“How do you begin a story that trapped inside of you – blaringly alive yet trapped all the same?
“How do you bring into words that swirling vortex of thought and emotion that no mortal man can untangle or even begin to understand?
And even if – by some miracle – you could bring out the words in one clear straight line for that one man to hear who says you’ll have the courage to say them aloud or even believe in them yourself?
You’ve waited your whole life for this one man – this one moment – but not in a thousand years would you be prepared enough to even whisper these feelings in a dark room all on you own and yet you must reveal them all or else you’ll burst, broken into a million pieces.
I have found the only outlet for such things is the written page, the supposed fiction that have become our bed-time stories: Fairy tales may not be tales at all.” – from a work in progress.
Here I am.
It’s the first day of February and I’m wearing this months heart necklace. I sit here in front of the computer screen fingering my purity ring – just thinking.
I have something inside of me that I want to let seep through the cracks, something sweet and nostalgic – a new reflection of something with which I’m familiar – but the reflection is still blurred on one side – this glass still needs cleaned. It’s not yet polished for the world to see, or even those with whom I want to share it the most.
It feels as if God is an author in the midst of a great work. Like he is writing and editing my story. Like he’s tweeking this partiular chapter to perfection. Setting each character in the plot just where they should be and ever developing me into a deeper and deeper person.
So even though I’m ready to shout this from the mountain tops (or at least whisper it aloud in a quiet room); even though I’m ready to take the next step I can hear The Author saying, “Wait. Let me write it, edit it and publish it. This is my project – my masterpiece – and someday you will get to show it to the world, but not yet.” So even though I want to be transparent as a writer should be – as my friend Jayne or Abby or my pastors – I can’t be. Not in this sentence, or this paragraph, maybe not even on this page.
For now I will sit and wait looking into the eyes of The Perfect Author – the one who knows the beginning and end of this tale. For now I will write and write true, though for a while it may be in allegory or abstract design.
For Now I Will Wait.
“One Day I sat beside
A wall of climbing flowers
ever reaching toward the sun
all their waking hours.
I wondered, ‘Am I like them?
Making every second a glory
to the maker of this planet?
Do I make the conscious choice
to continually be growing?
or do I fade away as if
He’d never done the sowing?
Do I try to follow
Him in all His ways?
or do I prefer to sit
and think within the shade?’
Life is not all about
everything we think
but rather it is about
what we believe
and where that leads our feet
So that day I chose
not to just sit anymore
to be done with thinking
whats to come next morn
And rather to walk a path
that down which I know
He’s waiting with arms open
and smile all aglow.” ❤
Love,
Deanna ❤
On The Way To There 