I’d like to call myself a writer, but somedays I just can’t find a single word worthy of the pen. Words have been hard to come by lately. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve started but not finished a blog post, or tried to write on my book projects only to stare off out the window — its all messy and empty… my thoughts dry up in the drought of confusion. Hope seems silent.
Life is like that sometimes isn’t it? We have days, weeks, maybe even years where things run smoothly. Crops of ideas flourish in the harvest of opportunity and we soar. Then… we don’t. It happens.
I read a post today from one of my most favorite authors, Emily Freeman. In her imperfection and random writing, I cried at its magnificent lack. Maybe we don’t have to have it all figured out. Maybe there can be more questions than answers.
Maybe that’s where love and community and diversity reside, harmoniously together.
In that humble place we all share, is the certainty of the unknown, the wonder of tomorrow. Maybe instead of fighting it, we embrace it.
I don’t have words to really talk about all that simmers in our world today… from snipers on city buildings to toilet etiquette in the department store… I just don’t know. And I, for the life of me, cannot find the right words.
Maybe there aren’t any.
I found myself in the countryside the other day, standing on a rickety old front porch. The breeze caressed the leaves in the most tender of ways, just enough to make the sunlight dance across the grass. It was a simple kind of quiet, breathtakingly ordinary. The echo of peace grew there, untouched by anyone’s complicated agenda.
I think, like the tall oaks and the wavy tassels, I won’t seek words. I won’t search for explanations or plans or programs. I think our search for hope lies in the quiet, humble space of the unknown and we have to reside there to find it.