I haven’t been writing for very long. I can’t really say that I write, but I must say that I find myself in writing. I don’t have a pen powerful enough to describe the state of mind a person enters into while writing, but perhaps I can explain how I feel in my own way.
When I write, the curtain of the world closes to me, and it feels as though the curtain to a different realm opens. I liken these moments to the times I lost myself in the world of imagination when I was young. Like Ferenc Molnár’s The Paul Street Boys, I live in a different world.
Sometimes I find myself walking in a desert, other times I am drinking deeply from a flowing spring. Sometimes I share in the sadness of a tree separated from its leaves in autumn, and at other times, I see myself on the wing of a bee, enchanted by its literal meaning. As I flit from branch to branch with the bee, I find myself touring among galaxies. Of course, I have a friend who takes me to these realms.
“What distinguishes humans from animals is their consciousness, insight, and then the privilege of inspiration and wisdom. Those deprived of these qualities, regardless of their form, are considered not to have reached the necessary final point.”[1]
No matter how much I try without inspiration and without touching the rusty, squeaking door handle, I mostly can’t move beyond the desk I sit at. But when it does come, it floods in, and I feel like electrons spinning rapidly around a nucleus. I cannot contain myself; I cannot stay still. At that moment, my paper and pen come to my aid, and as I write, I begin to relax. I discharge the metaphysical tension created in my body by inspiration through a conductive pen onto paper. Sometimes this tension is so strong that when paper is not enough, the table in front of me or any surface I find becomes my notebook. As long as there is no distraction, I benefit from the spring of inspiration until it stops. The moment it stops, I pause and look at the emerging writing. Now that I have hauled in my catch from the sea of inspiration, the rest is up to me to work on.
This week, as I pondered what to write, I couldn’t find a topic. I decided to tell you about a day I tried to write as a situational piece.
Usually, I decide on a topic and sit at my desk. I make sure there is nothing on the desk to distract me and keep all my electronic devices on silent mode, placed far away. After saying “Bismillah,” I pick up my pen or keyboard and wait. Knowing the topic before I start writing is a big step. This time, I chose the topic “The Sun.”
After completing the necessary research, all that’s left is to transfer what I’ve learned onto paper. This is the hardest part. We stare at the paper for so long that sometimes it becomes an uncomfortable pillow. Sometimes our conversation progresses so much and changes that my writing on the sun suddenly finds itself as an essay describing a polar bear. When I put a period at the end of my sentences, I realize the topic has changed. My writing doesn’t seem to make much sense at first glance. I tried one last time to continue writing, but it doesn’t work. Then I sadly get up from the desk and go to make tea. Meanwhile, I leave the writing to brew as well. While deciding how many spoons of tea to put in the teapot, I hear the footsteps of inspiration at my door. But it doesn’t come inside. If it did, it would have a place atop my head, in my heart’s delicate tent, and on the tip of my pen.
After putting three spoons of tea into the teapot, while wondering why I always use three spoons, it whispers to me that there is a balance in everything. The words measure and balance, repeated four times on the first page of the Surah ar-Rahman, immerse me in a different realm of thought, and just then, my doorbell rings. Inspiration has arrived…
From its condition, it seems to have traveled a long journey. Who knows from which throne of the heart it has risen and come…
After inviting it in, I sit back at my desk and realize that the topic of my writing, aimed at describing the Sun, has changed again. With the support of inspiration, I begin to write about the Perfect Balance System in the Universe. Like Gulliver traveling through different realms, I am touring the Solar System. I joined the dance of the pen on paper.
I move from the carriage to the locomotive of the inspiration train, lest it takes me on different routes. Soon after, I experience the joy of putting the final dot in my writing. I take a step back and glance at the writing with the corner of my eye. Yes, now it’s right.
Illustration by Melike Karaca.
As inspiration arrives and I forget even to drink, the tea is nearly finished and starts to boil over. I quickly add water. My guest asks to leave, and I see them off. I try to appreciate its value. The abode of my heart must transform to suit the delicate visitation of this guest so that our share of it may be constant and plentiful.[2] Lastly, I put the writing into a bottle and threw it into the sea of collective conscience.[3] God will find a way to deliver it to those in need, just as He allowed me to find this sentence from the Sızıntı magazine published in 1993.
Footnotes
[1] M. Fethullah Gülen, Ölçü veya Yoldaki Işıklar, İstanbul: Nil Yayınları, 2011, p. 78.
[2] M. Said Türkoğlu, “Şair ve İlham, Yağmur, Issue: 58, 2012.
[3] Yusuf Alan, “Yazı Yazarken”, Sızıntı, February 1993.
