“Gatherer’s Blog” is an invited feature that provides emergent as well as seasoned writers with opportunities to reflect upon aspects of their own writing processes.
Writing: A Love Story
by Elisa Friedlander
From the writing corner of my small home office, I settle into the plum-colored swivel chair that strategically faces the oak tree in our yard. It’s that time of year when light green leaves adorn my majestic friend’s recently bare, outstretched branches. She knows that when she can’t see me, when I’m not writing, there is a significant chance I’m thinking about writing.
The leaves seem to be doing the same, each one fluttering with the energy of words. Before long, the gentle wind will calm, and this congregation of leaves will collectively tell a story. It will tell many stories.
Love Story
At age six, long before the oak tree came into my existence, I scribed my first piece of writing—a letter to G-d. The letter starts halfway down the page (perhaps I had planned to draw in the top half, but that remains a mystery). Each meticulously crafted block letter takes up two lined rows and ends with “Love, Elisa” at the bottom of the page.
Two years and many pages later, when it became clear that writing wasn’t just a phase, I transitioned from loose-leaf paper to lock-and-key diaries. This marked the beginning of my childhood ritual: dedicating time at the end of each night to writing. The memory of being with my diaries is visceral; it felt like being in love. Since then, I’ve housed my words in countless journals and notebooks of various sizes, colors, and styles, as well as in folders on my computer. I’d be remiss not to include the tattered yet equally cherished paper scraps, Post-Its (once in a while, my wife finds them attached to my clothing, and we have a good laugh), paper menus, used envelopes, napkins, receipts, ticket stubs, and shopping lists, because wherever she is or whatever she’s doing—well, a writer has to write.
As a self-proclaimed “must-write-er,” I’m always curious about how language intersects with the world. How do words in prayers show up in everyday conversation? What is the river saying? Is it even possible that words can fully express love? I eventually understood that my first piece of writing was a prayer and that the very act of putting pen to paper is connected with my Judaism, whether or not what I’m working on is about religion or spirituality.
The Yiddish word beshert, meaning “destiny,” can refer to two people who are “meant to be” together. Often used to refer specifically to “soulmates,” beshert describes my two marriages—one to my wife and the other to writing. I sometimes wonder, with both, what I did to deserve their emergence and stalwart presence in my life. As with all relationships, mine with writing isn’t without its challenges. When I overanalyze and become stuck in editing mode, the only thing that helps me get out of my head is to physically get out of my writing chair. Occasionally, I protect myself by holding back words, preventing them from being released onto the page.
When I haven’t written what I consider “enough,” I turn to my files to find proof that my writing life has had and continues to have a beating heart. Inevitably, the deep satisfaction I feel comes not from the quantity of writing I’ve done, but from recognizing the abundance of space I’ve claimed for my relationship with writing over the years.
Like reconnecting with friends, I linger in the nostalgia of pages that drift in and out of my conscious mind: unfinished children’s stories, posts from my blogging days, poems, and short stories; chapters from that not-yet-completed book; meditations for my Jewish writing groups; detailed accounts of travels with my wife; journals – so many journals; pages holding every word I managed to capture of my dad’s voice after his cancer diagnosis; the poem I wrote for him about my anticipatory grief.
Chronic Pain and Disability
As a young adult, I began to face the challenges of chronic pain from a genetic condition. Then, in my forties, complicated spine surgeries led to worsening symptoms, along with the onset of a rare neurological condition that causes persistent nerve pain and intermittent mobility issues. Writing became more sacred than ever, revealing itself as my go-to medicine—an elixir that enabled me to coexist with the sometimes unimaginable levels of pain.
While my life trajectory, including my work as a private practice psychotherapist, was disrupted, these difficult experiences added deeper significance to my writing practice. I began to use my writing to help others navigate the personal and societal complexities of living with pain and disability. The responses I received, particularly those who shared that my writing helped them feel less alone or invited them to consider chronic pain from a different perspective, illuminated the powerful impact of sharing the written word.
Continuing to blend writing and healing, I began facilitating therapeutic writing, journaling, and poetry workshops. One of my greatest privileges in the writing world is being in company with and guiding others, especially those navigating chronic pain or illness, and witnessing the self-discovery and renewal that emerge from the gift of writing.
Not Just a Fantasy
Having a disability means embracing two writing lives: one based in reality and another in my imagination (who doesn’t love a good fantasy?). In the latter, I awaken to a spine filled with a spongy substance at the center of each vertebral disc, granting me fluid movement. I rise and move like a ballerina from my bed to my writing chair. With supple fingers, I pick up a smooth-writing pen and open my Dream Journal. I nurture my relationship with writing before I’m fully conscious, documenting and reflecting on stories gifted to me by the Dreammaker. The sense of ease in my body aligns with my spirit, supporting my desire to write for as long as I wish in the morning and dive into various writing projects throughout the day and evening.
In reality, each morning, I struggle to move my body and ease the heightened pain. Even slight movement feels like my connective tissues are a Rice Krispies Treats recipe in the making, without enough butter. The stiffness and disabling pain conflict with my intention to write upon waking. But, thanks to voice dictation, I can capture my words, revisit them later, and do what I’m meant to do – write.
I don’t fully understand how, at age six, I heard the message that writing is love, writing is divine, writing is the Divine. What I do know is that it ignited a love story with writing that would become one of my most meaningful and enduring relationships in this complex, beautiful, word-filled life.
Back to Top of Page | Back to Volume 19, Issue 1 – Summer 2025
About the Author
Elisa Friedlander is a psychotherapist, writer, and the founder of Ink To Insight, LLC, where she designs and facilitates therapeutic writing, journaling, and poetry workshops globally. Her lived experience with chronic pain and disability, along with her lifelong use of writing as a primary tool for healing, inspired her to create the six-week curriculum, “Pain Meets Pen: Quieting Chronic Pain with Therapeutic Writing™.” Elisa’s personal essays on chronic pain and disability have been published on websites such as HuffPost, The Mighty, and the Reflex Sympathetic Dystrophy Syndrome Association; she has also contributed to two anthologies focused on the theme of grief. Elisa coexists with chronic pain and awe, carving out moments each day to chat with and write about the deer, birds, and abundant plant life in Ashland, Oregon, where she lives with her wife and their adorable poodle-bichon. Her website is www.InkToInsight.com.