Ink

I had never given much thought to ink.

It was just something that existed. Messy. Ignoble. Permanent. What I had been thinking about was music. 

I love music—listening to it, singing along with it, and experiencing it live. I love how effortlessly musicians seem to play their instruments, responding to an internal rhythm with creativity flowing from their fingers to their instrument as if the instrument were an extension of themselves. I envied their gift. 

Then I began to consider ink. And how ink unleashes anyone’s ability to write down their thoughts, from the most ordinary and mundane to the most creative and brilliant works of poets, authors, and philosophers. Words no longer chiseled into stone or bark, no longer only penned by a scribe, the nobility, or the clergy. Today paper and ink are available to anyone—to everyone.

Ink allows the pen to be an extension of the mind to the fingers, fluidly moving across paper as inspiration forms thoughts into words, and words into cohesive paragraphs. The pen is the conduit for the expression of a journey from mind to paper to other minds. Or a journey from the heart to paper so the mind can understand. Or a journey from one’s thoughts to another’s heart. The connections are endless. Ink. Letters. Words. Each of them inextricably weaves threads of communication – worlds, ideas, adventures, lessons learned—connecting writers to themselves and their worlds. 

I know the world is changing and the trusty pen has been largely replaced by a keyboard. But there is something beautifully personal about a hand-written card or letter. For me, using a computer is like writing with gloves on. It is clumsy. There is something between me and my thoughts. And I find that the pen in my hand is how I best communicate. Creativity flows better through my pen than it does through a keyboard. The pen glides effortlessly over the page as ideas crystallize, and sentences form even more quickly than I can write.

Growing up left-handed, writing with pencils smeared my work so that it was messy, unreadable, or erased altogether. Oh, glorious day in fourth grade when I was handed a pen! How happy I was to finally be old enough to write with ink. No longer were my thoughts illegible or obliterated. With a pen I can see my ideas take shape as I write and scribble. I insert, change, and create responding to the flow of inspiration taking hold of me. And there it is, right in front of me, in my unique handwriting. Ineradicable.

So I no longer envy the musician’s creative instrument, for I too have one. What it produces is not sound, but it is indelible. It is smooth and fluid. And it is powerful and subtle. As I hold it, there is an energy of palpable potential. I feel the weight of it, its gravitas, and the responsibility to use it well. The pen is often taken for granted, bought cheaply by the box, but no more! The pen is my invaluable instrument of choice when my heart, mind, and soul are crying out for expression. My urge is to pick up a pen. That urge is my God-given gifting, my passion; it is who I am. When I hear something inspiring, read something profound, think something interesting, I search for a pen to write it down. I do not pick up a guitar, or violin, or run to a piano, or put on dance shoes. I write. And it takes me on a journey—my journey.

On paper.

Flowing.

In ink.