I haven’t opened my laptop in over a month. I have composed many stories, poems, blog posts…more, but they have all been in my head. I have strung together thoughts and prayers, but they have all been spoken or scrawled into my journal as I scribble down endless words of thanks. I have been thinking about writing so much that I have actually put together a writing class to work through with one of my children, but I myself, have not been creatively writing.
They say that all you need to do to be a writer
is to write.
It’s not that I don’t have the words to say or the stories to tell. Instead, I feel like all of the days are stories in and of themselves. Summer does that to me, causes me to realize that a life well lived is it’s own testament to a world that has a hard time believing that there is good out there. I have spoken words and told stories to friends and strangers, it has been so good for me. Often the words get jumbled when I speak them, come out less perfectly than when I can take the time to reread and edit my thoughts first. I’ve found though, that there is beauty in that honesty. There is often grace found as I stumble over the imperfect telling of a tale.
The sunshine wakes the day and I lean into it, coffee steaming. I wonder over the small things with the small people. I wonder over how a life can be so perfect, even after I have so many times messed it up. I wonder over how a story can be told without speaking any words at all, the details spilling out of the silence. This season has been good to me.
This Summer has given me stories to tell, written or not I cannot yet say. I think; living a life well may be just what needs to be done for now. There is cold and dark to come, I have not forgotten. It has merely been chased away for a time, but I do treasure the light. I trust that the time will come for writing down the stories, all of the best of them, a few of the worst of them. I remember that there is a time for all things and I try not to worry about all I will forget before the thoughts touch the page. Rather I store up each story, each moment of light, in my heart and will call upon them as the darkness descends. As the cold of January next steals my joy I will reach out for these blessed days, and I will be blessed by them yet again.
I look forward to sitting with you, telling my stories and hearing yours. Hopefully that day is already on the calendar, but if not, I trust that it is soon coming.
I was pulled into a conversation recently. One that I really didn’t want to get involved in, but couldn’t quite stay out of either. Still working on keeping my mouth shut while the masses spout their opinions and certainties… As I thought about what I would say to a friend and her shared opinion, I felt the anxiety rise in my chest. Is that odd? I’ve written about my anxiety briefly before and I have actually had a pretty good handle on it for quite some time. I know that my current mental capacity is maxed though, and in adding in this small extra I should expect to feel the familiar flutter.
This has been going on for a few days, so I did what I do now; I sat with it. I’ve been reading too, trying to keep myself from reading too much into the flutter in my chest, the nervous creep inside my mind, the lack of peace and the lack of sleep. In being still with the unrealistic worry, I’ve noticed the growth I otherwise would not have. In the past my anxiety would make me jumpy, more stressed, more worried, more anxious. Nice cycle, right? Perhaps I’ve learned something over the years though.
While I still have the anxiety; it still surrounds me and closes in on me. The growth comes in not being afraid of this tight place anymore. I have felt the lack of oxygen enough times and I now know how to calm it, ease it, live through it. As I sat this afternoon, trying to write while my heart beat loudly in my chest, I decided that there are a few things I do to ease the anxiety. I thought perhaps they might work for you too. Here’s my short list and the path I usually take through the dark forest.
Most notably on my journey through each bout of anxiety is thankfulness. I have kept a joy-journal for three or so years, tracking every little thing that makes me smile, makes me see God, makes me thankful to do this life. My list is several thousand gifts long and when I look back over it I can see how keeping track of the good has been pivotal in weathering the bad. The “thankfulnesses” have helped me carry on through the anxiety, causing me to search out the good amidst the immense worry that sometimes threatens to smother me. When it seems there is no good, only pressure I try to remember that I can be thankful for the weight, how it anchors me here.
I’m going to assume that you can see how the writing has made a difference. I am not at all surprised that with each sharing of a struggle, each admittance of a fault, and each spoken silence I feel less of the crush. It is scary to put myself out here in this Nevernever of internet space. I find more peace in pouring out the truths of my soul than I could realistically put words to, though I will continue to try. I search for meaningful thoughts to be shared. I hope that you get something from the rambling. I pray for those who read my words, that you would be changed by them. My audience is small, but still, this is what I work toward.
My next go-to is that I get lost in fantasy. I post on Facebook begging for recommendations of a fantastical world to get lost in. I pull out old stand-bys; thick volumes that allow me to live in another time and place for two (let’s be honest, four) hours at bedtime each night. I make digital library requests and charge my Kindle. This getting lost in literature is not just a typical escape, I find that it frees up my mind to not focus and dwell on whatever is causing the anxiety. I can put myself in another world while my unconscious self works out the perceived problems in my life. I’m in the middle of my eighth book this month, so I know I’ve been hiding here.
My final tactic to fight against the clinging fear is sort of an anti-tactic, if that’s a thing. I will bail out of commitments and obligations, I will be still and focus on the anxiety, not willing it away rather, asking it to come close. To whisper what it is that is lacking or overwhelming. I suppose I could go to this place first, get quiet with God and my own mind, asking for the wisdom to be imparted. Not all anxiety is created equal though, and most is petty and manageable through these other strategies. This place here is where I have seen the most growth, this is why I no longer fear the crush or the flutter, why I can still process daily life when anxiety is pressing.
When I took a deep breath and spoke actual words to my friend, I felt the exhalation of my lungs and I let my head clear. I spoke my truth into the fear-filled place between us. The place where I didn’t really want to be. I was able to be kind and clear, I didn’t yell as perhaps I would have once, I didn’t demand she do it my way, I didn’t even suggest that she should. I trusted that my truth would not be lost on her and that if somehow it was misunderstood, we could work through that together.
I knew that my own experiences were worthy of putting out into actual space because I have put so many of them out there in digital space. I knew that I would, one day, be thankful for adding my own opinion to the masses, and that it matters what I think. I knew that no amount of educating myself on the topic would better express my thoughts than my own experience. I simply had to invite the fear in, let it rest in my mind and be healed by the peace it found there.