The Silence of the Great Wave
I have been staring at my computer screen for almost an hour now, wondering where all my words have gone. When did I become someone who didn’t write?
Life has stolen my words, it seems.
Or maybe the opposite is true. Maybe there are too many words pressure-cooked into the half-pint Mason that is my heart. Maybe I am afraid it will explode. That I will explode. That all the words of the past year and a half will come rushing like a torrent — like The Great Wave off Kanagawa. Maybe I am afraid it will crush me.
Maybe it already has. Maybe that’s why I’m struggling to settle back into a writing routine.
I’ve always been wearied by Change. It is neither good nor bad — not a criticism of self or condemnation of anyone who may share (or not share) my particular struggle. It just is. It’s just part of the process of acceptance and adaptation I have to go through to function efficiently. Or maybe I should say… part of the process I have to grow through. It has never been enough for me to do something simply because it needs doing; I have always needed to understand the purpose. I have always needed that hope to take root in the deep places and spur me towards sunlight.
And I have to be honest — with all the Change and struggle I’ve seen in my life (some of which I still haven’t quite processed), this one has been the tsunami that swallowed it all. It has has dropped me face-first, stealing the air from my lungs and pounding against me time and time again.
How very weak I am.
And what can I say about it? I am weak? I am frail? I am afraid — not of death, but — of dying? I am weary? I wake up sometimes, and panic because I don’t remember whether my baby was alive when I was transferred to ICU? I am broken by the question of why God spared me when so many others were taken?
Yes. Yes, yes, yes. All of this. And more. It has crushed me. It has changed me. It has broken me open in a way I didn’t know was possible. I think I am finally convinced that in this case I am a seed, buried and broken and being brought to life — and not merely a fragile piece of bone china, simply shattered to ruin.
Just keep bearing with me, friends. The words are here somewhere… I just need to find them.
Buried on the Shores of Wicket Lake,