… and almost none of them are mine.

Thus the conundrum of being someone who processes the world by writing.  Over the last few months, I have been processing the world and discovery and everything in-between verbally and in person.  Very little time to write, far too much to process.  Drinking from the firehose is something with which I used to be really comfortable. 

I have had the solace that while I could not necessarily write, the people who I admire have been writing up a storm.  (Something about there only being a finite number of words the world uses is coming to mind… I didn’t know it was collective instead of individual though.)  Several folk that inspire me to make this internal burden to write something more than a personal exercise have been extraordinary in their insights, reflections, and amazing ways that they see the world around us.  I don’t necessarily agree with everything that is written, especially my own writings, but I feel that the voices they share transform hearts on many different levels.  I love having a community of people who process like I do to keep challenged, and I have enjoyed the reading and sharing others’ journeys.  I am a sojourner, you know.

Eventually my own words will spill out.  Hopefully it will not be like opening a long closed closet filled to the brim with all sorts of junk.  I pray that it will be like the spring thaw in the upper latitudes.  A small trickle of frozen water running down from the melting ice that slowly builds to the point where a healthy river flows down.  Ah, I can almost feel the refreshing cool spring which is a wonderful contrast to such a warm summer that I’m having.

Tis a good thing I believe.

Grace and peace.

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