Wednesday, February 5, 2014


There are a lot of voices to listen to. And it seems the more voices I try to hear, the more voices I discover there are. I've read a lot in the past few months...a couple memoirs, a novel, lots of soul-help, psychology oriented non-fiction. I'm so hungry to learn "what's out there"...both to find writing that resonates deeply inside me and to find thoughts that challenge and elevate. I've read and read, contemplated, drawn, written, read some more...

I laugh at myself when I realize that so much of my reading is oriented toward finding myself, my voice, the "true me". Yes, in the midst of the clutter of dozens and dozens of voices telling me their take on reality, what I'm most desperate for is a deep, restful sense of Me. I guess that's what I mean by writings that resonate deeply inside me. I'm looking for words that I haven't been able to write. 

Only recently have I started to think of myself as a writer. For years and years I journaled quite faithfully - largely prayers of repentance and pleas for more...more faith, more courage, more power, more friends, more divinity, more, more, more. I'm not sure if I was writing what was in my heart as much as I was trying to tell my heart what to be. There was always some rule I had in mind, some shortcoming well within view, and God as the only appropriate audience. But never did I sit down in freedom and rest and think, "I wonder what I have to say today..."  If I wrote, it was within a well-defined agenda. 

I'm not sure I have anything more to say today, but I am finding the freedom within myself to say it now. I'm learning that it's okay to be me, to let my voice be heard. Even if that voice is dissenting or unsure or a little too angry or a little too emotional or a little too whatever...I'm learning that my voice is beautiful. And that it's needed in this world. 

But it's so easy to lose your voice. I've lost my voice way more times than I've found it. I've seen my voice muffled by something as painful as a shallow reply and as distracting as a child's cry. It's slipped under the covers when I have an initimate word of kindness to speak, but not the courage to bear my heart. It's flown with the breezes that carry memories and grief and love. 

Still, I am learning I have a voice. A me that's worth knowing, worth writing, worth being. I think, yes, I say: 
I am a writer. 

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