writing

Flood

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He and I walked down to see the muddy water boiling through the gates from the lake into the flooding river bed.

This gushing torrent is pouring from the same serene lake whose lovely face I have shared previously.  She is overloaded with rain and bursting at the seams.  Not her normal self.

I know how she feels.  I have a torrent of thoughts flooding my mind.  I recently filled one of my paper journals and switched to a fresh one.  I keep hauling around the old one.  I have been back through it several times trying to figure out what I am afraid to discard or shelve.  Finally, yesterday, while again going over the pages, I realized the whispers of the bigger story I want to tell is started there.

I shared with my friend today my idea of what I want to tell.  She had asked me if I have taken classes or is my writing a gift.  I don’t know about it being a gift, but, no I haven’t taken writing classes.  I haven’t even read many books on the prescribed reading lists from high school or college.  I simply write.  I have written forever.  When the prescribed writing of school days ended, the pen of teenage passion waned, and my babies were big enough to play without constant surveillance, I began journaling.  From the first time I heard about the concept of blogging, I wanted to try it.

I always wanted to be like John Boy Walton and write stories.  I never felt I had a story to write.  I still don’t have a fiction story to write.  My cousin encourages me to write the book.  I want to tell my story.  Every woman’s story.  Wish me courage.  Wish me discipline.  Wish me strength.

I fear letting the story come forth, I will become like this raging river boiling from the depths of the lake.  Churning out of control and spilling forth over the banks meant to contain me.  The banks of calm rationality I try so hard to maintain.  But, dear reader, you know I despise fear.  Here is a fear I must overcome and free myself.  He will hold on to me when I start to go under.  He will not let me be pushed to the bottom of the churning turmoil of emotional energy.  He will lift me up to Him in his prayers and we will ride out another flood of life together.

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Some Mondays

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Some Mondays, I have trouble getting going writing. Like tonight.  I think tonight has been the worst so far.

So what shall I write about? I have had to make a change to improve my health.  It is a change in more than my diet.  I am a coffee lover. I drink copious amounts of coffee each day.  I buy decaf coffee so I can drink coffee late in the day if I want.  It was killing my stomach.

Last Monday, I stopped drinking all day coffee. I have had about eight ounces of coffee each morning.  But, it is a lifestyle change and a change of habit and a detox from caffeine.  I have been drinking water all day now.  My stomach was better the same day I stopped drinking all that coffee.

Till today……I cooked spaghetti for his supper. I ate some as well.  There went my stomach again.  I don’t really like spaghetti all that much, so I doubt I will miss it.  But, I am not certain if it was the tomatoes, the Italian sausage or what that upset my tummy.

Nevertheless, I was aggravated about it. I had been enjoying not having all those problems this past week.

What else do I need to give up to improve my well-being? Self-criticism.  I abuse myself the way I talk to myself.  That voice in my head is vicious.  But, I have been getting that under control, too.  That shift I mentioned last week would certainly include a gentler observer voice in my mind.

I have continued to retrain my thoughts to be compassionate with my own self. I write it all out in my journal.  I identify a thought or thought process and write the sequence.  Then, I rewrite it like a friend talking to me.  Advising me on what is true and what is assumed.  Digging into the cause of the thought, rewriting scripts to give a positive outcome.  I am not really sure how to describe the method.  Positive imagining.  Whatever it is, it has allowed me to put many dragons to death and get many more chained up.

My dragons range in size and color. Things from indecision, over-sentimentality, laziness, to severe depression and a deep sense of unworthiness, and survivor’s guilt.  I am getting better able to battle them.   Writing Raining Orchids is good medicine.

His letting me go to the deer stand and sit is also good medicine. Sitting in those woods, hours of solitude, pen and paper in hand.  I appreciate getting to spend time in that part of his world.  I appreciate his spending time, money and energy to get me in a warm, dry spot to wait and listen.  I appreciate his patience with my efforts at becoming a hunter and fisherwoman.  I appreciate him.

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