Taking a Hammer to a Damn
I wrote this a few weeks ago and never posted it. I wasn't sure I would post it at all since it feels only half fleshed out, but I decided to share it today. Because half fleshed out thoughts are all I have right now, and because I've been thinking about the value of showing up even when incomplete and unfinished, even when raw and tender, even when you don't know the outcome and can't control the process. So, here are some thoughts I had recently, a small offering for now.
I haven't been writing lately. Not blogs. Not poems. Not stories. Not emails. Not even really long IG posts. And it isn't because the words haven't come, it's not entirely because the well is dry. It's something else. Something rooted in my gut, wrapped in the pounding of my heart. It's in the tightness of my breath and the clenched feeling in my chest. It's a pressure. Anxious pressure. Grinding away and holding my words back... like a damn.
And I can't decide if the way out is to wait quietly still until the pressure builds enough to break out on its own or if I have to pick up a hammer and start pounding. Maybe I need to just walk away and maybe I need to fight. I don't know. How long is too long to keep spinning your wheels never getting anywhere? How long is too long to write in the dark? How long is too long to put forth effort without reward, to write out lessons you always have to relearn, to put your heart on your sleeve for no one?
I don't know.
I know there's always been ebbs and flows. Seasons the words spring fresh from the well and rain down heavy on my hand, and seasons when I am dry and my words crack. I've learned to trust the process, strike when the iron is hot and wait when it's not. Maybe this is just another ebb, when I can rest, wait, and soak up inspiration.
But maybe not.
It feels different. It's not the muse that is silent it's my hand that is still.
And I'm thinking it's not time to wait, it's time to act. But how? What damage can a hammer do to a damn? How to still my anxious heart and steady my shaking hand? I don't know.
I don't know.
Beautiful words really. Acknowledging the unknown. I don't say them with complacent humor, throwing up my hands in surrender. No. I bow my head.
I don't know.
This thing called writing, called art, called breathing, it has me confused and uncertain. I don't know how it's meant to be done. I don't know how I am meant to do it.
But I know I must.
So I take my small hammer and I lift it high against the uncertainty, against the anxiety, against the comparison, against the fear. And I start to type.
One word. Than another. Than another. Until water begins to trickle out a crack and run softly down the side of the damn.
Grace and peace, Bethany