I believe in the verb “to learn” – it’s applicable everywhere, at any age, and in any circumstance. Whether you’re a young child, a retired elderly man, or a hardened criminal behind bars, you’re always learning something. Take, for instance, Raskolnikov, the protagonist of Dostoevsky’s novel “Crime and Punishment”; even as he was washing the blood off his hands, he was learning something. Even a convict with a shovel in his hand can realize certain truths. Werther discovered pain, for example. Dorian understood the gravity of his situation reluctantly, at those feasts he attended. Who will learn what, where, and how is often uncertain.
I learned, and I was still learning. I learned, for instance, that cold could burn as painfully as heat, as I waited at that border checkpoint. I learned that trust could sometimes be risky, that people could be so different. Locked accidentally in that basement, I learned that I was afraid of the dark.
In addition, I learned about myself. I had discovered how much I enjoyed cooking as I cleaned our messy kitchen. I learned I had a knack for horseback riding in the classes I attended. Thanks to my little brother, I learned I could be a good sister. During the Prescribed Prayers, I had noticed the taste it gave me and that day, I learned the method to heal myself. I learned how helpless I was, as I humbled myself on my prayer mat. Oh, most importantly, I learned to read and write. I understood that my life would change when I was given a pen and notebook as a gift on my eighth birthday. It was there that I became acquainted with the instrument that would never leave my hand.
My eyes are fixed on the pen resting on my desk, and I smile. It’s around 4 a.m. I toss and turn in bed, yet sleep eludes me. I sit up and wait. Soon, my family will get up for the Morning Prayer. I don’t wait long to make a decision. I know what I need to do now. I’ve learned it through many long nights, I tell myself. I start by performing ablution. It’s 4 a.m., and I’m getting ready as if I’m about to go outside. But no, the destination is not the door that leads outside. It’s the old oak desk in my room. Next to the window, five steps away from my bed, this desk has played a significant role in my life. I stand before it and take a seat. Among the array of notebooks I’ve placed nearby, I quickly find my leather-bound journal and extract the fountain pen and inkwell. Although the sun is beginning to rise, my eyes search for light on my desk, prompting me to wake up with the candle as well.
I open my half-filled journal. This leather-bound book is my fifth journal, which I began to fill this year. I review what I’ve written before, marking my own mistakes with small notes to correct later. I dip the pen in ink and jot down the first word that comes to mind: “ignorance.”
I organize the words circulating in my mind and arrange them on the shelves. I dust them off and place each one where it belongs, in the labyrinth of my memory. I’m actually quite fond of this library in my mind, a labyrinth of words. I must have thought a lot about where each word should go, as I don’t even notice my mother entering the room until she’s standing next to me. “Anyone would think you’re having a meeting with someone the way you’re sitting. What’s all this dressing up so early in the morning?”
I smile at her playful frustration. “We’ve talked about this before, Mom…”
“How many times do I have to tell you? Do you really need to dress up like this?”
“Yes, Mom, it’s a matter of respect. Respect for the pen you hold, respect for the ink you spill. Respect for the thoughts that cross your mind, respect for the writers and poets.”
As she leaves the room, her gentle scolding continues. “I mean, as if all writers dressed up and adorned themselves before they wrote. Relax, my child, relax…”
My mother’s struggle to understand my obsession and my repeated explanations to her created a unique irony. I hear the sound of the door closing, and I return to my thoughts.
If I were asked to describe writing in a couple of words, I’d define it as “pleasurable pains.” The pleasure of writing was one thing, the pains endured until the writing was done were quite another. At night, you could be tormented to the point of leaving your bed. Words, sentences, quotes from other authors would whirl around in your head – each one a separate pain. But adorning that empty page with ink was an exceedingly pleasurable task. I don’t know what people think about this, but I definitely place writing alongside the revered professions of teaching and medicine.
By now, the sun has risen; I hear my parents setting up the breakfast table. I too, surrender to the inviting aroma of tea and take a deep breath. The last image that flashes through my mind before I leave my desk is my father holding my journal. I smile and focus on my cup of tea. My father’s voice reciting the lines reverberates in my mind:
Strength is the defiance of a snowdrop,
Courage is the sunflower’s gaze at the sun,
Ignorance recounted the stars to us,
We didn’t know before how much memories could burn.
Tenderness strokes those soft locks,
Love didn’t flourish through loyalty, nor wane amidst suffering
Sadness leaves a smile on our faces,
As tears flow down our cheeks.
