"For me, writing something down was the only road out."
(Anne Tyler)
I wrote his eulogy the other day. For those of us who write, it will not be surprising or the least bit unseemly to know that I wrote it even though he is not yet dead. Writing as catharsis, writing to express what we see and what we know as the truth is a way to deal with the muck that is occasionally stirred up from the deepest depths of a lifetime's worth of years gone by. A way to settle back down the inner waters until they again become motionless, serene, clear.
With thoughts set down in words, I now feel prepared for that inevitable day when truth is so often cast aside in favor of teary, sugary gloss designed only to make those left behind somehow feel better. Feel above the ugliness that spurs guilt for having once looked away when looking straight on was required. To write of truths is akin to polishing a sword, of sharpening it carefully so that it can cut through the blubbery bluff and nonsense, pare away the outright lies cleanly, neatly.
It was a mixed bag endeavor, this particular exercise in writing. As with many pieces, parts flowed like a dancing mountain stream while other parts were forced to be navigated like the dangerous, deadly rapids they represent. For that sword is not intended to kill. It must be used with the precision of a surgeon's scalpel, and piece by tiny piece only the right parts must be exorcised.
When I finished, the now-familiar, now most-of-the-time peaceful and steady feeling returned. I could look down at the waters below me and see straight through to the bottom again. The norm of focus on what is was once more undisturbed and I gratefully filed away the eulogy for some perhaps distant day. Yet knowing all the while that even though its truth could not be argued, it might well already have served its purpose simply through the act of writing it down.
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