The Lost Art of Writing as Rest
This past March I got a concussion only three months after my mother’s passing and spent days laid up in bed. My wife blacked out all the windows in our room so I could have a cave of reprieve like a wandering saint from centuries ago. This refuge was as still as a habitation could be while sharing a partition with a two year old playing. But the inside of my head was like a pinball machine. Flashing lights, bumpers with different sounds and sayings. Our modern age has made minds into arcades.
Years of finger strokes at a keyboard and screen made writing seem to me more like labor; less like resting. With my brain injury I struggled look at screens. I found my old headlamp with a red light and fastened it to my brow as my pen and journal came out. Now every night, I write as a form of rest. Sometimes it’s simply little notes to myself. On occasion I am penning an encouragement to a friend to send later when I am on the mend.
The most restful writing for me is words of affection. Some call this romantic. I must admit I am a Latin man with a head still a bit Roman but empires aside, I believe anxiety a sign of atrophied agency. After all what is agency, but the practice of affecting?
Though now nearly brain dead and already crippled by grief I found quiet moments of reprieve by penning notes in the evening. Men may marvel when the Word became flesh but fewer men practice flesh becoming the Word. Crafting characters into meaning is after all a divine thing. I found scribing little vespers in the dark by some miracle of creation turns a prayer into a vacation. Even when my son stirs, I am not bothered, for this kind of rest mends more than mortal wounds.
Do not let it take a great injury or even the grave to begin writing as rest. I stole away the other day to write my wife a little note; the most enjoyable avenue of affection. When my son is restless I offer him my pen and a page. Then wild lines eventually give way to venture and play before settling in to sweet sauntering spells of rest.
It was Saint Augustine who began his Confessions with “You have made us for yourself, O Lord, and our hearts are restless until they rest in you.” What came next from the ancient bishops pen were seventy-thousand words of rest. No goal of views and likes. No great aim of viral fame. This African Saint had found a peaceful dwelling place by way of writing.
I know there will come a day when my head will be healed and the grief will no longer be so fresh and heavy yet even in good health I will keep this little lost art of rest by writing.
As practitioners of prayers on paper and pen, may your soul find rest in writing again.
Be blessed my friends.
Until next week,
-Steven
PS if you’re looking for further inspiration on writing with paper and pen I recently published a few new videos for you:
Watch this if you’re interested in my morning journaling routine after Morning Pages, or if you’re curious how I started journaling consistently, this video is for you.
Thank you for publishing this article, I needed it. Writing lately has felt like a chore for me.
Pardon the emoji, but 🥲. Writing sometimes scares me because of the vulnerability it demands from me. Your writing continues to inspire me to write. Thank you for sharing this special reflection, amigo.