There is No Starting Over; There is Only Beginning Again

At the turn of the year, I felt a certain call to deepen my understanding of grief.  I know I am closer to melancholy than most, that the hard times are where my faith seems strongest.  In perhaps a clearer way than I had recognized before, I felt I could offer space for people when they are struggling.  Sometimes with words, but more often simply by letting them have room for feeling.

And then there came the news that so many people were expecting babies.  I thought to myself, the death will come later.  And it did.

It’s been over a year since I’ve last posted on this blog.  I thought I had run out of words.  I thought there was nothing left for me to say.  I thought my words did not matter.  I thought there wasn’t much point in sharing my reflections.  I only continued to post my writing on another blog because it was a tracker of sorts–a means for staying accountable to a self-imposed challenge.

More people have read my non-fiction than the short stories and poetry I write.  Unfailingly, they note my honesty and boldness.  The say my words have power.  They tell me I have a gift.  I have sometimes embraced this, and other times rejected it.  I say I don’t write for others, I claim to write only for my characters and for the lessons they will teach me.  But then if that’s the case, then why do I have years’ worth of posts here?  Why have I chronicled my journey?  I tell myself it is only so I can look back and remember: I lived through this.  But the truth is greater than that.

Words are all I have.  This is how I wrestle my way through the world.  They are my weapon against endless despair.  But they are a well, from which I can draw water for others.  I am still on my journey.  I must still write of it.  I must still speak, in my way, from the other side of a screen.

I will not always be confident.  I will worry and wonder that I am wasting talent and time.  I’m afraid of falling short.  I’m afraid of becoming whole.  Be brave.  Be true.  Stand.  Words from Stephen King, yet they encourage me on my spiritual journey all the same.  This blog began 7 years ago, as a place for me to put myself down on paper.  The only rule was honesty.  It is time to put my silence to rest.  To speak the truths I know.

Death has come.  It will leave and return again.  I will write my way through, as best I know how.  I am still learning how to give myself space, compassion, and grace.


About thefreescribbler

My life is one of words. I am a scribbler, whose thoughts are best expressed through adjectives and phrases and punctuation marks. I would not go so far as to call myself a writer, although many would disagree. I’m characterized more by my unfinished works and half-embodied ideas, scraps of stories and parts of poems. Maybe one day I’ll be a writer, but I’m okay with being a scribbler right now. It fits my personality and style, and best expresses my aims. I’m not trying to create some lofty version of literature. I’m just a kid blogging about life. View all posts by thefreescribbler

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