Every time I pick up my pen
I risk being pushed away or
Shoved aside, beyond outside
Where loneliness becomes invisible
When my words touch the
Hearts and lives of readers
Unprovoked and spontaneous
The spark in my soul ignites
I can never truly know just how much
My writing ministers to people’s hearts
Unless they open up and share with me
And resist the urge to stick a star on it
You’d think that someone who
Is used to being an outsider,
Used to being called a Nutjob
Would be immune to the pain, but
The pain of unintentional ignorance,
The pain of intentional indifference
Cannot ever just simply pass me by
It gnaws and nibbles away at my soul
Let me tell you an embarrassing secret
I’m not immune, I’ll never be, it still hurts
Every time I pick up my pen, I risk being
Pushed and shoved into invisible loneliness
Dear Lulu, Many years ago, during a terrible drought, we drove from the Free State to the Cape. Everything was dry and colourless. Then, near Laingsburg, we suddenly saw an old vygie bush – glowing with purple blossoms in the middle of the barren landscape. I’ve always called it “the difference.” Writing feels much the same. We don’t know – and perhaps we don’t need to know – who will come around the bend and notice the blossoms. Some will hardly look, but for others the sight will stay with them for a lifetime. In some ways, carrying on is nothing but a choice: to blossom only in the Light from Above, when the creative word is spoken over you: “Bloom now.” And that’s enough.
As spoken by a true, distinguished veteran. Thank you so very much, dear Maretha! ❤️