As a small, I remember the joyous struggle of creating a thing with words, something tangible to be the vessel that held an intangible feeling, moment, or experience. I felt like a potter when I could craft a sentence that captured what I felt. It was a physical thing birthed into existence - and I was instantly addicted. Addicted to creating, to the struggle, and to painting with words. I was the nerdy child with a pencil butt sticking out of her mouth and intense furrowed brows. The concentration alive as if it would create more brain wrinkles to squeeze out new vocabulary to better capture all my mountainous hazy feels.
The very nature of “words” is confinement; attempts at explaining anything using words automatically puts limitations around your ideas and experiences. This is equal parts necessary and infuriating. I am in awe of the universes within words; their use and combinations are staggering. That feeling when you stand in the awe-inspiring grandeur of nature - be it an ocean, a mountain, a field, a storm - this is the feeling I have with words.
Lately I’ve found myself musing on identity and re-alignment of self. As I started writing, phrases like “left the church” and “walked away from my faith” suddenly felt archaic and limiting; like Genie being sucked back into his tiny little confining lamp.
Oi! Ten thousand years will give you such a crick in the neck - Aladdin, The Genie
Even as I type those phrases its like the oxygen gets pulled out of the room. In order to “reflect” or even talk about me before I have to use these types of phrases for it to make sense to others. They however, are the ones used by the very environment I left - it’s their lingo, their box to define those people who have “left the fold”. Go easy on me dear friends, please know I use “their” lightly and with no venom attached.
One of the most striking things since I “left” can only be described as breathing fresh air. As if I stepped out from under a heavy sky of haze and smog and into fresh breeze. Like a contortionist magician who has puzzled themselves into a very small box and then the overwhelming feeling of relief as you watch that human frame un-twine themselves, stand up, and stretch.
The before me was walking along my path - doing the things I’d always done, carrying the pieces of my soul that were weighed down with doubt, grief, and a life trying to find my way. And as sure as the path was straight - suddenly it took a corner and suddenly the sun moved from behind the clouds and it was clarity. It was clear skies. It was fresh air. It was the realization that I had been slogging in and through something that was a constant weight.
I am grateful that lately I’ve found more grace with myself. This past of mine that I hold is a rats nest to unravel, it’s a sadness-filled delicate glass full of flammable liquid that I am fearful of bumping into too hard, fumbling, and setting everything ablaze. It’s strange to grieve a thing that brought such pain, confusion, and turmoil but then I understand more fully now that this past of mine is so deeply a part of me. That I need to wrap that pain around myself, let it give me strength, and keep on keeping on.