All Replete

"If thou could'st empty all thyself of self
Like unto a shell dishabited
Then might He find thee on the ocean shelf
And say, 'This is not dead,'
And fill thee with Himself instead.

But thou art all replete with very thou
And has such shrewd activity
That when He comes He says, 'This is enou
Unto itself--'twere better let it be.
It is so small and full, there is no room for me."
--Sir Thomas Browne

I was thinking about that today...emptiness and fullness--a paradox of ideas that doesn't necessarily make sense, yet somehow describes my present heart season better than logic. There are times when I feel empty--and need to wait like the shell, wait to be "filled with all the fullness of God." Yet, sometimes there is an emptiness that is covertly full, a black hole that hides all manner of things in its seeming void. But the old scientific law that matter cannot be created or destroyed echoes through the space, and if I look deep enough, I see that I am so small and full, all replete with very me. And sometimes, I think I stay there deliberately. Emptiness isn't a concept with many positive connotations; often any manner of fullness will do for a time. But then, after that, it's actually appealing--the emptiness of a seashell, scrubbed clean by gritty sand, rinsed with stinging, healing water. Yet it seems strange, uncomfortable even, to pray for emptiness.

Walking on Water resurrected

Dang it...Sometimes you just want to kick yourself for waxing eloquent about writing honestly (guess that means I have to actually do it ;) ). Ok, so joking aside, I've finally gotten to do some of that reading I've been meaning to get to...and find myself picking up books that I've read before to see what a second (or third) go-around brings (Of course, I'm reading some newbies too). I've even started rereading the book I read for my poetry class two years ago, L'Engle's Walking on Water. It's an interesting read the second time around.

A couple lines keep running through my mind...
"And as I listen to the silence, I learn that my feelings about art and my feelings about the Creator of the Universe are inseparable. To try to talk about art and about Christianity is for me one and the same thing, and it means attempting to share the meaning of my life, what gives it, for me, its tragedy and its glory. It is what makes me respond to the death of an apple tree, the birth of a puppy, northern lights shaking the sky, by writing stories."

Part of me responds "Yes, exactly!" to that; another part of me is still grappling to understand it, to hold the weight of what L'Engle is saying. If that is true for me, the question arises as to what that reality entails...

back in blog world

sigh...It's good to be back. I want to give my blog a hug to console it because it has been abandoned for so long, but I think that's perhaps a bit too melodramatic for this down-to-earth girl--and extremely impossible given the limitations of interaction between the two- and three-dimensional worlds (but the thought definitely sparks some interesting scenarios in my imagination--the "what if'" that were actually possible...hmm).

Lately I've been thinking that my recent reluctance to write, my avoidance of anything related to putting my thoughts down in any sort of permanent way, is linked to something that writing forces me to be--completely honest. If I'm avoiding something, or not willing to face things in my heart, I don't write. When I write, my words stare me down, force me to say something true and real--if they aren't true and real, their falseness is so loud, vivid, and painful that I have to scrap them, start over. The subject doesn't have to be related to what I'm struggling with...to write anything, I need to let myself be open. If I close parts of my heart to myself, what comes out is lessened in some way. Others might not know, but I know, and that's enough to keep me pretty honest. It's hard to be at peace when you lie to yourself. At least it's never worked for very long with me.

hmm...This feels nice.