Wednesday, May 25, 2016


Oh, hello there.

Clearly, I've been having trouble writing. The half-written ledes and posts sitting on my iPhone Notes and in my blog queue are proof of that.

I've been trying to write about grief and growth and joy and devastation. I've been trying to blast open the compartments of my brain where each emotionally taxing moment has been filed away so they become one jumbled mess that I can pick through and wear like a blanket so I know how to feel everything that's happened and, hopefully, understand how to process it all.

"All"... about learning bad news on the corner of 22nd and Park after leaving church, and struggling to turn around and go back; about the morning a close friend died and how I went to work because I didn't know what else to do; about getting your dream job; about second guessing your dream job (and letting others second guess it too); about former allies turning on you; about friends growing apart; about watching loved ones slowly disappear from 3,000 miles away.

Around this time last year, I wrote one of the most candid musings on existing than I ever thought I'd write. "If writing is like breathing and I feel like I can't breathe, then I need to put this somewhere so I can feel a little less heavy," I wrote. In the last 12 months, I did quite a bit of writing (remember when I blogged every day in August and I was in tears by the end of it?), and then it slowed down -- a lot. I blogged 31 days straight not just because it was something to do, but because it was at a time when I felt suffocated the most.

But perhaps blogging every day in August was really just a way to put off having to actually process everything that was happening. And I guess there's no good time to start processing -- to start writing again, praying again, creating again. "I learned vulnerability is a bit like those Russian nesting dolls," writes Hannah Brencher in one of my favorite reads from 2015, "the ones that get smaller and smaller in size when you twist the top off and pull another one out. In the end, you’re left with the tiniest doll, that one nugget. No more layers to take off. Nothing left but a surprise, the surprise of finding out the littlest doll is the most solid of them all. It doesn’t hide inside of itself.”

No more layers.

No comments:

Post a Comment