“He longed to fill his stomach with the pods that the pigs were eating, but no one gave him anything.” Luke 15:16
* * * * *
Filling our stomachs, filling our souls.
Each day goes by- and every night.
Another 24 hours to find something, anything, to fill this craving heart.
And to set it right.
We stuff our empty hearts with empty pods. Always hoping that this time it’ll be different, that this time we’ll be filled. So hollow is every bite that we become ravenous and run to slop to feed us. But it’s empty in the end. Empty and bitter. And no one gives us anything better. No one.
Jesus, only You are Life! Everything else, all else is slop.
But You are the Feast of our hearts- fattened calf to our souls.
Jesus- let’s eat. I’m starving.
Magic happens on Saturday.
Jazz replaces the clicking of the keyboard.
Music lessons and cooking shows and poetry writing replace Excel.
Free to be me- who I really am.
Severing the tie to my workdays- free to float away.
Bashing the tether which holds my writing to this earth.
The gift of time and space is mine- breath to my words and life to my scribbles.
All week long, I have kept my wandering dreams and wild imaginings locked up in a small box, hidden in the interior of my imagination. Waiting to be free someday.
And today is that day.
Why do I write?
I ask myself this question a lot. Especially lately.
Writing is so painful sometimes. A true labor- with groanings and spasms all its own.
Making 26 letters cooperate can be as hard as cleaning up a honey spill. Impossible.
Words won’t behave, inspiration takes a vacation. Tripping between self-doubt and pride.
So why do I write?
Why do I force myself to do this thing that at times seems so pointless and loathsome and hurtful?
Because it’s what I know how to do. Because I have felt tethered to it since I was a small child. Because it’s the thing I do best. Because I can’t seem to shake the idea that I should write, that I am supposed to be a writer. Bits and bobs of words got woven in my make up. Alphabet soup in my soul.
So even though writing sucks sometimes, even though I love having written more than I love writing, I keep on. What matters most is the pen faithfully hitting the paper. Day by day, another stride is made. Even if the price of progress is my blood, sweat, and tears.