On Rain and Words

Today I walked home from work in the rain. 

There was thunder. There was even some lightning. 

I tried not to step on any of the sidewalk cracks. It was fun. 

I smiled squintily through the raindrops to myself the whole way home. 

It’s been a long time since I’ve written something good. As in, something meaningful. Something that I wrote for a purpose. Something that will help me achieve a goal. 

Something like a chapter. 

Don’t think that this doesn’t worry and frustrate me. To sit down and look at the words chapter nine and feel completely empty inside? It’s a bad feeling. 

Oh. 

Excuse me. Did I say that I felt completely empty inside when I think about trying to write chapter nine? 

I lied. 

I don’t feel completely empty. 

There is definitely a feeling there, and it is commonly referred to as “fear”. Fear of not having enough words. Fear of using the wrong words. Fear of finding words, and having them inside me, but not being able to set them loose, whether it is because they are too personal, too complex, too simple. Fear of always choosing sleep over writing. (This four mornings in a row of getting up at four in the morning…. I’m not sure it’s for me. I’m not sure it’s for anyone, actually.) 

But today, after walking home in the rain, I felt like I could write. Like I could open up my word document and the words would come from some place inside me, and I could type and type and the words would just drain right out of me. 

I don’t have time to work on chapter nine though. There are other things to be written and thought about. Things deemed more urgent and necessary and important. Things like World-Changing Womanhood and Counterfeit Beauty. Undeniably important topics that I have been thinking about a lot lately, in preparation for the weekend. (Should I be blogging when I have such important things to think about? ;))

But today I would rather be in a different world. A world where characters were unfairly left hanging in their pain and confusion and right on the brink of discovery, and I get to be several people at once, and I invent conversation and circumstance. 

I think it’s the rain. 

It rinses everything else away until there is only words left. And the words that are there are old and patient. Words that have been waiting for a long time to be used. They have become dry. 

Shriveled. 

But the rain…. the rain revives them. 

They become shiny and green and alive. They jump and dance and laugh and cry and grow. But they don’t just grow. They multiply. There are so many that they trip over each other. 

And I am scared to move because I never want to lose this feeling of being full of words and full of God. 

“…that you may be filled with all the fullness of God.” -from Ephesians 3 

Full of God. 

Full of words. 

I won’t be working on chapter nine tonight. Or tomorrow night. It might not happen for a bit. 

But the thing is, I want to. And that feels good. To not think, “Well, I really should work on that, if I ever want to accomplish anything.” 

It’s nice to feel like I would be able to write it if I tried to. 

Where I come from… rain is a good thing. (Not referring to any songs right now. Not even one.)

The problem with loving something is that in a sense, it becomes a part of you. And over time it blends in with the rest of you so seamlessly that it’s easy to forget that it is, in itself, a separate entity. It is easy to overlook the thing you love, and merely perform it as an act, something that you do just because it’s what you have been doing. And somewhere along the line, you kind of forget about that thing that you love. It becomes… ordinary. 

I don’t want writing to ever become ordinary. 

Maybe the key is in holding it at arm’s length. 

Still firmly in my grasp. Still connected to me. 

But something that I approach cautiously and seriously. Not to be taken lightly or casually. Something that never fails to challenge me or excite me. 

And yet I like the thought of it being a part of me. I want it to be so much a part of me that I would not be me without it. I want to need to do it. I like the thought of feeling completely comfortable when I’m writing. I want what I write to be personal. I want it to be meaningful to me, and motivating, inspiring, entertaining, provoking, and educational to those who read what I write. 

I’m still figuring out what exactly I want writing to be, I guess. 

What I do know is that today, when I was walking home in the rain, taking really big or really small steps to avoid the sidewalk cracks, I couldn’t wait to get home. 

Not because I was cold or wet. 

But because I wanted to write. 

 

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