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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Conversation

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{taken from Pinterest. I looooove Sylvia Plath}

I’m a happy girl. Somehow, my writing doesn’t always display that. Often these words roll off my fingers and suddenly sound melodramatic, serious, too far below the joy-sorrow border.

Perhaps it’s in the weaving, a sad thread winding between each bend and fold creating a slight sad glint with a touch of melancholy. Who knows? Maybe it’s just a dream voice that mumbles these words, the imaginary writer sipping weak coffee in my brain.

This moody writer broods cross-legged, humming with her brow pressed in my brain. I let her out when she gets ornery from eating too many soul-stirring Sylvia Plath quotes (somewhat ironic- she failed a paper on Sylvia Plath but can’t let go of her infatuation). She bends to sad songs, sways under cloudy skies and rejoices at claps of thunder. She’s responsible for much of my literature palate– seeking the dark and twisted and tortured poets and writers. She also can’t spelled very well, blames it on a hurried mind or a trick of heredity. Truth is, she doesn’t always pay close enough attention to the words she writes or says.

She tend to shy away, but sometimes the other tenants that influence my mind strike up conversations. The daughter, the friend, the student, the sister, the thinker, the cook, the laugher, the runner, and most often, the Christ-follower gently shakes her shoulder, bringing her some things to contemplate. Each one sometimes leads her away from the coffee, and into something else. Something a little different.

But it’s essential. I cannot be completely her, completely any one of them.

As I’m learning, the beauty lies in the conversation.