Whatever it is I'm born to do, my fear of failing at it has almost become greater than my desire to figure out what it is.
I now understand that writing fiction was a seed planted in my soul, though I would not be ready to grow that seed for a long time.
The words were unexpected, but so incisively true. So much of prayer is like that - an encounter with a truth that has sunk to the bottom of the heart, that wants to be found, wants to be spoken, wants to be elevated into the realm of sacredness.
I wonder: instead of retreating and hiding, instead of pining for the way it was, what if I accept the way it is? This strikes me as both the most obvious thing in the world and the most profound.
It shocks me how I wish for...what is lost and cannot come back.
I wonder if that's the perennial story of writers: you find the true light, you lose the true light, you find it again. And maybe again.
