This has been the longest stretch of non-writing I’ve had in I can’t remember how long.
Writing is my soul and my heart and my creative space and when I’m not doing it, I feel empty. And then it becomes a cycle. Empty breeds no-words and no-words turns into empty.
There have been some reasons why. The holidays wrung me out so that by the first of the year, I felt like I’d given my whole self away over and over again. On top of that, the flu stole most of January from me and then as a result I’ve been playing catch up with my life.
Someone once to me said that creativity is a river and those words, when heard, pierced me when I was dry. And the words I dread, even from soul-giving, well-meaning friends is “Are you writing?” They ask because they know how much I need to do it. But I dread it because it is a shamed “No.”
So here I am, trying to crawl back in bed with the discipline that helps me process my life, helps me define myself and helps to calm my soul. To me, it really is more than a discipline: it is a pathway from God to my heart and from my heart to God.
My fingers are creaky and my heart is even creakier; but I am showing up today. And sometimes showing up is all a girl can do.