Words, words, words

I have always loved words and writing. Well, not quite always. Apparently I was a slow starter when it came to reading: my mum realised that other children in my class were being sent home with books to read, and I wasn’t, so she questioned the teacher about it and was told I wasn’t ready yet, but not to worry. No need for worry indeed, as once I did get the hang of it, I didn’t stop! I consumed books, got immersed in them, still get the fidgets if I don’t have a good book on the go.

And I started writing too. As a child, it was some pretty far-fetched stories, generally involving animals (horses, dogs, an otter once, I recall). As a teenager, more stories, spurred on by creative writing for my English Language O Level classes, and story competitions for the school magazine – but also some poetry as well. Some was purely for fun: in the sixth form, doing English as an A Level, I rewrote Book 1 of Milton’s “Paradise Lost” substituting teachers for the devils and school for hell, and so on. I should say that I didn’t actually mind school or most of my teachers, but it was entertaining to do, got a laugh from my friends, and for a generally boringly sensible girl (I’m afraid so!), it was about the only way I was ever remotely disrespectful. Sadly, I think that precious manuscript, in longhand on foolscap paper, is now long gone, discarded in some clear-out of a loft somewhere along the line.

I went on to study English at university, which I loved, but the side effect of reading huge amounts of literature over three years was that I stopped writing creatively. Thereafter, what writing I did was occasional bouts of journaling, particularly if I was travelling to somewhere different, but nothing more.

However, I worked for over 17 years as a Civil Servant in the Ministry of Defence, and there, writing well, with nuance and precision, to inform, record and influence, was a prized skill. “Can she write?” was the question a line manager in a policy department would often ask about a new recruit. I relished the professional challenge of applying my language skills to a different type of task. So writing was still part of daily life, albeit in a new way. Later, undertaking theological training and being ordained in the Church of England opened up another avenue of words – written theological reflections on what I observed and experienced and learnt about. During my curacy, as a trainee vicar, I was in seventh heaven (not very theologically-speaking!) compiling a portfolio of such reflections. A natural reflector who loved writing, it was sheer joy to find that this was required of me, and to have time to do it, and I probably provided my assessors with more material than they ever wanted to read.

In recent years, general busyness has squeezed out writing for pleasure, until just over a year ago when I started playing with poetry again, reading some and feeling inspired to scribble some of my own, purely for my personal consumption. A few months on, a friend, herself a newly published author, prompted me to think about whether I should be writing something. And as the slow heat of exhaustion took hold and burnt busy me to a dark and charred lumpy mess, an insightful colleague encouraged me to use writing to help me find a way through this new experience.

It still remained a private domain, however. I’m essentially a private person, and rather reserved, though I know that may not be obvious to those who see me leading services and preaching. But in my dark forest of exhaustion and depression, I realised how much I had missed immersing myself in words, filling myself with them, and then letting them flow out; and putting words to my scrambled thoughts and feelings sparked parts of my brain into life that had lain dormant and started to rust. As we entered into lockdown, I felt the urge to exercise my mind as well as my body, to see if I could retrain those creaky joints and tight sinews of language and meaning and expression in my brain, to discover whether I could combine imagination and emotion, structure and sound in poetry and prose that would help me grasp this moment more fully. And just maybe, in doing so, there might also be something that would offer someone else insight or encouragement, as the words of others have lifted me so often.

Now, my mind is craving words, hungry for them just as my body thirsts for water on a hot day. I haven’t quite experienced this before. Somehow it is about rediscovering something in me, going back to a source of joy and fulfilment and sheer Katie-ness that I have lost over the years. It’s about letting that grow in me into, perhaps, a new shape or form. By sharing it, it’s about taking a risk, being less private about what I write, and seeing what others make of it. It’s about listening to a prompting, an urge, inside of me and seeing where it leads, without having to have the whole plan or finished map laid out before me.

I hope this may be part of my continued process of healing. I believe it will be. Somehow the One who is the Word has given me a love for words, written and read and spoken, and that love for words is a gift, a gift that has sat in a box on the shelf and needs to be opened up once again, explored, and then offered up in turn, for whatever He and others might make of it.

Does it matter if my words are read? I’m human. Like anyone else who launches words out in the world, I would love it if people read them and liked them and were helped by them! But whether read or not, it seems that my task, the invitation given to me, is to write, and as the words fall, to see what path they create and where it leads, as I make my way through the trees of this particular forest.

If you have read these words, thank you.

(The pic below shows some of my favourite childhood books that have survived loft clear-outs.)