I've probably sat myself down to plunk out a post 20 times in the last week. And nothing.
Nothing comes out. None of these thoughts seem to be able to make it the short distance from my heart to my fingertips, intact. Somewhere along the way, words that seem simple and worthy are being exchanged for a frenetic jumble of self-concious rambling. The words that came together easily in my mind while I was in the shower, or on the bus, or standing in line at the bank behind a very tiny man with an intriguing mole on top of his head - those words were beautiful and meaningful. They were such perfect words that I suspect that they may have been whispered directly to my soul by Walt Whitman or Oscar Wilde, or somebody cool... like a slam poet or something. Point being, these ideas arrive with vigor and beauty and life, and they exit feeling all...lame and trying-too-hard. And anyone who knows me knows that I'm not about trying-too-hard. (Actually, I'm not about trying, like, at all. But that's a different story.)
So an idea comes to me, and it's a really good idea, and then it slips away while I'm staring into the creepy little face I swear I can see in that guy's mole. And then, later, when I sit down in a moment of quiet to recapture the goodness, I call on the spirit of those great writers who've come before me, real writers, writers who used words to change the world. And my words fail me. They disappear. Or worse, they turn into Tweets.
And I'm left sitting there with a great idea and a blank page because Whitman abandoned me in my time of need. Asshole.
The thing is.
...God likes to whisper to my soul, too...
And, when I pay attention (which, admittedly, is not very often), I can hear Him saying things like, "I don't want you to be a gay 19th century poet". I know that maybe seems a little weird, but when you start trying too hard to be something you're not, God will be straight with you. He's cool like that. And so He breathes things into my spirit to remind me that I am exactly what He meant when He created me. Exactly.
Like, even though it seems obvious that my ankles were a mistake, they're not. These tree trunks are exactly the gams God wants me to use to propel my butt around the planet. Likewise, God gave me a way to use words. My own way. My own odd, white-trash meets valley girl way. This is how I'm supposed to write, because that's how I sound when I'm being who I was meant to be. And when I get my head around that, when I feel confident that God adores it when I respect His creation... I can write.
It's not always good. But it's mine. And there's something kinda cool about that. I mean, not like slam poet cool, but still.
Your voice, your words, your ideas, your art, your music, your whatever - even the dumb whatevers - are the ones He's hoping for. So let it flow. He's waiting, actually, we're all waiting... to hear from YOU.
.... .... ....
God is telling me I'm not a gay 19th century poet. Who is He telling you you're not, so that you can be who you are?... Do share.