Monday, August 15, 2016

On Joy as a Writer's Block



I've struggled coming here and putting together words. I don't know if it's the sunshine or the impending life changes or better night's sleep or my rekindled love for reading -or all of it-, but I sit down to write and, instead, bite my nails. My hands are busy, but not in a productive way.

The thing about life right now is it's peacefully joyful.

My dad's passing birthed strength and faith which resulted in a peace we'd craved for the better part of a decade. The pain of learning about our infertility was stifled on the Monday after Father's Day when Jason said he wanted to be a dad sooner rather than later. It seemed the moments where sadness wanted to creep in and take residence, joy simply refused to make room.

But it's hard to write any prolific thoughts with joy holding space for me.

There's a weird sense of bragging when you claim that life is good. It's like good isn't allowed without the rest of us there at the same emotional bus stop. If we don't all ding the bell for the stop called Goodness, then we all stay seated and wait for it to come around some time in the next decade. But that's blasphemy. That's a disservice to your heart.

Sometimes, we're good when everything else seems bad.

My little brother started eighth grade last week. I texted him the evening after his first day to see how it went. I expected a little bit of back and forth about teachers, boring classes, and what he wishes was different in his schedule. Instead, I got one word: good. And I thought about the way we grow up and decide that using "good" in it's solo sense is avoiding the truth.

But sometimes, life is good.

Sometimes there isn't a lot more to say. Sometimes I feel this internal pressure to spend five minutes telling you all the emotions involved in being me at this very moment. But, if I'm honest, I feel genuinely good. For the first time in my life, I have utmost confidence I'm doing what He's set out for me, I have sureness in the Siri that's pushing me forward, and I have a deepest well of thanks in my heart.

So, I mean it when I tell you that things are good.

And, as your friend, I give you permission to feel different; to feel sad, mad, angry, sure, brave, fearful, and the like. Also, I give you greater permission to bask in life that's good -just plain good. More than that, I grant you space to break away, fall silent, and enjoy what's good. But, in the same sentence, I'll beg you to return to tell me about your joy, I'll promise to welcome you the moment you walk through the door, I'll sit piqued by your time spent away with Good.

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