a small resolution

After some encouragement in the midst of my funk-about-writing the other day, I picked up my journal and my eyes fell on the first page before I made it to a blank one. The first thing I wrote when I began this journal a few months ago was a quote from Psalm 61 in The Message:

And I'll be the poet who sings your glory--and live what I sing everyday.

That clenched something for me, like the last piece of a puzzle that, as a whole, reveals more than the farm photo on the box you've been staring at; it surprises you with a clue about a deep longing that's been trying to be heard. The magic of the final piece is a kind of certainty and clarity about something that exists in a heart language, so it doesn't just speak to you in direct thoughts like, "Of course, you idiot!" It has to guide you in its own way, through memory and dream and that place inside you that rings true to your bones when you read a short sentence from scripture.

So I started reading Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott, only to find that the way I've felt about writing in the past--excruciating to grind out at times--is the way she says most writers feel most of the time. (And you just thought you hated to write, silly girl.) So, I've set aside time each day to sit down and tell whatever there is to tell. I just reached the point where I realized I would take the regret of not writing and seeing where it led to my grave.

And I hate regrets.