The Things That Matter by Rosalind
When one writes with power and passion the world tends to read, and conversations begin. Some come like summer breezes, subtly cruising past the peoples ears, while other’s hit like raging tsunamis tearing through small towns, uprooting life wherever it goes with the most intense and violent of change. When writer’s write about the things that matter, often times a flicker begins in like minded souls and encourages the closeted follower to open their door and step into the light, unafraid to be gazed upon for the very first time. They are the things that matter – to you.
To you at least is where it begins. The fuse is lit at the base of your personality, your morals, your values. What matters to me? Well, that question is foundation on the skin, it’s primer across the cheeks, before all your color and shades can come into play there has to be that beginning. What matters to me?
Maybe it’s your God or your country, maybe it’s protest or hunger, maybe it’s waving flags and rousing speeches. Maybe it’s your religion or your values. I know my writing reflects a lot of mine. My writing reflects a lot of me. There is a sensation of not feeling so alone. The feeling of reaching out a hand and caressing the fingers of someone who is just like you. Outstretching the bravery within to declare your truths, and demand – not ask – for an audience.
Let your pen and paper become your soap box in the middle of a crowded park. Let it be your stage, and sing from it.
When I came out as gay, how boundless the platform of writing was as it made not only accepting myself easier, but inviting others to accept me too. And then what a way to expose a problem as well; to call out judgments and attacks on not only myself, but my people, my community of too often marginalized individuals. That mattered to me. And it mattered to others.
But that wasn’t the end of the power that I found in sharing what mattered through writing. There were frustrations over issues in my life that I saw and wanted to change, that I recognized and wanted to take action on, that just plain ticked me off and made me feel like telling someone about it. My writing healed me when I was angry about something that I wanted more than anything to fix. As I waded through screaming protestors as thick as swarming bees while walking with my arm around a crying woman into the Planned Parenthood clinic I escort patients at, I knew I wanted to tell someone about it, cause it mattered. Cause I wanted to change it, and I was mad that that crying woman I had my arm around couldn’t have the peace to walk inside and get her healthcare without a single whisper of opposition. I wanted to snap my finger’s and make it go away for her and others. But I couldn’t, so I decided to write. It was one of the many things that mattered. It was one of the many things that mattered to me, and inserting myself into the hum of voices that also knew it mattered, that was when the conversation began. Began and kept going. Ran on strong, steady legs. Cried out a battle yell in a bellowing call. Raised its fists into the air and shouted about the things that matter.
Don’t we all want that? Don’t we all want the things that matter to be so strong? Well, it starts with us. It starts when one writes, when you write. It starts when you recognize the power of your words, and use that power in any platform you know how to to nurture yourself and the world and all those things that matter. This is how we light fires. This how we shatter glass ceilings. This is how we rise.