It is 6:30 on a Wednesday morning. My alarm went off an hour ago. I am sitting by the window in our den, wrapped in a blanket, watching the sun rise over the eastern corner of our house. All is quiet.
It occurred to me a while back that people who really want something get out of bed and go after it. So here I am.
I am not a morning person. Not even a little bit. Never have been and I think at this point it is safe to say, never will be. But I want to write. So here I am.
Lately I’ve been asking myself why I want to write. And why on God’s green earth I would want to write about personal stuff, heart stuff, soul stuff. Lately it seems it has caused more trouble than it is worth.
I’ve been considering an attempt at children’s literature or science fiction. Something, anything, that wouldn’t cause such a ruckus. I’ve also been considering writing under a pseudonym so I can say the true things without the backlash.
But deep down I know that neither of those are right. If I wrote fiction right now it would only be because fiction sounds less scary. And if I wrote under a pseudonym it would only be because I am afraid.
I write because writing is how I get to know myself. Its how I make sense of my life. I write because writing has given me back the identity I lost to postpartum depression five years ago. And I share what I write because I believe in the power of words, the power of ideas, the power of story to deliver hope and freedom to the reader. Reading saved me from the abyss. It only seems right to try and pass that on or pay that forward in some way.
The writer doesn’t make up the words. The writer delivers the words that have been given to them. These are the words that have been given to me. The way to stay true to myself is by delivering them.
Just tell your story, Echo. Love your people, show up for your life and tell your story. That is what the still, small voice keeps telling me.
I feel the need to apologize for the times when my story ends up sounding more like my sermon. I don’t want to give any sermons. Why do my words so often end up sounding like one?
You love by listening and by telling the truth about yourself. Remember this. Do not be afraid. That is what the still, small voice is saying to me this morning.
I read Love Warrior two weeks ago. And this week I’ve been reading the archives of a blog called Momastery written by the same author. The author’s words inspire me immensely. Her words encourage me and teach me and challenge me. I’ve noticed I feel a connection to peace and love and God when I read her words. She speaks the language of my soul. And somehow she does all of this just by telling the truth about herself. She teaches me and connects me back to the source simply by telling her story.
So that is my intention moving forward- to love my people, show up for my life and tell my story. And to listen to your stories if you will share them with me.
I’ve asked God to lock up my ego and my fear and shove them in the back of the closet for me. I would really rather not see them. They do so little for me. Let me know if you see them peaking out. I may need your help to keep them locked away.
The kids are awake now and they won’t stop talking to me. And the house is in shambles because I haven’t cleaned a thing or made the kids clean a thing since we got back in town on Monday. And now that I am thinking about all I need to do today I am remembering that the fridge and pantry are empty and that my three and five year old are in desperate need of a bath and that my third grader still needs help with the week’s worth of homework that is due tomorrow. So I should probably go.
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All for now. Same place, same time tomorrow?