The Lifeline of a Shared Word
I am beginning to realize that this practice of writing—this sitting down to ponder, process, and consider—is not a luxury, not an extra. It is also not a task, a chore, or another item on a checklist. This writing practice has become the fuel for the rest of my day.
Each morning, I have a pretty non-negotiable practice of "doing nothing" for fifteen minutes. Some might call it meditation or prayer; I find "doing nothing" is enough. I set a timer and place my phone just out of reach. I used to drink coffee during this time, but the habit eventually morphed into hot lemon water. It makes me think of my grandfather, who drank plain hot water every morning while the other adults opted for coffee (or Postum for my grandmother!). That fifteen minutes of stillness grounds me; it ensures I begin the day from a place of centered presence.
But lately, I’ve realized that the writing practice has become just as essential. It isn't an "extra" to be fit in if the stars align. It is the main course.
Take today, for instance. I went to the gym, handled some work, checked in on my investing practice, answered emails, and watered my new sweet pea, kale, and tomato seedlings. These were all "good" things, yet something felt off. My spirit felt cranky. It was that niggling sensation you get when you realize, halfway to the airport, that you’ve forgotten something—and realize when you arrive that it was your ID.
By midday, I actually stopped to examine the feeling (I had been trying to swat it away like an annoying fly) and realized what was wrong: I hadn't written yet.
"It’s too late now," my inner critic chimed in. "It’s almost lunchtime. You don't even have an idea. Might as well give up."
I sat down anyway. I told myself, I feel off because I haven’t written. Immediately, the part of me I connect with through the written word felt a flood of relief. You’re here! You made it! Thank you for not abandoning us.
When I write, I experience a sense of completion. I don’t know how else to explain it. The day may not be half over, but the "Big Rock" is in the jar. According to the old Franklin Covey time management metaphor, if you put the big rocks in the jar first, the smaller rocks—the emails, the errands, the chores—will fill in the gaps. But if you fill the jar with small rocks first, the big ones will never fit. Writing, I am realizing, is one of the big rocks.
This isn't about achievement. I have spent most of my life as an overachiever, chasing gold stars and A+ grades. But that kind of striving is outward-facing; it’s about the prize, not the desire. This need to write is more like the need for breakfast. I can skip it, but I won’t be nourished.
I have been a writer through every phase of my life. In my corporate years, I wrote books and articles about the arcane architecture of Microsoft Networking Systems. In seminary, I wrote theological exegesis, pastoral care, and social ethics. In the decades since, I’ve written everything from planned giving reports to explorations of Baja cave paintings to meditations on horsemanship. But this is the first time writing has felt like a lifeline—a cord connecting my deepest self to "Source," to that which is both me and also all-encompassing.
Many people who know me through my "horse era" might not know that, in addition to being a horsewoman, I am an ordained Evangelist in the Presbyterian Church (USA). It was an unconventional designation seventeen years ago (though Mr. Rogers was also an ordained evangelist in the Presbyterian Church!), and I had to advocate for it. The thing is, at its root, an "evangelist" is simply someone who "shares a good word." The street preachers with megaphones have distorted the term, but the heart of the role remains: sharing the good word.
In my life, whether I have been presenting to a crowd of hundreds, playing intramural flag football in the snow on my seminary team, preaching in an urban church, photographing the streets of Paris, or bouncing in the back of a jeep on safari, the impulse has always been the same: I needed to share it. Through the lens or the page, the experience wasn't complete until it was shared.
So, I return to the good word today. I return to the need to write and the need to share. It isn't about "look at me," and it isn't about checking a box on a to-do list. It is simply the realization that the world, and my place in it, isn't fully realized until the word is shared.
Only then is the day complete.
