I had the gorgeous pleasure of writing live and sharing my post at open mic during Allume. My all time favorite group of gals was there writing along with me and I was honored to share the same space and writing wonder with them all. You guys, these women pour their hearts out in 5 minutes, without over thinking, without the pressure of editing, or backtracking, or rules. We just do what we love. We put words to page and commune in the family that happens over at Lisa Jo’s place. Wanna join. Write. 5 minutes. Link. Share. Encourage. You’ll never be the same.
This weeks word: Roots
These are my roots. Both humble and brilliant. A worn down pencil and a tender groove where the words have imprinted on my very flesh. The pressure of pages pushing callouses into my fingers. The Bic that bled dry as my story soaked the page. The keys that feel like home as I click away, the noise and tapping a beat that makes my heart step.
And the journals. Piled high and packed away in office boxes. Years of life, and memories, and story.
There is the journal of my 9-year-old self, locked with a 3 digit combination and purple butterflies gracing the front cover. In loopy bubbled handwriting I wrote the saga of my fourth grade year, the sugar daddy’s left in my cubby holed desk, the roller skating rink and glow sticks tied to white laced skates. Pour Some Sugar on Me by Def Leopard playing during the couple skate and my longing for real love. My naiveté and dreamy fantasies. My first kiss both awkward and blissful.
There is the journal of my 16-year-old self. Angry slashed script streaking the page and spots where tears fell unrestrained and so much pain. The words an anthem of loss as I struggled to see a God in the world that made no sense and struck so hard.
There is the journal of my 21-year-old self. The baby that wouldn’t nurse right. The bone tired numbness that I had no name for. The doubt that I could do this at all, let alone well. The words drawn and long, lulling across the page and sometimes stopping abruptly, thoughts unfinished and fragmented. A nursing, a need somewhere, a schedule calling me away. So many things unfinished and lost, myself included.
There is this blog. The story of my roots. The story of my reach.
Because if I don’t go back, dig deep and bend low to the earth with hands scooping down, pulling the richness and warmth away to the place where the soil grows cold and light has not touched, I can never break the surface. And it’s in that cold place were things are planted. Not on the surface where the sun shines brilliant but in the depths, and God places the seeds.
A chance at hope. A chance to reach and break the surface and grow out and spread branches to the sun and bear fruit. It starts here, where my roots begin.