Ball Point Wisdom
My pen wanders aimlessly caught up in a doodle in the upper corner of my note paper. I think it
feels caged in by the first two blue lines, the pink margin, and the jagged edge where the spiral
wire bites into the page. Perhaps it feels I may have forgotten it there, twirling in anxious scribbles
in a square quarter-inch of space. And what kind of life would that be for a creature of such caliber?
The truth is, I too am a little afraid of the tricks reality can play on the maturing mind. It cajoles
you into following rigorous routine. It calls your thoughts to attention in neat, calculated columns.
It organizes your life into patterns of plaid, blacks, and grays. It tempts you to drop your pen and
stand in line with chin up, shoulders tense, and arms at your side between Mr. Seven-million-six
and Ms. Seven-million-eight. It demands of your eyes a straightforward, blank stare. It asks of your
imagination… Nothing.
As my eyes fog over with the damp breath of reality behind them, my pen breaks through the
margin. It scurries across the page in frantic fantasy, whim, folktale, and lyric. It scolds, preaches,
and pours out it’s very blood in an effort that I finally understand.
Awed by this comrade, I hear its plea… “The only boundary that may contain your soul is your very
fear of boundaries!” It cries boldly, almost tearing the paper.
It seems that once again my pen is correct.
Now you know why I write.
Because most of the time my pen has a much quicker wit than I do.
It can think a lot faster than I can.
And sometimes of things I might never have thought of myself!
Should I forget, as on occasions such as this, and lose my footing, my pen, at least—if no one
else—will keep me from falling into the trench of the straight and narrow. Together we will go to
an incredible place they call Astray, which is over the horizon, far beyond the view of the people
in line.
About the Author
Maria Peregolise has a Bachelor
of Science in Elementary Education
degree, a Master of Science in Learning
Disabilities degree, and has taught for
24 years. She was born into and raised
in The URANTIA Book cult, with her
father as her leader. Her interest is in sharing research
that identifies aspects of how a coercive environment
may affect the growing number of those born into and
raised in manipulative environments. Married to her
high-school sweetheart for 34 years, they have three
grown children: a writer, a musician, and an artist. n
25 VOLUME 11 |ISSUE 2 |2020
Around the same time, in a whimsical essay called “Ball Point Wisdom,” I recognized that the only
way to think was to let my pen talk. In a suppressed mindset, hypervigilance keeps me cautious,
not to immediately react to a situation. While trying to quell a family dispute, I can’t scream back
at someone. I can’t act like something is wrong. I have to nervously laugh it off to ease someone’s
embarrassment or anger. I’m not allowed to think on my feet. My pen has none of these constraints
and “thinks of things I can’t think of.” In this way, I describe how my pen becomes my voice.
Additionally, “My eyes fog over with the damp breath of reality” speaks to my experience of the
“weighted greyness.”
My pen wanders aimlessly caught up in a doodle in the upper corner of my note paper. I think it
feels caged in by the first two blue lines, the pink margin, and the jagged edge where the spiral
wire bites into the page. Perhaps it feels I may have forgotten it there, twirling in anxious scribbles
in a square quarter-inch of space. And what kind of life would that be for a creature of such caliber?
The truth is, I too am a little afraid of the tricks reality can play on the maturing mind. It cajoles
you into following rigorous routine. It calls your thoughts to attention in neat, calculated columns.
It organizes your life into patterns of plaid, blacks, and grays. It tempts you to drop your pen and
stand in line with chin up, shoulders tense, and arms at your side between Mr. Seven-million-six
and Ms. Seven-million-eight. It demands of your eyes a straightforward, blank stare. It asks of your
imagination… Nothing.
As my eyes fog over with the damp breath of reality behind them, my pen breaks through the
margin. It scurries across the page in frantic fantasy, whim, folktale, and lyric. It scolds, preaches,
and pours out it’s very blood in an effort that I finally understand.
Awed by this comrade, I hear its plea… “The only boundary that may contain your soul is your very
fear of boundaries!” It cries boldly, almost tearing the paper.
It seems that once again my pen is correct.
Now you know why I write.
Because most of the time my pen has a much quicker wit than I do.
It can think a lot faster than I can.
And sometimes of things I might never have thought of myself!
Should I forget, as on occasions such as this, and lose my footing, my pen, at least—if no one
else—will keep me from falling into the trench of the straight and narrow. Together we will go to
an incredible place they call Astray, which is over the horizon, far beyond the view of the people
in line.
About the Author
Maria Peregolise has a Bachelor
of Science in Elementary Education
degree, a Master of Science in Learning
Disabilities degree, and has taught for
24 years. She was born into and raised
in The URANTIA Book cult, with her
father as her leader. Her interest is in sharing research
that identifies aspects of how a coercive environment
may affect the growing number of those born into and
raised in manipulative environments. Married to her
high-school sweetheart for 34 years, they have three
grown children: a writer, a musician, and an artist. n
25 VOLUME 11 |ISSUE 2 |2020
Around the same time, in a whimsical essay called “Ball Point Wisdom,” I recognized that the only
way to think was to let my pen talk. In a suppressed mindset, hypervigilance keeps me cautious,
not to immediately react to a situation. While trying to quell a family dispute, I can’t scream back
at someone. I can’t act like something is wrong. I have to nervously laugh it off to ease someone’s
embarrassment or anger. I’m not allowed to think on my feet. My pen has none of these constraints
and “thinks of things I can’t think of.” In this way, I describe how my pen becomes my voice.
Additionally, “My eyes fog over with the damp breath of reality” speaks to my experience of the
“weighted greyness.”
