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Thursday, January 3, 2013

Sometimes The Colors Are Dark

I don’t know what to write about. I don’t know what’s changed and I don’t know what’s different, but I do know that words have never been difficult for me and now they are. It’s not like this is exactly strange, not being able to articulate because I’ve been through writer’s block before and it’s something akin to hell, I can tell you that much. I’ve just never had such a hard time churning out even a simple blog post. Ever since I did NaNoWriMo, I’ve been having a hard time.

I wrote a letter to my father yesterday. No one really knows as much as my husband, Albert does, but there is bad blood between my father and I. Truthfully, I would’ve expected that even if it was in the interest of settling the past, I wouldn’t have had such a hard time writing a simple one page letter. I’ve never had a hard time and that one time words were so difficult for me, I almost scrapped the blasted thing and left it alone. To give myself a little credit, I was careful not to be condemning or angry or even accusatory when in truth I would’ve had every right. There are true horrors there that have nothing whatsoever to do with an angry child seeing what it was she wanted to see and the extent of it is no one’s business except for those to whom I choose to divulge.

All that aside, right now I miss words. I miss seeing an image in my head and being able to put it onto paper. I miss feeling the emotion, immersing myself in it, climbing to the highest point of it and letting it sweep me away while trying to translate that onto paper. I miss the descriptions that have always come so easily to me and I wonder right now, where did they go, my precious words? Could I have discovered something so black about my past that it put a stopper on it pending my understanding and acceptance? I understand the necessity of my settling the past, but did it take my words away, even if it was just temporarily? My heart breaks with this thought even as I know that I’ve been given a powerful gift that would not be taken away so arbitrarily. My God uses my words and I know this in my heart, but my memories are taking their toll even if I don’t completely understand them or why my Heavenly Father has chosen this time to pull out of me things that, for all intents and purposes, could probably be best left in a dark and troubled childhood where they belong.

The past can’t hurt a person, at least that’s what I’ve been told. But if that’s true, where is all this hurt coming from? Where have my words gone? Why is it that I feel compelled to write and have nothing about which to write? I understand to a certain point that the things that I feel surpass words, but it’s my place to try to place words on them. It’s my need and compulsion to name the things that elude description or won’t be named. I understand that sometimes, when an artist paints a masterpiece, the glory of the picture cannot be revealed until completed and occasionally, the colors are dark. I’ve written about dark things; pain and abuse and bloodshed and I have the entire time tried with everything I am to give the proper respect and diligence due whether or not anyone realized it except me.

Perhaps it’s time I scrapped with the respect and diligence and just wrote what’s in my heart. Perhaps in order to uplift, one must first be brought low. I’m not sure I know what’s going on or why, but I do hope for something better. I hope that in being brought low, in having my words taken away and in letting them go, I will in turn be repaid with better words. I have to hope because that’s what I have.

So I will thank You, Heavenly Father, for the pain that comes out that I had ceased to feel. I thank You for giving me this gift and I give it back in the hope that my offering will be rewarded. I thank You for letting me sleep and I thank You for waking me again. I thank You for the dark colors that make the masterpiece the work of art that it is. I thank You for the grief that in due course, makes it possible for me to see and understand the beautiful mess that I am and cherish the dawn which comes right after it’s darkest. Thank You for letting me mourn and grieve and thank You for teaching me what it is to smile again. I don’t understand the purpose, but I do understand that I can wait and who knows, perhaps in the waiting, I’ll be repaid in kind.

Thank You any way it goes.

3 comments:

L.A. Jones said...

Have u ever thought about writing a non-fiction book about ur life? You can make up characters, names and stuff but use scenarios and things from ur real life. I personally would love to read a book like that.

L.A. Jones said...

I don't know that much about ur life but from the tidbits u have told me about ur children and "Dragon" I think it would be fascinating and inspiring.

Albert Robbins III said...

Sometimes you must use dark colors in order to shed the brighter ones.

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