I used to consider myself a writer. And then somewhere along the winding way, particularly through several frantic, intense, at times exceedingly painful and frightening years, I found myself with nothing to say. Every so often, I would sit at the computer and, just because I had to write something, write about how I was yearning to communicate– something– but couldn’t dredge up anything out of the swirling mist inside my head. I had the feeling that all I thought I knew, I was finding out I really didn’t know; to express an opinion would be to show my own ignorance. In the words of those days, “If I were to pour forth onto paper, canvas, or instrument, an expression of that within my own heart which seeks to be expressed, I do believe it would be a deluge of questions, of wonderings, yearnings, longing. It is as if I know not what to say, yet yearn with my whole soul to say it.” Somewhere along the way I decided, well, so I will not write; I will listen. I have been reading and watching and trying to fill myself so that perhaps someday I will have something to draw forth. For the most part, I gave up trying to journal. I stopped myself almost every time I got to the “submit” button when commenting on a blog post, and let my insignificant thoughts disappear into the “trashbin” of cyberspace. My intelligent friends would surely scoff at such childish attempts.
But it is time. Time to take a deep breath and say something, and let someone else hear it. It is time to step out of the secure cell of fear and self-consciousness into the light and learn to relate as an imperfect person, as a person becoming, and offer what I do have to give.
As I wrote recently,“I am feeling like a small child working hard at his first steps, ignorantly searching. God grant me grace to enter fully into my own first toddling steps, full of joy and without fear.”