2.10.2003

i don’t understand the uneasiness. the restlessness. i don’t know what else to call it. i can’t really find words that describe it and i find the effort trying, to be almost overwhelming. like, move on to something else...get over it. i’m reminded of the quote by madeline l’engle from a house like a lotus that says, “it’s all right. you have to go all the way through your feelings before you can come out on the other side. but don’t stay where you are.... move on.” so somehow writing about my uncertain feelings is my way of working through them so i can come out on the other side.

wednesday would have been mom’s 61st birthday. we (the rest of my family) are spending part of the day together. i think we’re going to the cemetery. then to lunch, because mom liked to go out to eat. and we will have cake, because mom loved having birthday cake. whew. she’s been in heaven for just over a year now. i know she has no idea how long, because time is different up there. or maybe it simply doesn’t exist. i don’t know. some days i feel as though i’m doing quite well...in working through my feelings. and other days it seems just as new and painful. loss is a deep hurt that takes a long time to heal. because healing has to occur at so many differnt levels.

i find that music is simultaneously soothing and painful. it comforts me because it speaks to my soul. but my soul is what is wounded so it is very tender. sometimes music is just too potent. certain books are the same way.

this past weekend was an empty brain weekend. whenever someone asked me what i was thinking there was just nothing there. empty. i needed to create. i carved two rubber stamps. both flowers. a tulip, and the other i don’t know what it is. there is satisfaction in creating, but i still felt empty. it is very frustrating to need something...and try to fulfill that need...only to still feel so unfulfilled upon its completion. i know that sounds vague but i don’t know how else to explain it.

i spent a lot of time this weekend reading snippits. bits and pieces. authors that were familiar. quotes i knew. looking for comfort there. yes, there was a bit, but i came away even more frustrated needing to do my own writing and not feeling capable or adequate. feeling inferior. i ached inside listening to the language of these writers. i’ve been touched, but not satisfied by their words.

i think i’m in the middle of about five books right now, and not really working on finishing any of them. just muddling through them in small bites. tasty, but i guess i’m not really hungry for them. because when you get hungry for an author, you can’t stop reading. its like it just possesses you. maybe my soul is looking to be possessed by some inspiration and finding the current list of reads lacking. picked up part of eugene peterson’s the message yesterday. i’m thinking that its probably the inspiration my soul is longing for and that’s why everything else seems void. i need to turn to the scripture to be satisfied. to read God’s words. to look there for comfort. i say he is all i really need. i believe it, but i desperately want to feel it. i want to feel it. please God, touch me.

i want to read more. i want to write more. i want to create with a sense of purpose. why is it that these things that are so necessary are so difficult? it’s like trying to breathe under water. you can see the surface. you can even stick your fingers out of the water. you just can’t quite seem to get there and breathe. maybe i’m just not trying hard enough. maybe i just don’t want it bad enough. maybe. whatever.

just write. don’t talk when writing will do.