I can’t learn to fly in this egg.
When one starts something new, one must answer the proverbial “why?”. Why a blog? Why now? The idea has been growing ever since I re-committed to writing this year. All I really need, though, is to scratch words in a journal, and I’m good. Do I really need to “publish” my writing? No. Especially as I feel my words have left me. They fled. I’m afraid they felt unneeded.
Of course raising young kids forces words out of you. Words like “no.” “stop.” “please.” “eat.” done?” And eventually complex phrases like “Please don’t eat the table.” and “If you blow in my face again, I’ll tape your mouth shut.” But the words and phrases needed to communicate complex ideas are gone. Poof. Fancy words that evoke emotion, words that used to come easily, are replaced with “silly goose,” “‘cakes,” and “bub.” The vapidity of my words is due partly to input. The sweeping phrases of Austen and Brontë have been replaced by “A told B and B told C, I’ll beat you to the top of the coconut tree.” What did I expect?
But I digress.
I realized my struggles are not rare. They are not mine alone. God is doing a mighty work on my massive issues. What if other women might need something He is teaching me?
It’s a long-shot, especially with all the amazing writers in the world, whose writing is regularly available. However I learned recently that the greatest disservice I, as a Columbine survivor, did to myself in 1999 was staying home. I denied myself the presence of others and denied others my presence. Presence is a blessing. We are designed for community, humanity is, especially in the worst of times. At the very least my family and friends need to know what’s going on. When the scars and open wounds are under the surface, often the evidence of them is volatile, but the healing happens under the surface as well. When we can we must point to the evidence of the healing power of Jesus in our lives.
So here I am, preparing to excavate the few words that made it onto paper, the million words flying around in my head, and to hunt down the ones I’ve lost. I always wanted to be an archaeologist.
I am a wife, a mama, a survivor of dark days, long nights, and the fear and anxiety invasion, a reality-checked June Cleaver thought-I-oughta-be, a blunt-mouthed, truth-sharing, roof-cutting friend.
I stand on the brink of something. I am on a journey. A quest. To find the words to share my story. I have to crack this shell, fight my way to life, the big world, so I can learn to fly. Because if I stay where I have been? I’ll rot.
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