They weigh down my purses, they hide away in mason jars and sleep in the crevices of the couch. They are kept but found useless. I am talking of dead pens. For some reason I can not let them go as if one last drop of their ink will save me from a future pickle.
Maybe this comes from my need to fill pages, to constantly record my lists and document my dreams. If I have a paper, a napkin, a scrap; I will fill it. Lines and marks constantly flow from my sporadic yet stubborn soul.
But really my hoarding of spent pens reflects my need to hold on to past memories as if these will bring order and safeguard from change. Even after they are exhausted from laps around my head and tireless moments of reflection, I keep them to mull over yet again. The memories that bring hurt and few positives are as necessary as dead writing utensils; they can teach me no more. Yes, I have learned and grown from them, but post-humorously they must be bid farewell. The hardest step of moving past and growing from hardship is finally letting go, yet it is the most important step.
My hoarding does not guard against unwanted change, rather it prevents peace, a calmness that would nourish further flourishment. This is my little Christmas wish, no less exciting than hippopotami, I wish for you O Father to take my tough memories and fill the void with peace for the new season.