A Writer's Confession
In the past few days, I've been envious.
My Mount Hermon companions have been expressing things I can hardly say or show. There are Kirsten's luminous photos, Becky's trim summaries, and Mark's poetic expressions about finding God on a closed trail. He uses words like "yawp" and "swordfern", "peek" and "shock" and makes me want to find that place.
Here, at my own keyboard, I struggle beside my writing friends' accomplishments. Struggle to find ways to discuss the Pacific, the winding trail under redwoods, the sandy banks of a creek. Squirm at the failure to describe what I have discovered about myself... that I am like the golden anemones that cling to the rocks at the sea, who send off a bit of electric sensation to anyone who reaches towards them— a person of tingle and not retreat (like the snails who sucked themselves into their shells post-haste when we lifted them heavenward). I feel bent beneath the task of trying to explain what it is like to see the souls of my cyberfriends embodied for a few short days— only to lose their touch again as journeys homeward turn them back into cyberghosts.
In this hard place, where I try to take the crooked, round, long, bubbling, shadowy experiences of an amazing week and squeeze them into words, I find that words are my enemies. They are a mean shack with the key broken off in the lock. They are boxes whose lids are fastened with pneumatic seals, bottles whose caps are writer-proof, trails that beckon but are taped off with yellow "do not cross: police line" ribbons.
And so I have been envious of others who have ways to say and show what I cannot. This is my writer's confession.
Quartz Rocks at the Pacific photo, by L.L. Barkat.
LL's Ancient Cathedral
Mount Hermon blogosphere newcomer Long Island Express Girl. A very cool up-and-coming blogger (we had the best dinner conversation at MH!).
Mount Hermon blogosphere newcomer The Oho Report, by Otto Haugland.