Once again, I apologize for my silence. And for those who have sent comments, I will respond in the next few days.
Not only have I missed blogging, this wretched flu has meant that I’ve missed all my normal activities. I’ve missed praying, sharing time with my new little community. One of the things I’ve missed the most is writing, which prompted me to take a moment yesterday to reflect on what writing is for me. Not just what function does it serve, but how deeply it has become woven into my life. This is, of course, a bit of a romantic view since I haven’t been struggling with a blank screen or scene for some time.
Writing is an oasis where I have the luxury to go deep within.
Writing is the most unnerving thing because I can’t control what happens.
Writing is like a marathon which requires more energy and perseverance than the human person can imagine possible.
Writing is the most engrossing play and work I’ve ever done.
Writing is like finding my way through fog, feeling my way with a fragile thread that, for some inexplicable reason, guides me to somewhere meaningful.
Writing is witnessing to the reality of my own life.
Writing is how I process my life.
Writing is how I see, how I think, even sometimes how I learn to love.
Writing is my path.
Writing is my soul’s breath.
Writing is the deepest joy and the deepest challenge.
Writing is the hardest to get into and the hardest to leave.
Writing is the discipline that shapes my life, my mission, my vocation.
Writing is living my dream.
Writing is my sanctuary where I can be most truly myself.
Writing is where I learn to be myself.
Writing is going to that deep place within my soul where I meet myself and God.