Without a single word.
Life speaks to us, in its own silent, invisible, universal language. I believe it speaks to all of us- though it may be a little more persistent and intense with those of us who are called to create in the world.
I am called to write every day, called to connect to life and what it has to say to me. Not to share every day, but to make this exchange with life, to work with and for it- as if writing is a way to earn my keep.
At times when I am aware that I am being called to write just for me, it can be difficult to answer. It can feel frustrating- like it is pointless, frivolous, not worth doing. As I have grown older and my life has grown more layers, it can feel like I just don’t have time for it.
It is when I have felt like this in the past, that I have stopped. Never for long, but always for too long.
This weekend I sat down with life and had conversation after conversation after conversation- just me and it- under a bell jar, in the middle of a virtual room of 1500 people. I wrote and wrote and wrote, things that nobody else will ever see. We caught up, life and I, like two old friends after one has been away for a while.
Life wasn’t upset for long that I have been busy and distant, choosing not to answer it’s call so often. It didn’t take long at all to start to talk to me again, like I had never left. I sensed it was relieved to hear that I am finished with this phase of only valuing what I write when it is for sharing, for others. It knew that I would understand eventually.
This morning I headed to the beach for a morning walk. I thought I was getting some exercise and fresh air but it quickly became apparent that life and I were on that walk together and the dialogue was clear and beautiful as it ever has been in my life.
Life showed me the still parts of the ocean, the rock pools, the trapped puddles. It showed me the too still parts that have lost all connection to where they came from. Guided me to stand in one to see how my connecting to it, just for a moment, could bring it to life.
Life brought me to an edge, where the waters were rough and without a moment of stillness at all. Then brought me to a point of connection between a gently stirring pool and the rough, wild ocean. It showed me the brightest green manifestation of life blooming where movement and flow had managed to find a rhythm.
It showed me all of this without a single word and then it told me, in a way I haven’t felt so clearly for a little while, that this part is not just for me. Life put the image of a pen in my hand in my mind and asked me to do what it cannot. To write.
