Words have been at a premium lately in my life.  Mostly, because it’s easier not to say them.  In my youth, (okay who am I kidding, like a year ago) I would have said anything and everything I thought.  Over the last several weeks, my life has been slowly being put back together after realising the utter disrepair that existed there.  And… I have been quite silent. 

Having a time of silence is a good thing for most.  People recharge, renew, and often repair in silence or quiet.  Jesus often to prepare for his days got up and left for solitude and sanity.  My days aren’t hectic by His standards, so I won’t even compare.  However, in the last 2 years I have really needed more quiet and solitude.  For an obvious extrovert, this is anathema.

For me, having more things vying for my time, for my person is a good thing.  My life exists in a bubble or a vacuum most of the time.  Having an outlet into the real world is necessary and is a craving of mine.  Real contact with real discussion.  It seems simple, and rarely exists today with people who aren’t wired for such.

At the end of a long day, I used to squirrel up in a favourite chair or on one corner of the couch and write.  A notebook, a journal… something to process those random, stray thoughts… something to help process those unyielding things that would not allow me to escape them.  I would gladly lose sleep in the midst of falling over the abyss.  Scribbling was more my way of rebellion if I had to be truly honest.  It still is.  But, it has always been something that marked time and marked my process for living.

When your days tend to meld together, and each one looks similar, there is less to process.  So, for some times, the words don’t come easily because there are too few to share.  Lately, however, I am processing through feelings and experiences that are too raw to express.  That has never happened to me before.  Ever.  Some of these rend my heart to bleeding and cause my brow to sweat… without me lifting a finger or moving a muscle.  Because if I actually give in and start to write these out, I’ll find that things might have to radically change in my life.  I’ll have to admit to truths about myself and about the life I dream for that make no earthly sense, and I will have to accept that there aren’t answers nor questions.  Only faith, grace, mercy… and change.

I am sitting here writing about nothing, because there is this vibrant image that I cannot do justice to.  How it inspires me, challenges me, and has already transformed me just for having had it.  I so very much want to write it down, to paint the emotional and spiritual landscape.  But, I fear this image is too genuine to share.  For if I write it down, then the one thing I know to be true must be shared with the one who inspired it.  That cannot happen because…

My heart cannot bear the acceptance or rejection of it.  

I am in as unfair a situation, as I have ever been.  All for the sake of something I once thought that I was very good at… speaking out and saying what is on my heart.  So, while I am writing at this moment, I am also hiding behind these words because I am so tentative, afraid.  But like being in the embrace of a cold wind in wintertime, eventually if I don’t do something to let a little something out.  I’m afraid that the quiet will still the fires that still smoulder inside me.

Ever feel even remotely this way?  That the so very very personal gets in the way of being able to write, create, speak… even breathe?  It’s weird to say so, but I’m fascinated with the concept of something so real that I cannot fathom sharing it with someone else.  Not that I won’t, but I can’t…