Why I Write

By: Gary Boelhower

Not for the audience, although I love it on those few occasions when I have one. Not for publication, although it sure is nice to see one’s name in print once in a great while. Not for fame, because on most days I have no visions of grandeur. Not for the money, certainly not for the money, because writing has never been anything but a drain on my economy.

So why write? It has become a spiritual practice for me, and like most of my spiritual practices, I do it haltingly, unevenly, inconsistently, passionately. It has become a way of focusing my attention on what needs attention, a way of listening, a way of following a path that lures me into gratitude. The gratitude may be joyous, sad or angry, but it is still gratitude for the voices, for the beauty and horror that comes to visit, for the music that plays in the warm breeze and the blizzard’s sting, in the spider’s weave and the lily’s jocund jazz, the fog horn’s requiem, the cocky jay’s riff, my own heart’s drum.

And it is a way of seeing. Without writing, I hurry on my way, so often pass by the gleaming dew on the ordinary grass, the girl with perfect pigtails and a fancy dress letting go of her mother’s hand as she steps onto the bus, the way the hungry belly swells with pleading in so many scarred and violent geographies.

If I didn’t write about these things, if I didn’t record the sounds, try to get the colors right, I would be so much poorer. My skin would be tougher. I would be less distracted, more single-minded, more productive. There would be fewer questions and I wouldn’t wonder so much. Wonder.