“Facts can never be understood except in communion with the imagination.” Parker Palmer
I finally found my voice and was riding a wave, a gentle wave of words, weaving themselves into a tapestry of tales I’d longed to tell. They flowed like silk ribbons in the wind and then nothing, only a flat space with no edges and no color. Here the familiar is abundant and my curiosity remains curled up at my feet, content to wait out the come hither calls of my imagination. I’ve tried grabbing my pen, daring the words onto the page only to watch my inspiration skitter away like a rootless tumbleweed on a gust of doubt.
A patchwork human being made up of the hand-me-down thoughts of others, afraid of starving on the crumbs of my own creativity, my life has not so much been lived as spent telling tales. These tales leak through the dusty clutter of my memory and with each telling, the brittle bones of another family skeleton shatters. I’m toppled by a torrent of uncertainty. I feel myself breaking down at the edges, shimmering away into the atmosphere like a cloud dissolving.
Hoping to find the power in the ruins, I listen for the truths muffled by the passage of time. I give my thoughts a chance to yawn and relax, to get comfortable in my head before the long trip to the page, trying to remember that threats frighten, they don’t foster. I try a sentence or two on for size. Perhaps, they will collide on the journey and explode into something glorious or perhaps they will simply run away to play and once again loose the spirit of wonder that makes me wake woozy with anticipation.
Today, it is enough to have tried.
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