Writing is a high. The molding and forming of words to release emotions, thoughts, dreams, pain…it is my outlet, my way of sorting out the manure before it defiles my soul.
For so long I willingly allowed my voice to be muffled. It was of obedience to a God whose ways will always remain beyond my ability to grasp, of necessity to survive and protect those I love most. In patience I have sat in the dark, drowning in perpetual silence. It has come to an end. It has come also to a beginning. A metamorphous took place that I had not understood was happening. At times I am overcome with fear wanting to crawl back into the dried cocoon. In there it was all theory, it was incomplete thoughts, understanding without having to implement, it was scholastic rhetoric, idealism, faith with little works. The cocoon isn’t an option. It was a safe and necessary home, without which death and no opportunity for rebirth would have been the end.
In this new life, the haven I glance back at no longer will provide shelter and transforming grace. It has rightly dried and crumbled. I sit here now, drying my wings, feeling them stiffen with strength. The soft beckoning breeze is calling me to flight. A new freedom, a more full perspective, a deeper understanding, all gifts of willingly accepting the purgatory. Soon, very soon…