Originally from January 2017
Sometimes I have a word for the year. You? I started this practice in college. Before choosing a word was a thing. Maybe it was a thing but I didn’t know it then. Come to think of it, I never really choose a word. The word always chooses me. Not in a whoo-whoo way. A word settles deep in my soul and I can’t shake it. Like a fleeting thought that comes to stay, invading my heart and mind. Sometimes it’s a word of encouragement, a guiding principle, even a cautionary word. Sometimes this little word is for the entire year. Quite often my word is for a specific season, for a time when needed. Then a new word finds me.
My very first word was balance. That’s a story for another day. I was in college, living in the duplex townhouse on Superior Street and my life was out of whack. It was on it’s way to being less whacked out but it was a long process and I wasn’t there yet. Not even close. Balance was my reminder to basically chill out and not fall to one extreme or another.
Some of the other words were Hope, Challenge, Quiet and Brave. I was up at 3-something this morning, and too tired to think of the others.
Sometimes I get a phrase and not a word. Sing a New Song was a biggie from the end of 2015 and stayed with me into the first part of 2016. I wrote about it briefly.
I decided not to “choose” a word this year. Not that I do the choosing, but a word didn’t fall into my lap by the time it usually did. I simply forgot all about the practice of getting a word until the last days of 2016. I was listening to the Sorta Awesome Podcast, or maybe it came to me while reading the first few chapters of Annie F. Down’s Looking For Lovely. I don’t remember exactly where I was when the word for 2017 came. But I’ll never forget the way I felt. It came like a ton of bricks and settled like a pit in my stomach, much like indigestion.
Write.
No Bueno.
I don’t like this one.
I’d like another word, please.
Write.
Write, or the practice of writing, is what I’ve been running from. But it’s hardly a new word or a theme. Summer and fall of 2016 was supposed to be the time to write. I was supposed to write while the kids were in school. I was supposed to wear frumpy wool sweaters, black leggings (better yet, LuluRoe leggings), and type for hours at the computer desk in my family room with my Starbucks travel mug and my little dog, Chloe, by my side and bring hope through the written word, all in the comfort of my own home. The truth is, I’ve never not written as much in my life as I have since June. Even my prayer journal has sat neglected, hidden under my Bible. I know it’s there. But I can’t see it. I’m not about to write in it.
Sure, I’ve been busy with other commitments, some legit like helping at school and mentoring through MOPS. And there’s the basic time suckers like dishes and grocery shopping and always laundry, which will be the death of me. Why do I feel like Jonah mounting the next ship to Tarshish, running from my calling? Why, oh why, do I run from the very thing that brings me hope and joy and what I hope brings a little brightness and truth to others?
I don’t want to start writing again. Why? It’s in my blood to write. Writing brings life, clarity, joy. The very practice of putting pen to paper, even tapping the keyboard and seeing words illuminated on the screen before me, revives my soul. But what usually brings life to me is kind of sucking the life out of me. What’s my problem? Don’t tell me, I know. It hurts to write because to write is to process. And it hurts to process. It hurts to hurt, plain and true.
Here I am, the one running from my calling. The one writing about not writing. A walking contradiction, that’s me. It occurs to me that for once in a long while I’m clearheaded, fire in my soul, alive and well. And it occurs to me that while writing about not wanting to write, I’m actually doing it. I’m writing.
