Promptly after declaring that I wanted to get back to blogging, I slammed into a thick wall* of writer's block. I keep running my palms along the unforgiving surface. I'm trying to find a crack, something to grasp onto--if only by the fingertips--to heave myself up over the top. I haven't found anything yet.
I've heard the best thing to do when one feels they can't write is to do just that: write.
Thus, this post (or rather, this compilation of thoughts that have been fluttering about in my brain). My apologies if it all comes out a bit messy and jumbled.
Question: Do people care about what I write? More importantly, do I care about what I write? Why am I writing at all?
Answer: to tell stories that connect. to till up the mundane for seeds of hope. to make you/me/us/ see the world differently
Why is that important?
Because we all need our chins lifted. Because it's far too easy to exist and forget the magic of being able to simply inhale oxygen into your lungs; to forget how alive we are right now. We all need that pebble thrown into our heart that ripples across our skin; the one that wakes us back to feeling. This is how hope is born.
After all, isn't hope a core thread of the Gospel?
And if my life belongs to Christ then my ultimate purpose is spreading the good news of His truth, His hope. Yes, I can do that even when I'm hacking out words for a blog or adjusting shutter speed and chasing light with my camera.
Did you wake up this morning? Did your eyelids flutter open, blood rush to your limbs, your chest rise and fall? Yes, of course. And the same miracle happened to me. Then why are we walking around like we're still asleep?
I want to create something with my words and images that grabs you by the shoulders and makes you recall the wonder of your own existence.
I want to unveil the power of stories being told.
And those stories, they're made of everything. The boring hours and the golden hours and the lonely hours. The eating of breakfast and the crying in bed and the shell of a coffee mug warming my hand. The way my chest unfurls like flower petals when I behold the ones I love.
That's what you'll find in my writings. Whether it's here or here. My goal is the same: to courageously tell my story in the hopes that it will make you brave enough to speak yours too.
Thank you for giving me space to grow. We're all blooming here together, friend.
*maybe it's not about jumping over that wall of writer's block. maybe it's about letting my roots rest here and, eventually, finding that i've grow my way gently around it. as much as we want to, spring just won't be rushed, will she?