiring’ to look at, more reflective of my personality and love for trees, would do the trick. But nothing. Days and weeks have gone by. Heck, months have passed since I’ve journaled. Or since I’ve used my pen and paper and actually enjoyed the process of writing.

It didn’t occur to me that my busy and noisy life was fogging up the part of my brain that used to reflect. It didn’t also occur to me that the new world of instant technology played a huge part. It seemed easier to whip up a instagram caption than write in my journal or type up a blog post. (Disclaimer: this post was in fact written first before it was typed up — not preaching what I did not do :))

I came to the realisation that I was so busy trying to be busy even when I wasn’t busy. I wasn’t experiencing a writers block as much as I was experiencing a brain-fog. A fog which prevented my thoughts, my reflections from making it to the front. Each time they tried, I would distract myself with yet another scroll, another cup of tea, another 5 minutes of reading — because those thing required far less effort than sitting before my book and pen and letting my mind think. In silence and in stillness.

It was a fog that was fueled by distraction and noise of the outside world. One which only stillness, silence and some patience would help breed clarity again. When clarity surfaces, it’s easier to pen our thoughts, easier for the ink to flow to our pages and form words that prompt us to reflect. Prompt us to think. Help us attain realisations and self-awareness. Words that inspire change within us first.

Today, I found myself take out my book from the shelf, open it up, feel its smooth pages, grab my pen and write. Write like nothing ever changes as words escaped from my heart and from my mind like a bird that was let free from its cage.

My pen: my long lost companion.

My book: my keeper of treasures.

Here’s to more days of writing, inshaAllah.