Sometimes when I set down to write, it is more as act of faith than anything, for there are mornings when I have no idea what I am going to journal about. I don’t think it is writer’s block, which is obvious that is something I don’t have; it’s just there is so much churning inside me that wants to get out that it can paralyze me. So I often just start, and slowly the flow comes. A good friend of mine teased me about my writing, he said to me once: “is there a thought you ever have that you don’t write down?” I laughed when he said that, and yes there is plenty I don’t write about, but perhaps one day. Or the need to write will go away, for I started writing very late in life, and whatever need caused this to arise, could just as easily leave.
Writing is like giving birth for me; yes a very feminine image as well a maternal. Writing, then sending, is part of an overture that I need to do at this time of my life. For me to simply write and not send would not be worth my time, both are needed, I suppose a stillbirth comes to mind if it is not put out there. I really don’t understand this, since I am sure that many do not read what I send, and that is ok, for my stuff can be long and I am sure often boring. I simply put too much out there, but when I do, something happens inside of me, something good. It is like I have been mulling over things all my life and suddenly I need to see what it looks like. I guess not all of it pretty, but life is like that isn’t it, often not pretty.
I suppose I am trying to bring my heart and head together, at least so that I am consciously aware of it. For now, often actually, I experience a spilt between what comes out when I write, and how I actually experience myself. Sometimes I don’t know where the stuff I write arises from, yet it is there. Perhaps all those who write experience this, or perhaps I am just too scattered in my inner world and writing is the only way that I can get the pieces together. Perhaps it just slows my racing mind down enough so that I can actually get a peek to what is going on inside me. I know that I have a private journal that I keep now, and it is always helpful when I go back a read what I had to say three or four years ago.
I know there is movement in my soul. I also know that I run around the same circles I have always done, yet perhaps better that, than something brand knew every week; now that would be exhausting I think. The progress I seem to be making, is often in spite of me, it is something else, deeper, hidden, working in my life, where some days I will stop and wonder, how I have gotten to where I am at. For in reality I sometimes think I am like a bowl full of marbles scattered over the floor, different colors and sizes with no real rhyme or reason for them at all. Yet again my life is moving forward, or perhaps zig-zagging is the better word, there is some inner movement towards healing, integration that will not allow me to rest, and yes I also feel the pull of grace, perhaps they are the same. Grace is not something apart from life, perhaps it is just life, the gift of it all, the good the bad and the ugly.
