There are certain classes that you walk away from feeling entertained. There are others that leave you with a notebook full of ideas and a to do list a mile long. And then, every once in a while, there is a class that quietly reaches into your chest, places something forgotten back into your hands, and whispers, "This has always belonged to you."
That was Writing the Sacred for me at the Holy Fire Conference. I have always loved writing. It is where I find peace when my mind is loud. It is where I process the world around me. It is where I get to be creative, philosophical, vulnerable, and honest. Writing has been my companion during some of the most beautiful moments of my life and some of the hardest ones too. It has always been there patiently waiting for me to sit down and simply begin.
What I realized during this class, however, was something I had somehow missed for years. My writing is service. That sounds so simple now that I've said it out loud, but it was something I struggled to truly understand. When we think of service, especially in service oriented communities, we often imagine tangible acts. We think of hands that prepare meals, bodies that labor, or tasks completed throughout the day. Writing rarely feels glamorous or worthy enough to be included in that conversation. And yet, it absolutely belongs there.
Every time I sit down to write a contract, I am serving. Every rule I have written for a Zoom meeting, every calendar I've organized, every schedule I've created, every ledger I've maintained, every handbook, every letter, every poem, every class I've taught, every blog post I've shared, and every resource I've painstakingly put together for my House or my community has been an act of service.
Service doesn't become less meaningful simply because it isn't performed standing in a kitchen or kneeling at someone's feet. Sometimes service looks like ink on paper. Sometimes service looks like words carefully chosen because you wanted someone else to feel seen, understood, educated, or inspired. There was something profoundly healing about realizing that the things I have spent years doing, the things that bring me genuine joy, are not separate from my service oriented heart. They are my service oriented heart.
For the longest time, I struggled with purpose. Disability has a way of changing the conversations you have with yourself. When you spend enough time grieving the things you used to do easily, it becomes difficult not to measure your worth against what your body can no longer accomplish. I have spent years asking myself where I fit when so much of my identity was wrapped up in serving others in very physical ways. A broken back changed what service looks like for me. Blindness changed what service looks like for me. Physical limitations changed what service looks like for me.
For a while, I convinced myself that meant I had somehow become less useful. I was wrong. Service is not diminished because it changes its shape. I may not be able to stand in the kitchen for hours preparing a meal the way I once could, but I can still share the recipes people love. I can preserve traditions. I can create resources that help others learn. I can write words that encourage someone to keep going on a difficult day. I can teach. I can document. I can organize chaos into something meaningful and beautiful. That is service too.
There is something sacred about creating something that will continue to help others long after you've finished writing it. Words have an incredible way of outliving us. They become traditions, teachings, memories, and legacies. They become the thing someone stumbles across at two o'clock in the morning when they desperately needed to know they weren't alone. That thought brings me more joy than I can properly put into words.
I have always joked that if I could spend my days wrapped in blankets with a cup of tea and a keyboard, I would be perfectly content. What I didn't realize is that perhaps that has always been my path. Perhaps writing has never simply been a hobby or a way for me to relax. Perhaps it has always been sacred.
Holy Fire reminded me that purpose isn't lost simply because it evolves. It isn't gone because it looks different than it did five years ago. Service isn't confined to one shape, one role, or one expression. Sometimes it is loud and visible. Sometimes it is a spreadsheet. Sometimes it is a handbook that welcomes new members into a community. Sometimes it is a poem that makes someone cry because they finally felt understood. Sometimes it is a blog post written late at night by someone who is slowly learning that she was never without purpose to begin with.
So, I suppose this is my reminder, to myself more than anyone else, that I do not need to become someone different in order to serve. I simply need to recognize the skills I have been carrying all along. Writing is where my heart rests. Writing is where I find peace. Writing is where I serve. And perhaps, after all these years, I am finally learning that writing has always been sacred.