I did it.
I gathered up the zillion pens, pencils, sharpies, and highlighters and went through the mountain to see what still worked. While tossing out many, I rediscovered favorite pens that fit my hands just so and whose ink moves ...easily, inspiring me to write something, anything, just to feel the flow.
There were probably things I intended to write down when I saved each writing instrument. There were probably important things I should have, could have said to someone, in my own handwriting so it would carry a bit more of my energy all the way to them, wherever they were. The ink dried up, the pen stopped working and I missed the opportunity to say it, to write it. If our words of love to family and friends were stored in the junk drawer, captured in the barrel of a blue Bic, could we lay our hands on that pen and take the time to write down those flower words and send them to our beloveds? Would we, before the ink dries out, before we’re gone, before they are gone?
Even after throwing out a good two dozen pens, I still have a healthy stack just waiting to be my love conspirator. The ink will flow and the words will land just so until they are picked up by my dearest dears and stored inside their hearts. I need to start using each drop of precious ink now to shape love on paper before the chance moves on; before the ink evaporates and returns to the sea of words where they’ll wait for someone else to draw them down.
