I read Rumors of Water: Thoughts on Creativity and Writing by L.L. Barkat while spending a week in a church that’s been converted into a home.
Writing is like that. Its presence towered over most of my life with the stillness of a holy temple. Grandiose. Imposing. Until I finally flushed a toilet, heard truth echo through a cavernous sanctuary — with the noise of everyday water.
Writing, it turns out, is a place to inhabit.
Modern culture has discombobulated our sense of place. The hub of the kitchen table no longer holds together the farm and work shed like it once did. Now our most important occupations are prone to the sprawl of square miles, states, even countries. We do our best to knit together these habitations of work, family and faith, using long threads of concrete interstates and digital texts.
To feel connected.
Writing is home. It has drinking water and dirty floors, onions and laundry.
And it’s full of voices, compromises and relationships.
So I won’t be visiting church on Sundays anymore. It’s time to move in.
Because I want to flush toilets and sweep up crumbs from yesterday’s table crackers and hummus.
I even want to play with a broom.