The Sacred Power of Writing

On living with "writefulness"

I am in the middle of a writing workshop. The genre is personal memoir. The facilitator poses a question as a prompt.

“Speed write for the next 6 minutes to - What did I do to make myself feel better when I was upset?”

I turn to my clock and then to my fast beating heart. I repeat to myself - What did I do to make myself feel better when I was upset? And then, I write.

When I was upset, I denied that I was upset. Denial was my toxic frenemy. Delulu is the only solulu, as the internet says. Growing up I internalised unhealthy patterns from around the world. Being upset is not good. Being upset is disobedience. Being upset is to be wished away by hiding it under the carpet. 

As I grew older, some inner deep cleaning was happening. I resolved to look within. All my “upsets” could be found under the emotional carpet of denial.

I had to face them. I had to accept them. I had to make sense of them.
So, I wrote. Writing became my vacuum cleaner. 

Writing became intrinsic to living. Reflections and introspection. Intentionality and self-nurturing. Emotional processing and self-expression.

Everything that I was living needed to pass through the catalyst of words to arrive at its meaningful sublimation.

Last year, something pivotal happened in my life. I was waiting for the result of an exam to which I had devoted many years of my young life.

On a Tuesday afternoon determined and optimistic Sanskriti opened the final result list, certain of finding her name in it and hopeful of seeing it at the top. She opened the PDF and read through the first 200 names manually. Sifting through every name, she stared at that list until the emptiness of crushing despondency stared back at her. Finally, it was time to follow the automated route of typing control plus F and search for her name with an all powerful enter. “Not found” declared the screen with ruthlessness.

That moment was like a shocking, violent car crash. She was stuck. Alive yet dead. Numb yet in pain. The car was upside down, just like her emotional state. 

Then, she closed her laptop. She opened the notes app of her phone and started writing. She wrote and wrote and wrote. The pain. The shock. The anger. The hurt. The grief. The emotions for which she had no vocabulary for articulation. Yet, words were faithful. And then, she finally breathed.

With words the rescue team had arrived at the scene of the accident and helped the injured out of the car, towards the hospital.

A year later as I recall this incident, I feel like a witness to my own life and to the journey of my younger self. I meet versions of myself on paper (notes apps, google documents).

I am rewriting pivotal moments of my life with the power of words and with that I am attempting to boldly re-author my own story. Words give me the permission that I need to live with authenticity and courage.

I now realise that every time I was upset I wrote and eventually felt better. I could honour my tumultuous emotional state, cope with it, heal it, turn it around and make sense of it in hindsight - all with the power of words.

Sometimes like the healing medicine, at other times like a nourishing jadibooti. Sometimes like a magic wand, at other times like a fiercely fighting sword.

Writing is my superpower because it lets me be fearlessly human and uniquely myself in a conformist, robotic world.

And then, something magical happened. I began to finally own myself as a writer and an artist. I sent away imposter syndrome and self-doubt with a one-way ticket far away from my inner world. With their departure, I felt liberated. I had arrived.

With so much writing bustling in my life, I heard the noise of “When will you write in the papers and magazines? When do you plan to write and publish a book? What all writer prizes are you aiming at?” I laughed. Not that I had not flirted audaciously with some of these ideas but such questions entirely missed the point of my writing.

Writing needn’t always be a means to an end. Writing can be an end in itself too. So, I let my writing enrich my everyday life.

I have learnt that I can write for myself. It needn’t be for everyone’s consumption. It needn’t be to publish a book. I am a writer, whether or not others acknowledge it. The wave of calmness that washes over me after writing leaves me as a shore renewed by the retreating sea. It is as precious as the high of succeeding as a “professional writer”.

I can write for my soul’s nourishment. I can write to energise my body. I can write to soothe my heart. I can write to strengthen my mind. I can write to sharpen my brain. I can re-author my life, whether or not I become an author, and that is powerfully enough.

I can write myself into the next ambitious chapter of my life. The ambitions of writing and being celebrated for it can be parked for later when the time is ripe. This is celebratory too.

Writing for myself is enough and powerful, whether or not the world witnesses it. I don’t need a stage. I am putting up the performance of a lifetime with my inner writing. The delight, catharsis and power of this is what matters the most.

Writing holds a sacred power. Each word like a bead of a japa-maala, holding together my life with divinity and turning my ordinary life into an extraordinary prayer.

As the workshop concludes, I continue to write, finishing my unfinished response to that prompt. The river inundating. The volcano erupting. The clouds bursting.

I turn to Substack to share what I wrote. Maybe someone like myself needs to be reminded of the sacred power of writing which enables them to live with the meditative power of “writefulness”.

Dear reader, no matter what you’re told, remember that your words are enough. Your writing is enough. You are enough. Your words matter. You writing for yourself matter. You matter.

Write on for yourself gloriously, dear writer!

If you enjoyed this essay you can also read about my tryst with personal memoir writing, cultivating a writing community and the power of our stories.

All my gratitude to

Ochre Sky Stories

,

Natasha Badhwar

and

Raju Tai

for being the wind beneath my wings and offering a home to us writers seeking refuge.