Just Write: Life on the verge

I imagine I'm sitting in the living room, waiting, listening for the sound of a car pulling up in the driveway, for footsteps outside my door.  I wait, but all the cars drive by.  I stand up, restless, pull the door open and peer over the threshold, into the slow-fade of daylight.  Nothing.  I shut the door, lean against it for a few full breaths, and sit back down.  

Here I wait for words to come, the urge to write pressing from within my chest, and there is nothing.  Nothing, and yet I'm sputtering in a deluge of metaphors, searching for the words to express the deep waters astir.  I find there is much to speak and nothing worth speaking, coexisting in the tension of irony.  

I refuse to write nothingness.  And there is a time for pushing through, a time for writing into inspiration; but I'm finding, too, there is a time to sit back and wait, to quiet the torrent of words, until static gives way to a clear, resounding note.  If it is true, I write because I must, then it is also true that I wait to share words because they must be told. Because I wonder, along with so many wonderers who walk this lonely path of writing, Why is this worth sharing with the world?  What is this all about?  If I'm going to bare my soul here, by God, let it have a purpose beyond mere disclosure. 

This past year and a half, I've walked through the darkest pages of my story thus far, and I've wrestled and agonized and dared to bare my soul in this humble, tiny space, in hopes that it might resonate with even one other soul.  Like sitting across from a friend, looking unflinchingly into their eyes and saying, "You're not alone."  This is why I write.  

I've gone deep into the cave in this dark season, and I've written from that place, and I've struggled with the onset of tunnel vision.  The blurry-eyed seeing of someone just trying to survive, barely able to focus in on the stories of the ones right beside me.  I've been the bicyclist wearing glasses riding home in a downpour, where I squint between drops collecting on glass and everything becomes about this urgent matter of making it home safely.  In this place, I tip to and fro beneath the dance to balance grace for my weakness with grace-filled eyes that remain open to others.  Most days, I fail, and it breaks my heart.  I get up, with scraped knees and puffy eyes, and ask God to help me take the next step toward love.  For I will not give up; I want to love with a full heart. 

First, my heart must be filled. 

In this season, I've certainly grown tired of my own voice, my own story.  I often fear that I'm living a story that is an Amber-sized imitation of the greater song that swallows mine whole; the one where I find what is mine woven tightly in the threads of what was and is and always will be his - my Creator's.  It's been a couple of weeks, now, and the cave that I've been trying to find my way out of for so long, my back is to it and the cave grows more distant each day.  My eyes are adjusting again to light and joy and the faint pulse of hope, growing steady, and the shapes of others around me are coming into focus.  My story is adjusting, too, from Then to Here, even though I don't yet know what Here is.  And still, still, it's all static in my ears, and I wait for words to come through.  

It's life on the verge, that's what it is, and I kiss the ground, grateful for life outside the cave walls, for the Maker who redeems all things, who brings forth light from the darkness, who gives sight to the blind, who makes all things beautiful.

I will wait. 

. . . . . . . . . . 

Joining Heather over at Just Write, where I haven't been in a long time.  And while, admittedly, this was written more like pulling teeth than letting words flow freely, I'm grateful for this community of writers and a place to know others and be known.