I am re-reading "The Dance of the Dissident Daughter" by Sue Monk Kidd.
"If we don't tell our truth, who will?" -Ursula K. Le Guin
I am burning. I am itching to put into words that which has occurred in my deepest being in the last few years. I am wanting something tangible. Something I can pick up and lay down and share with other women, and men too, if they are interested.
I am frustrated. I am near pulling out my hair. Just sit down and write...Right? But it does not seem that easy to me. I don't know where to begin. I don't know if I can pin-point some sort of beginning to start from. I sense a great task before me, if I am to sit down and write my story, my narrative, my experience. I think it is in part, due to fear, that I don't begin. Fear of failure? Fear of finding myself incapable of such a task? I'm not sure.
And the very real issue of How? How do I accurately and effectively put into words such deep shifts in my soul? How can I convey so many experiences, sometimes small and seemingly insignificant, that have converged into what I (might) call my current state of spiritual affairs? It is like trying to name the unnameable, express the inexpressible.
And yet, it has been done. For example, this book that I am re-reading. Sue Monk Kidd's telling of her journey is powerful. It is encouraging and strengthening and assuring. And it is making me stare straight into the face of all I want to accomplish, all I want to share, and my own fears and inhibitions and excuses for not doing so.
Ugh.
