I like to imagine yes as all invitation and fullness, but the reality is that yes carries on its heels a hundred different nos.
I sit in the room that has held one of my yeses: my promise to myself to write. Not to let the whisper or treasure or holy nudge wither on the vine. The wall in front of me is covered with flowers and birds, typewriters, letters of a certain font that remind me of the practice of sitting down here — not waiting for time (I don’t ever feel I have it) or inspiration (which flits like a frightened feathered thing).
This morning, this is my yes. A casting of seed, germs of belief.
My hands hover over keys, coffee warms my throat, now the top of my belly. In the still of the house, in my Writing Room, before the day’s clamor, among all the yeses of mothering, all the vegetable chopping and crock potting and back and forth drives, among the part-time work and the needs that make themselves known with sad eyes and question marks and loaded backpacks, this is my yes.
Writing because I can. Writing because I must. Writing because it’s a way to see all the ways I limit time and story. Writing because it opens the cage and calls out to the frightened one, be free.
I’ll be honest with you lovelies. I’m trying to figure out what this writing deal means in the midst of my life. Where shared words intersect with mothering and speaking and volunteering and ministry and just being a human who wants to be available to the good and the pain of those in this everyday life. I’m a bit wrung out lately, and so I’m doing what my husband tells me I need to do when I don’t know what to do…I am writing.