I don't tend to post when I'm fighting, when I feel like life is a series of fallings and failings, when I'm not quite sure how I am in the midst of it all.
Some people know, they just know, all the time, how they are and who they are and where God is, and I'm not one of them. I fumble for light, for truth and I question it all, because that's the way I'm made, to question and dig, deeper and deeper, until one day I hit the truth.
And I live in the moment, swept up by the feelings and the tasks and the people, when I don't know what they mean until sometime later, after I have the space to take a breath and look back on them, to connect the dots that I couldn't see when I was waking up each morning and taking steps (one, two, three).
Life to thoughts to words takes me longer than it does for some, and when I'm living it's hard to think and even harder to write, even though the writing makes it real. Words on paper - there's a fine line between forcing them and making space for them, between letting them have life and forcing it upon them.
If Thomas Mann was right, that "a writer is somebody for whom writing is more difficult than it is for other people," then I am a writer and this fumbling about with words is a grace. Writing is the way I follow Jacob, asking for blessing after a long night of wrestling, rolling around in the mud and the river wondering what it's all about.
Because I do wonder, in these times between words, if there's meaning in the struggle, if there's a point to it beyond getting soaking wet and so filthy I stink. Meaning is hard. Do we make it or find it? How do we know if we're imposing meaning or just finding the connections God left for us to see?
But we must have it, we crave it, we would give up our very selves, some days, to find a coherent line we could follow. Meaning is a drug and we're all addicted, all trying to understand, especially when it feels like chaos. What, I wonder, do I give up to find meaning? And would it come to me if I waited, hands open and ready to receive? Or is the struggle part of what makes it special, part of what gives meaning its . . . um . . . meaning?
