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An unexpected thing happened in recent weeks. I thought about and planned this blog for so many months, and I never thought I’d be afraid of it, afraid to tell the truth. I never thought I’d spend the first two months after it really started fighting off a heaviness I’ve not seen in years. I never thought I’d talk about that here, because it’s not what I want to say or what I want you to hear. But it’s part of making my way.

It’s the rhythm of blogging that eludes me a little, the balance between honesty and image, especially when I know at this point that almost anyone that reads this knows me already. And it’s probably not just here that it eludes me; it seems like I spend a lot of time negotiating between who I am and who I hope I’m becoming (who I really am!). They’re both very persuasive.

I want to write things that are funny and insightful, hopeful, challenging, and beautiful. I want to capture the extraordinary moments in the process, the every-day amazing that feeds both my delight and desire for what comes next. My heart’s desire: to live. I want to leave out the hard moments (the hard days), concerned they’ll crowd out the others on this screen, and that you’ll wonder too much if I’m ok (I am!).

I have a sweet friend who’s often told me to be raw, to not always insist on being finished and together. I know she’s right. It seems a little to me like asking for the first draft of a poem or a half-cooked meal, but I guess finished products are harder to wait for in people. Postcards from perfect moments are nice for sharing from a distance, but it’s the rambling and sometimes desperate letters that draw us into each other’s lives; they‘re the moments I’m thrilled to share with people I love and that I miss most when they‘re not around. I love to be part of their living, of being rough drafts together. We live life together believing we’re changed together. Your glory-to-glory is mine too; sometimes we hold onto it for each other when it gets slippery and look together for the extraordinary.

So we’ll get this out of the way. Not all of my days are perfect, and I occasionally lose sight of their extraordinariness. If I wait to only write on the days that I have everything together, I’ll never do it, and I’m not ready to give it up. And honestly, the writing helps me get it together. Putting it here is about sharing, about knowing there’s someone else making their way to something hard to see, figuring out the way to get there, even on the days that don’t seem particularly funny or insightful. I’m only afraid of hard days if they don’t lead me anywhere, that don’t get me closer. You remind me – the yous I know and don’t know – we have somewhere to go.

I sit with you, for
you desire my abiding
and my trust that in
you there is time enough.
In your hand there is time eternal and
over all things
you are
over all things
you.
So I give to you what only
you can give:
breath and life and time.
You have all
you want of
everything but me.

How nice that you would say
like a greeting card thoughtfully
chosen from a massive
wall of sentiment that
I am acceptable and my
company pleasant.
How nice to be among the
millions for whom those
words were scripted and
polished, made emphatic
with gilding and glossy picture.

I smiled and moved
to tuck it away, secure and
harmless in its casing, crisp
and white, protecting the
perfect corners and
mannequin words, almost missing
the note inside, overlooked
in knowing all you had to say.

I took it barely, just the edge, its
substance creased and
softened to cloth by
years carried in your pocket.
I read it twice,
as if my eyes were unsure
of themselves when confronted
with penned words, their stark,
chosen reality, the move of
each like DNA,
your undeniable imprint.

I saw then, the lines of
ink gone easy with age, long
enough for you to know me
and still mean them; I read
again and believed. I came apart.