I’ve been thinking about a lot of things lately.
Usually, that’s fodder for writing – where I put jumbled to keyboard or pencil to paper and I learn what’s swirling about. I come to realize what was trying to be discovered, said.

That’s how writing is for me.           Usually.

I’ve stopped. 

I’ve done it before, and I can’t describe for you all the reasons behind it. I just know that it comes, and when it does, I feel more empty than I believed possible.

So the easy solution is to start again – right? I mean, that sounds pretty simple.
Except I’m the type of person who can’t just write because it’s on schedule. I need to have that pull, that brimming over the surface where what’s in just has to come out….I need to have something to say.

   So often, I don’t feel like I do have something to say….and therein lies the core disease.

I know I’m not alone in having the debilitating thoughts that stop progression or movement or trying something new. I know that’s the unifying cord of most of humanity – the fear of stepping out in newness or passionate pursuit. I know there are varying levels for everyone, but I’m sure you can relate to the small voices inside that taunt and name “you aren’t good enough for this”.

But let me try to be as honest as I possibly can – I don’t just get whispers every now and then – that is the constant, resounding, echoing narrative that I live with on a daily, hourly, basis.

There is nothing you could possibly add to this space.
Everybody is already doing it, and doing it better.
You cannot contribute goodness.
So just keep it to yourself.
In full disclosure of honesty, this is not over-exaggeration. This is the dialogue. This is what I have heard and come to believe for 33 years.
Please let me be clear – I am not revealing this for argument. I am not laying this out for “oh, but no…” or contradictory conversation.
I am being vulnerable in this space for the sole reason that maybe the eyes scanning this screen right now, your eyes…maybe they can relate.          Maybe you read over those words and inwardly gasped: “You hear it too?
I am laying this unattractive bare NOT because I want you to tell me different. In all loving truth, I adore you for wanting to, and please don’t take this the wrong way, but it won’t make a difference. I’ll want to hear you and I’ll want to show you that your efforts of speaking sweetness into my heart are revolutionary and working – but I cannot promise you that. It would probably be a lie if I did. I love that you would want to be the voice of the Spirit and I promise you that you are, but if it were as simple as hearing another person or people tell me differently, or even me telling myself differently, than this would have been solved long, long ago.
      It is not that easy.       When pain becomes the fabric of your years, pulling at one thread doesn’t untangle the whole tapestry. I’ve tried, I promise.
many threads do produce damage.
And I promise I’ll keep pulling to untangle it all.
You can too, but I simply don’t want you to feel you have to, or that it’s up to you.
Because my dear, as much as I wish it were, it cannot be.
So then why unload it all?
    Because sister (or brother), if you can relate to the bully of those similar thoughts – that you cannot possibly improve the spaces around you or in this world – I want you to see and hear and touch and know – you   are   not   alone.
                    You are not abnormal.
                             You are not weak.           Do you hear that?        You are not weak.
You, my darling, are broken, but not destroyed.
    You are persecuted, but not abandoned.
          You are struck-down, but not obliterated.
                     You are okay. You will be okay. Because you are not forgotten in those places of dialogue.
Keep walking each day. Dig deep inside to find a place of joy, and let it breathe. Before too long, if you seek that every day, you won’t have to dig so deep to feel it. The truth will come pouring out. The threads will fall in piles at your feet.
It will get better.         You don’t have to believe that now. You don’t even have to feel it’s possible. But one day you will.
One day I won’t squeeze the life out of my writing and refuse it air. One day I will come back to the practice that I couldn’t contain even if I wanted to – it was so vibrant and rich and illuminating. It will be that way once again. There is a command and directive I was given while at Allume and I haven’t obeyed yet – but I will.      Because I know how important it is.      I know the sacredness of what He’s asking.        And I want to be a part of it, so very much.
So this is my one foot in front of the other.
This is my assurance that I’m not alone in this. Neither are you.
Find the joy. Let it burn.
Taken in KC, MO, on a sunset walk.

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