I really can’t tell you how many times I’ve quit this.  Can’t tell you how many times I’ve re-started.  Sometimes I feel like that’s all I do.  Slog through the complicated and often treacherous morass that passes for my emotions, steel myself against uncertainty and fear, buckle down, commit wholeheartedly, finally stop dancing that avoidance dance and actually throw myself into words.  Into writing.  And whether it flies like the wind singing over treetops or drudges along knee deep in the mud, it feels beautiful to me.  It feels worthwhile and full of promise.

Then, just like the sun rises in the morning, life gets busy, I lose momentum, fear creeps back in, and I throw the whole thing aside, to wait patiently in some corner until I can reach for the energy and the faith to pick it up again.

It’s exhausting, I admit.

Still, I don’t seem to know how to do anything but fight for this.  It’s inside me, and sooner or later, that voice that calls to me will get louder until it’s impossible to ignore.  Until I no longer want to ignore it, despite the pain and self-questioning that often comes with it.

So you may understand that I can never quite tell if I’m committed or a quitter.  But I do know one thing: it will not be silenced.  To even try to do so would be to shut off a part of my heart.

I feel the story.  More than words.  More than even writing it.  I feel it, just the way I feel certain songs.  The way I sometimes feel other people’s stories, whether books or movies or as they tell them to me.  The way I feel the piece of art that hangs above my couch.  You may see fireweed and barley, and in fact that’s what the picture purports to be.  But what I see when I look at it is an explosion of joy.  And I feel it.

That raw emotion is sometimes overpowering and can’t be easily controlled.  But I often think that it’s the best part of me.  The truest part, and the most honest.

Writing lets me share it.  With myself.  With others I’m close to.  And maybe, someday, with the world.  Maybe even now with the world, through composition like this.

So I’ll keep fighting for it to come out.  Because this time I’m not going to be a quitter.  Maybe you could even say, since I’ve come back to it once again, I never really have been.

Is there anything you want so much you feel like you can’t live without it, even if it’s hard to hold onto?

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