Lynne Saner

I sat at my grandmother’s roll top desk, feet dangling from the chair, inspecting the drawers. There were pencils, fountain pens, inkwells, skeleton keys, rubber stamps, envelopes of every size, and stationery in pastel shades. I selected a sheet of paper and pen, dipped it into the black ink and did my best to write with flourish, fancy swoops and swirls.

My grandmother, folding laundry on the couch, said, “Remember to be careful about what you put to paper because it can never be denied.”

For years, that sentence has turned in my mind like a koan. Paper can be destroyed, put to a flame or torn in a million pieces. Poof, gone. But words, said out loud in the presence of others? That was a whole different thing. Undeniable. 

Of course, these days nothing we say, out loud or in writing, ever disappears. My conundrum is moot thanks to technological advances. But the notion that what we choose to express matters, has consequences, has been one axis around which my life has spun. If I were the type to think that we are all here to learn lessons (and I am), then I’m pretty sure that skillful, intentional, and creative communication is a primary curriculum of mine.

That’s probably why I spent my twenties as a singer-songwriter, creating, publishing, and recording songs, then standing in front of audiences singing them. Out loud, good Lord!

When I gave that pursuit up to have my children, my professional life continued to unfolded  around — surprise-surprise — communicating. I edited and laid out books and catalogs, crafted grant narratives that were funded, created graphics to express ideas that demanded more than just words, built websites that wove together the narratives of organizations and businesses, and developed communications plans for events and organizations.

Now, I read and tweak the words of one of the best communicators I’ve ever come across. Rupert Spira. Lucky me. 

And I find it may be time to start writing again, just for me. So here goes.