Hey there. I'm linking up again (on Friday this time!) with the community of Five-Minute Friday-ers at Lisa Jo's blog today. Each time, I marvel at how little I eek out in five minutes and wonder if I shouldn't "cheat" by adding another five minutes to my exercise. I guess the whole point isn't to adhere strictly to a time frame as much as to free us up to write without over-thinking, over-editing, and possibly (probably), over-writing. Often times, less really is more. But if I get on a roll today, I just may break the rules, and I hope that's ok. The most important rule of this gig, however, is to visit the blog of another writer linking up with FMR and spread some good cheer. That, really, is the coolest part.
So, here we go. Or I go. The prompt today is "Voice."
I'm one of those. You know, the girl who has to speak to God out loud. It's how I know I wouldn't make the perfect Catholic.
Sometimes, I wonder if it's not just to hear my own voice. Those prayers that aren't exactly prayers, but long-winded monologues that counselors hear behind closed office doors, with clients stretched out on a sofa.
Sometimes, I know it's because so many things brewing inside don't get voiced with any other soul. For God's ears alone. And that's a comfort; He alone knows all the nuances of my voice, the things said and unsaid, the birth of words from anguished soul's vapor, grappling for release.
And sometimes, I just need to say it out loud to believe it - or to discard it. Whatever it is. Often, it boils down to trust. It's not enough for me to "feel" trust or to "feel" gratitude. For me, these things must be voiced. In fact, not until they are uttered aloud do I often feel them enforced in my heart. Words force me to stand behind my voice. And the irony is, God knows all the complexities and hypocrisies, the desires and deflating of desire, the hunger and the indifference, the jockeying for love and acceptance, the deep ache within, all without saying a word. Without hearing my voice, he knows.
And still, he delights to hear my voice. He said this through a poet's voice, and slowly, I let it tumble out, until it's a flooded stream. And maybe, O God, let it be, when I empty my voice I can finally sit still to hear his.
[Ok. I confess, that was a lot longer than five minutes. And yet, about the same length as the average writer produces in a third the time].