This season feels a little like wading in murky water, not being able to see my hands in front of me but pushing forward anyway, coming up ever so often to gasp for air.
Some say some of my best writing comes from a dark place and they’re probably right; friends say I like to suffer for my art (hurhur) but there’s something about the unknown that makes me (us?) dig deep and make some sense out of chaos. So this isn’t about prose or a gorgeous turn of phrase, but a way of turning darkness into light.
For reasons I can’t divulge, I was reduced to tears on Monday. As someone who’s used to bottling her emotions only to implode much later, this was both new and scary all at once. To just sit and cry because there’s nothing left to do or say. To quite literally be at the end of your rope and pray – once again – (not that I’d ever stopped) for divine intervention.
Time speeds by and it’s not the end of the year that scares me, it’s the not knowing that kills me a little bit inside. But I am learning to sit with the silence. I am learning that the not knowing is called growth. It’s called trust. It’s called faith.
So I take another deep breath and head back under water, trusting I won’t sink, and one day things will be clear again.