These past weeks have been tough.
I wish I could say I was a really healthy, super disciplined person. The truth is, I fall somewhere close to the middle of the continuum between lazy, good-for-nothing and winner, winner, chicken dinner.
You see, I will be writing steadily, and then I will have these spurts of insight, of passion. I will heave myself out of the Swamp of Confusion and onto the mud-slick shores of, “I think I might possibly be heading somewhere.”
After which, I allow first life, and then thoughts, to drag me right back into that swamp.
Once I’m back in the Swamp of Confusion, all hell breaks loose. Some of that hell is mental, some of it is physical and then other little tidbits of it are spiritual and emotional.
Enough with this metaphor; I think I’ve juiced it dry.
Let me be more specific:
So this? This post? After so many moons absent?
This is me saying to that accusing voice, Fuck you!
It’s me owning what I’ve known all along: the margins of resistance in my heart, mind and soul, those are the places where I need to be. And for me, resistance happens most often when I’m writing, when I’m speaking my truth, when I’m cracking open the lid of my pinkish-colored, raw vulnerability.
Steven Pressfield warns, “How many of us have become drunks and drug addicts, developed tumors and neuroses, succumbed to painkillers, gossip and compulsive cell-phone use, simply because we don’t do that thing that our hearts, our inner genius, is calling us to?”
I am supposed to write. I know this.
And to do that, I must be honest, open and vulnerable. I must write both confessionally and ardently about the differences between who I am, who I want to be and who I’m actually becoming.
So here it is. A new beginning. Time to try again. To write, regularly and faithfully, and to write toward justice, goodness and hope.
I cannot commit to never failing. But I can commit to always trying again.
I cannot commit to getting everything right. But I can commit to being a good and humble learner.
I cannot promise I’ll always live out what I preach. But I can commit to using the sharp knife of truth to cut away the hypocrisy.
I cannot commit to never hearing shaming, silencing, warning voices in my head. But I can commit to calling bullshit on them.
These are really trying times, my friends.
If you’ve been similarly struggling, rise up, I say. Try again. Tomorrow’s a new day. Let's not allow failure to write our endings.
If you’re doing great and are super self-disciplined and successful, well, do you mind sending some of your magical blood, sweat and tears my way? I could really use the extra boost.
And now, in the words of my son at the heals of his chemo-wielding nurse, “Peace out!”
I’m just gonna come out with it.
I struggle, you guys.
I’m not sure how to describe it, really.
It’s this thing where if I write something and it strikes a nerve with a few people, I go all weak in my mental knees.
I paralyze because, well, that one bit of writing that struck a nerve, what if, what if, I can never ever write another piece like it?
And then, what if, after penning endless irrelevancies that are both boring and meaningless, I am discovered to be,
Some sort of human fluke...
This admission of mine? It’s vulnerability’s territory, and I’m really not comfortable there- it’s all so soft and squishy. My brain keeps shrieking, “Run, damn it. You’re gonna get eaten alive!”
In telling the truth, though, I’m showing up to lick the proverbial waters, litmus testing whether or not truth-telling really enlivens old failing flailing limbs.
“It feels so great to finally dive into the water; maybe you splash around and flail for a while, but at least you’re in. Then you start doing whatever stroke you can remember how to do, and you get this scared feeling inside of you - of how hard it is and how far there is to go - but still you’re in and you’re afloat, and you’re moving.”
Hey, you. I'm glad you dropped by...
I'm a busy mom of three asking hard questions about my faith.