|(property of the organic bird)|
"Remember when you used to write?" she asked.
I want to flinch at this, but she's right. I used to write. I don't much anymore. Somewhere between morning coffee, afternoon tea, new friends, mothering, working, and all the other things you do in life, my writing fingers have become arthritic. The muscles seem to atrophy quickly.
And every day that goes by in which I choose not to pen, something inside of me feels like the mountain gets taller, higher, and quite honestly, exhausting. It reminds me of Steven Pressfield's "The War of Art," and the Resistance is working. In fact, the Resistance is getting the job done.
When I write, at least those thoughts have a place to go. I may think that without words, I am well-adjusted. But when I turn out the lights, and lay awake with the sounds of the city, it's all there. I'm never so well-adjusted as I like to believe I am. I used to write to process and document, ask questions and tell stories. The stack of journals is proof.
Grace sometimes feels like a jacket I slip on and off during the day. Wisdom is that well I am at daily, dipping my hungry hands into the deep, reflective surface. My prayers are said when I stare out the windows of moving vehicles, when I'm pressing the coffee down, when I'm picking up wooden blocks and wiping the table of pink lipstick.
Writing is secondary these days. Working it all out and praying His work of endurance in me produces character that brings the hope that doesn't put us to shame. As my writing muscles creak, and my heart stretches, I find that analyzing or seeking out answers is not nearly as important as trusting my Father and believing that He is good and does good. Finding inspiration is not my goal; returning to the revelation of the Gospel is. When things start to feel joint-to-joint, knuckles white and popping, I'm asking my Father to provide Grace as the synovial fluid in between my words, my actions, my pen to paper, and mostly, in my heart. It's not about the writing these days — it's just the living of it all.
I forget so quickly, how He does it. Fills in those gaps where I need nourishment. Last year feels very far away. That is until I read and remember...
.... about the days I felt like I was faking it.
.... when perspective was fresh, new, clear.
.... long Sundays and a quiet, quiet home.
I used to write, I did.
Now I tuck in away,
mull it over,
pray for wisdom,
drench my hands in the invisible wells,
wait for the season to come again.