One thing I often say is that it's difficult to tell a story while one is still living it. More and more I sense this rhythm between living through an unfolding story, living with the story afterward as it works its work on us and as we wrestle our way into some understanding of or peace with it. Eventually we stumble out of a tunnel into a land of words. And then we can begin to tell.
Perhaps this is why I struggle to identify as a writer, and why storyteller feels a better fit. So many times, words fail me. When stories are happening to me, there is often much more in the way of living going on than thinking or telling. Often there is precious little to write or to say, while there are many other things to attend to--things so ordinary it would bore you for me to list them here. But in these seasons that seem marked by more attentive living, it seems as if my whole life is in these clothes which need sorting and these bodies that need feeding and this soft bed that is a place of such joy. The surface is quiet and steady, simple and ordinary, while things shift and move and mend in the deep.
So I forgive the absence of eloquence, and I surrender to the rhythm of the seasons as they blow through once again. Some are for understanding, some are for telling. And some, for living.