The second my blog turns into a journal, I have to resign as a blogger. As if it's a career or something. I don't journal. Except for one area of my life, one in which I will never disclose on an open forum. But. That being said, perhaps my thoughts on this late, sleepless night may cause something in your heart to awaken, to truth, to something your heart is not ready to come to terms with, if it's anything like mine.
I'm exhausted. Physically, and these days spiritually/emotionally--no use in distinguishing the latter two; they are one in the same. Never used to be, but I'd like to think that as I mature, my spirituality will encompass all aspects of self, including the physical. I just haven't fully enveloped myself in that yet. This is beside the point. The point is that I'm exhausted and that I'm embracing it. Because I've come to a place where being tired and being weary are good things. In my weakness, I am more willing to seek wisdom, more open to being renewed by strength. And more willing to be okay with myself as I am without becoming complacent about my sin. I never used to have a problem in regard to being okay with myself, but I think it's an important thing to wrestle to the ground. Which is saying a lot--I hate wrestling. Watching guys on top of each other makes me sort of uncomfortable. But in all seriousness, the reason it is so important to squirm within your own skin is that your senses are hyper-aware of what is being said around you. When we become outward focused, we become our best selves.
I recently read a blog that intimidated me because the writing was solid, smooth, and the writer, who I had never before experienced in this way, he was honest. He was courageous. And I found myself critical of my own writing, the vast differences between my prose and my blog style, if it is even cohesive enough to call a style. I was intimidated by his thoughts and the fact that he was sharing them with whoever took the time to read.
Then I had a conversation with my roommate about life, love, trust. An uncertainty arose in my chest, one that threatened to make me curl in on myself. However, I have spent a year learning how to uncurl myself, and I know now that this position should only ever be taken in the present arms of God. I wanted to write about this uncertainty, how it made me feel, how it made a pain rise up out of the depths, a memory. I couldn't, though, write about it. Because it still haunts me. Late at night when I want nothing else but to forget, I remember. I remember that the people who love me are patient; they help me uncurl. They don't expect me to do it myself. And the ones who have hurt me, hmm, don't dare try. I live daily, love frequently, trust rarely. I trust rarely.
I can't write about the memory to just anyone. I share it in words to my roommate. I allude to it with my mother. But only God can see through my faulty attempts to express it, to let it out, to uncage it. In my exhaustion, I feel it most heavily and know not the force with which it has created havoc in the sinewy parts I can't see.
But I'm afraid you can see it. And that when you realize you do, that you always have, you'll walk away. This is my deepest fear. You did once, you did, so this time, what is making you stay? It's not me. This time I let you be, you're free. But if you go, don't come back to me.
And the memory, the tree of life, remains unnamed in each of us. All in separate ways, waiting to be discovered. You might not like what is uncovered. But it is true, yea, it is you.