Hello, Again

So, it’s been awhile. Since I wrote, since I tried to dive into the blank page and just move the cursor across the page. Sometimes I would return this wordpress account and just wait for the words to come, more like seeing if and from where they might come.

They haven’t. Or, well, didn’t.

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So I would reread and start a few sentences and stop, turn on Netflix, switch to Pinterest, decide to go for a run. I was waiting for a new push, a better way to write and wait and see. I look down at the fingers that used to fly, the ideas that used to leap, wishing for the itching yearning waiting for letters to form words and for something to start again. To be honest, I missed my assignments, being graded and in turn forced to think some thought and attempt to express it creatively.

This evening I started searching my unorganized files for a sentence I wrote three years ago. I didn’t find it, but I found one of the pages that have a few scribbles written and abandoned.

“As a preacher I sometimes get nervous I don’t have much to offer the people. Then I think of the boy with a few fish and loaves of bread.” – Bryan Loritts

So as I pursue cultivating and giving of these loaves and fish, I want to choose this space again, to challenge myself to keep on writing even though the days are long and the commitments are high. Because I no longer want to leave words lost and thoughts half thunk. So, yet again, it’s time to watch and wonder and wait and write.

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The push.

Composing truth creatively is hard.

I’d rather let it rise, like the ending of those goodbye hymns. Those swaying and swelling and hard-time hymns. Those that live under a silent sigh and eyes that smile.

It’s the brush of hair against your neck, the hands settled on your hips.

 

Truth is, I wait too much. I stop, I pause, I linger in that moment before the comma. Or the period. Or the next letter.

I usually wait for these words, ready for them bubble until the stream flows too fast, until I’ve just run out. And then I wait again, ready for the next surge, the next wave to crash through me.

 

But I guess I’m starting to question my methods. Inhabiting a creative space means being present, yes, but it means pushing. It means bending the words, the shapes, the rivers of thought until they hit the mark. Until the momentum swells and the heart rises and the punch swings and it’s over, and it’s good.

Maybe it’s the moment after the dive, when the coasting ends, the decision to make your own momentum.

Whew.