The Little Voice

It's been a while since my last post.

I could say that I've been very busy and haven't gotten around to it.  The truth is that I've fallen into the pit of fear again.  I find myself listening to the same question over and over in my head.  "Who wants to hear what I have to say anyway?" 

I know enough of the pop psych tools and rationales about getting on with one's life to be able to use it on myself.  I just don't want to anymore.  I'm tired of constantly pulling and dragging myself through my stubbornness to get on with writing.

The truth is, I don't feel like I am good enough.  Maybe, the real truth is that I'm lazy - too lazy to put in the work.  No, that's not true.  The truth is I'm afraid of reliving the emotional memories of events that have had a profound impact on my life.  Many of them have been painful, and many more still have been so magnificent, so gracefully and magnanimously gifted to me that I sometimes feel like my body wants to scream and shout for joy.  But, then I say to myself, "who wants to hear you talk about these things?"  and "who cares?"

Life is beautiful.  I marvel at the magic and mystery of life, of the events that bring people together and that tear them apart, of the depth and breadth of understanding that one can dive into within the self and beyond the known world.  Even in the darkest moments, I find life beautiful.  Life is so precious.  I love it! 

Still, the little voice inside me, for whatever reason, insists on holding on to the belief that, although life is precious and beautiful and miraculous and magical, she, herself, is not worthy of the same consideration.  In the end, it doesn't matter whether I think I am worthy or not.  But, if I don't add my voice to the ethereal symphony of creation that we are all a part of, then am I not doing a disservice to myself and to life, Itself?

I'm ready to write.  Thanks for waiting for me to crawl out of my black hole, Friends, and for your encouragement to write.

Peace.