a meandering update on all that is fierce and mundane around this bit of blog

There is a kind of writer’s block that comes of having too much to think and say. I have been stuck here for a long while, now. It is a strange summer and a strange bit of life I find myself in, and when I begin to process parts of it here, I lose my way rather quickly.

It’s been hard to write, too, while there’s a breather from school and Deep Thoughts and computers. Much as I think of myself as a creature positively made of words, there is something in me these days that wants to soak in every outrageously gorgeous bit of life in this world and refuses, for a while, to analyze or define or describe it. I want to wander down alleyways of the city and throw flavors together in the kitchen without knowing where I’m going or what the chemistry will produce. I want to twine my fingers into all the thick tangled threads of every day and not let go, not if it’s scary, not if it’s sad, not if the beauty finds a place I never knew could ache with so much longing and so much gratitude.

Call it an experiment, to just feel things for a while, all the smallest things – eyes wide to the absurdity and the tragedy and the wild celebration of every day – and not to have to come up with rationalizations and defenses for the ruckus in your heart. Maybe it helps to work with kids on a river all day, with lots of free time to talk to squirmy animals or wend about the city or take in a sunset until it takes you in. It certainly helps to visit family and oldest friends, and to dance at weddings ’til you’re dancing with a vaccuum at the cleanup after-party. And it certainly hurts when you come back to a stifling summer housed in a dorm room, where all those dear hearts feel so far away; and the sense of purpose you used to feel about this whole Boston escapade leaked away at some point, and there is nothing in its place but a giant cliché cartoon question mark mocking you.

Am I being a little melodramatic about a couple of lazy months with a summer job? Yes, I think so, and I think that is the point. The point is to care too much, because life is important, dammit, and we forget that. We forget that wishing away the days til the weekend is a waste of opportunity. We let our routines take care of us because we have to, we need the brain space while we’re brushing our teeth; but then the routines lull us into trudging through a life meant to be lived abundant. They whisper that life outside the routine is dangerous and unpredictable. And they’re right. There’s no protection. Once you start engaging with things that used to pass you by, once you take down the walls between you and the stuff of life, they’ll just come right up and bump into you. They’ll shock you. You’ll cry, just all the time. Explaining why you’re crying will make you sound crazier than if you just say you’re crying for no reason. “These trees are really really old, some of them are so old, and isn’t that the most wonderful, hopeful thing?”


Part of why it’s hard to write is that all of this has something very directly to do with the childlike faith and unseen trust of Being Honest, something I can’t quite articulate yet. Now, after two years being gripped by the thought, the Spirit-leading, that I must learn to be honest, no matter what, I have slowly felt a sense of release from the intensity of that calling. Not because honesty is less important, but because – well, to be honest – I have learned it. There is so very much I need to write about what I mean by that, and what that journey has been, but for now I will leave it at an inadequate thank you to every reader who has waded into this blog. It started here when I was quite literally too terrified to speak, and this space has been a springboard for every new step on the way.

And that is the other trouble with writing these days: that I feel a slow turning toward a completely unknown destination – this waiting for a direction in several areas of life that leaves me unsure what this blog is becoming. It is becoming something other than To Be Honest. Day to day I decide that it’s just a redesign, or that I’m going to start taking it way too super-seriously, or (when I’m overwhelmed by writing for school) that now is not the time and it needs a very long hiatus. I think that it will stay what it’s been, for the most part: a lifeline to a style and audience of writing that is not dry, pretentious, obscure academia. And we will see what that looks like as life turns, turns, turns.

Meanwhile, there will be a sunset every single day. Also strange little birds and people to miss and this little girl I heard the other day shouting “Wait up, Slowpoke!!”

Wait up, slowpoke. Look up. There’s a world to love.

Leave a comment

1 Comment

  1. Jacqueline in Atlanta

     /  July 11, 2014

    There are people who miss you, dear Writer.


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