writing why I don't write.

I was out with a friend the other day and she told me I needed to write. She followed up her instruction with my next blog entry,"You need to write why you aren't writing."
 "Okay." I replied sheepishly. I even proceeded to get out my phone. I pretended I was putting it in my notes app to save as a reminder. I totally didn't. Honestly, I blew the idea off. In a second I decided that I don't write because I have nothing to say. Duh. However, as quickly as I formed this answer in my mind she blurted out, "Holly, you have something to say." Gulp. I didn't ask her if she was a mind reader. I just gave her a half smile and shrugged my shoulders.
Since our conversation, I had some of these excuses run through my head, 'It's not that I say anything that hasn't been said before., I am not some profound writer with a fan club who hangs on my every word., Writing is hard... BUT she is right. I do have something to say. Not because of me. Because of Him. God. This story is not mine to keep. He is the one working in me to give me the grace to live. It's hard. Very overwhelming. Completely lonely. Somewhat confusing. Absolutely exacerbating. I'm desperate. For Him. And that's right where he wants me.
I owe it to Him to put my raw feelings on paper. It isn't my story. Yes, I'm living it. My body is the one afflicted with FA. My butt is the one stuck in this wheelchair. It's my decision to rely on a service dog to help me get around. I am the one that falls if I don't concentrate or even if I concentrate. BUT it's my soul that longs to be at peace with Him. And I mean, really at peace. Content. And all of this is only temporary.
I don't write because the majority of time I don't feel that way. I don't. This momentary life feels like it will last forever. I listen to my negative voice a lot. I fake a smile quite a bit. My laughter sometimes is used as a way of redirecting the moment of truth.
At the core of who I am, I love God. That's weird, I know. I am motivated by the one who could heal me in a second. Yep, I am.
And so I don't write because I put down on paper words like that. I am fearful of being misunderstood. I am scared of being patronized. And these words make me accountable to be real in my faith.
I love what Bob Goff tweeted this morning. "We keep asking for more proof; God keeps saying our lives are more proof."   And I adore Goff's response when a follower asked him if he was speaking of existential or empirical proof? And here was Bob Goff's reply, "Oh my, I don't even know what that means...just enjoying God this morning. Hope you have a terrific weekend."
Absolutely hilarious. And so profound. I just need to enjoy God. I think for me, that means I need to write. Not just when it's easy or convenient. In the mess, too.
Life is messy. And beautiful.
Yes, even with FA.

There, Jo, I said it.
Therefore, I wrote it.

Posting this photo may teach Jo to think twice before she speaks into my life again. :) 

 

Love you, Jo!

it's in the exhale.

I have writer's block. Or I'm stuck. Maybe a tad apathetic. Feeling indifferent. It's easy to lean into my anger. I'm angry. That means I'm afraid. I'm fearful. I am.
The future scares me. The present overwhelms me. And the past makes me sad.
Whoa. That was a mouthful. A bit depressing but honest, raw, sincere. I want to be all those things. Even in the midst of the hurt. I tell myself it is okay to be sad. Disappointed. In my world, I can be all of those things and still belong.
Belong.
 I can't say that word without inhaling deeply.
 It's in the exhale that I learn. Slowly and often painfully but I grow. My heart molds into something different. The shape of it comes out sharp or rounded, brittle or soft, big or small, bruised or shiny. But my soul emerges with something. That something is not always welcomed. Occasionally it's not defined. And mostly not understood.
This something is suffering.
It's part of life. That doesn't mean I like it. I certainly don't get it. And I'm not going to pretend I understand it.
 Suffering stinks. It's so hard. Confusing. Lonely. Scary.
It's not hard to imagine that I can't just blend into the wall. Sneaking into a place is impossible for me. Forget being late and not making a grand entrance. I have gotten use to this. To ease my anxiety or discomfort of being stared at, I tell myself people are looking at the dog. He's a stud.

"Keep repeating that, Holly.  You're fine. You're not different. You belong."
Inhale. Deeply.
It's the exhale I'm working on.
I'm still struggling to breathe from a comment made by a parent to their child last week.
"Why does that lady have that dog, Momma!?"
Honestly, I added the "Momma" part to make this lady more enduring than she really was/is.
Keep in mind that this child and her "momma" are only inches to the right side of me. In fact, I could have spit in her face, we were that close. :)
"That dog helps people like her."
People. Like. Her.
It was as if those three words came over the sound system on 8th street. Echoing.
People. Like. Her.
 It felt as if the hundreds of people that lined the street, watching the street performers stopped and stared at me as those three words were shouted over the loud speaker.
A person like me.
I'm still in the process of figuring this statement out while I'm exhaling. The shape of my heart is still being molded. But I'm learning.Growing in the hurt.
I long to be someone who doesn't see a difference in another person.
I want to treat them as if they belong.
Inhale.
Because they do.
Exhale...

We all do.