Forgive me while I process on the blog. Most of the posts on here are for you, dear reader, to encourage and uplift you. But this, this one’s for me. You just get to be in on it. I share it because I think it’s healing to read what others have written when they write from honest places.
I can, I will, bloom – even when I do not have all I want, even when I do not have all I think I need, I will continue to become.
I still have not fully accepted myself as I am, but I am learning. I still do not follow God as I ought to, but I am learning. I still am not as strong as I would like to be, but I am learning.
I type this on an old computer in which the keys have begun to stick. I have to go through and fix the words where my fingers did not land hard enough on the keys to make the letters come out. I’m rereading and fixing, rereading and rewriting.
And this phrase hits me, and I know it is one I need to dwell on:
I will bloom, even when I do not have all that I want.
Because I don’t. I don’t have a car, a plan for after I graduate, a job. I don’t have a boyfriend, or a consistent place to live, or any money besides what’s being used to pay for school. I don’t have a book published or scores of followers or tons of friends.
But I will bloom.
I battle anxiety and depression and I wrestle with doubts.
But I will bloom.
Why? Because there is a Living Spirit within me that won’t shut up. A voice that calls me back to life when I want to give up. A voice that whispers: you were made for great things. You were born to have hope. You cannot give up.
There are stories still to write.
And again, my heart reaches up with hope,
As if it’s blossoming out of my chest.
The human heart is evergreen
Through all things
It will bloom.
My friend’s attic room is where I sit, this familiar place where I come in the inbetween times, when I need somewhere to stay. Couchsurfing, they call it. I hate that word because it makes me feel like a bum. Nobody likes to feel like a bum.
But the attic is nice, and tonight it is softly lit, and I feel romantic just sitting in the light. It is comforting, like the glow of a fire or the cozy of a blanket.
The last time I was here I learned to fall in love with writing again. It was a beautiful season, but it was fleeting, because I was different in the summer. In the summer I was carefree, and wore my hair in braids. In the summer I ran around town, eating ice cream, dancing on railroad tracks, and dipping my feet in waterfalls. I talked about Bob Dylan and made jokes and flirted.
But then the fall came, and I moved, and felt devastatingly alone. The cinderblock walls of my dorm room stared back at me every night, and every night I looked at them and wondered what I was doing. I wondered who I was. I wondered if God was real, and if He was, why doesn’t He take away sad things?
There are still stories to write.
The living spirit inside tells me there are more stories to come, more stories to write. There’s one that’s been knocking on my door for a long time, I just need the time and the mental space to write it. Maybe this summer I will write. Finish some books. Drink a lot of coffee and breathe. That would be nice.
Dreams like that keep my heart from falling out of my chest and rolling down the street.
Maybe this year I will try less hard, or try harder, I don’t know. Maybe this year the stories will flow from my fingers and I’ll be in a rapture of words.
Maybe this year I will find love, but maybe I won’t, and it will be ok. Maybe this year I will learn to accept others for who they are, fully, instead of embracing an ideal of how I think they should be.
And the words begin to make less sense as I become drowsy. It’s New Years Day, 2:30 AM (the hour of poets and artists), and my eyelids are drooping.
Sometimes the day already comes to a close before I get a chance to write out all the thoughts and stories. Because people matter more than the words. Conversations and real life matter more than the words.
But the words have their place. “There are still more stories to write,” He whispered, then He gave them to me and told me to write them carefully, tenderly, lovingly. I don’t know if I can do them justice, but I try.
And there you have it, sorry this post was moody. Life is beautiful, but not all days are easy, and I don’t want to hide that, even when (especially when) I write.