On Being Silent

I watch the days tick by as January hurries ahead. Perhaps, you’ve noticed my silence in this space. How I told you all about my new word, how it would ignite passions and ideas. Then nothing. Maybe, you’re shaking your heads (if anyone is still here besides my husband who is required to read my blog). Somedays, I wonder if I need to keep writing things out in poetry, if I care any more, what’s next. All the wide questions and big ideas swirl about my head, and I watch amazed. And say nothing, this is okay with me.

Sometimes,when we most want to speak, we must remain silent.

It’s a slow process. This word ignite–I don’t fully understand it or how to live it. Sometimes, I want to dump out all the  things that are coming to light this year because ignite brings purifying fire. Burning away the rubbish parts, the things that hinder and dissuade me from reaching beyond myself. I need this slow burn. To purge me of the worst parts–the anger, the world-weariness, the stress of everyday living.

But sometimes, this is not the space for all things.

Lately, I have held back a great deal from this space about my healing, becoming myself, remembering how to be brave. While I admire those who can write out their lives unmasked, I have not been afforded that luxury. I hold back what’s on my heart and mind for what won’t piss off those who wish me ill or those I love ill. Part of me wants to post some snarky vendetta against cyber stalking and using the internet to spy on one’s “enemies” as a ludicrous waste of time. But I won’t stoop to that level.

In this silence, I have remembered that I am strong and brave–most importantly, I have a voice.

Part of my  One Word “ignite” is learning to use my voice so that it brings healing and not harm.  Can’t fire do both? Maybe, there is danger in this word. If I use it to burn shame and guilt into those whom I believe deserve it most, or if I choose to ignite the fires of hope and discourse.

So far,  I have experienced my word more than any other year. It has reawakened my passion for teaching. It has inspired me to join a writer’s group. It has encouraged me to submit stories. It has pushed me forward to define my goals for my life. For now, this is enough.

What has your One Word helped you do this month?

Silent Story

Walking away from a blog, taking a break always makes the returning that much harder. 

18 days, an almost
blog suicide.

Every day life steals away my heart, a piece of soul. And my writing becomes sporadic; I wonder if I should simply quit this whole blogging endeavor. But some sort of siren song compels me to write. I return the blog updates, pushing back the dusty cobwebs of my small bit of internet real estate. Sitting down at my cluttered desk, I punch the keys for words and phrases and sentences hoping somehow to write what I am feeling, how the burdens placed upon me grow heavier. But I can’t.

Somehow, my story has become a sealed document. The words fester inside, longing for me to give them life on the page. Again, I censor what I want to say. Some days, I write about incounous things of puppies, of sunshine, of books, and of Jane Austen. Deep inside, my heart hardens just bit because I long to share the real life, the dirty, the unperfect. But I am trapped in the “life’s perfect” mask, and I can’t get out.

Maybe, this is why I have been away from my blog for so long.

I have a story to write out, and my blog should be a somewhat safe(albeit public place) to share my story. But it isn’t. I envy blogger who can write about their non-perfect lives, who write beautiful stories of mothering or my case step-mothering, who bleed beauty and brokeness. I feel like I yelling from behind a glass prison cell. Desperate for someone to stop and listen, to tell my story beyond the perfect. But I don’t think anyone hears.

Sometimes, I wonder how a writer survives under such circumstances. Can a writer exist and not write the her story that’s in desperate need of telling? I don’t know. I’m still deeply entrenched in this burdensome silence, and for awhile longer, I remain silent and strong and brave. Well, I put on a mask of bravery. I’ve learned to cry, to hurt, to exist in this oppressive silence. Then, I replace the real with my mask, my battle armor, and head out to stand firm against this unfair thing called life.

This is the only way that I know to be strong, to write out my story for now.