Entry (i) | Being Honest With My(Your)self

Photo by Debby Hudson on Unsplash

Writing has always been natural for me.  It has not always been illuminating— (in fact, my works prior to salvation were predominantly dark)— but it has always been natural.  I cannot recall, from childhood, ever being deep in thoughtful consideration of choosing to journal.  I anticipated that words would travel on my train of thought to paper like relatives visiting home for an unknown and unnamed feast day.  Saving an empty hardcover notebook in September for the words to come from me was a given. 

'Writing has always been natural for me' is a thought. 

'Being honest with myself' is another.  

Honesty with myself feels . . .  as though it requires a thousand-word poem, the words of which await my thought trains to visit paper, so lost in emotion that they miss each one.  It feels like dragging my pen across paper as though my weight in a snow shovel across tough snow.  It is the uneasy, full feeling you have when leaning forward to stand, intending to stand, without standing. It is easy to fiddle with a pen until the ink scratches I have made make enough sense to be published as poised literature, and considerably hard to have words of transparency leave my lips, or get beyond the door of fear in my chest.  As my legs tremble a bit at the thought of posting this entry, I take it as a sign that it is even harder to share what has been authentically said from my lips.  Pulling me aside to whisper my anticipated response is a subconsciously drafted image of my running away from this post post-publication.

I find it comforting, however, that saying words of honesty with self in parts is freeing. After approaching the cliff of 'having to be open' anticipating plummeting to the ground, breathing one word of honesty at a time until a sentence is formed feels like gliding through the air in unbelievable peace.  It is like the gust of air a bird feels after flying from its cage and through a window.  It is a refreshing way to reveal one's true self.  This is why this post is only the first part of a series, and the reason it is a series of journal entries.  In honesty, the wind in my lungs is stagnant, as I am unsure of where this unplanned series will take me.  As you cannot hear nor see my physical person beyond my pen, I describe for you verbally that I am swaying gently to and fro.  (I suppose this parallels, whether metaphorically or literally, our experience of never knowing the destination of honesty and transparency with ourselves).  I hope that my transparency, one blog at a time, has a freeing ripple effect.  May each entry of this series be an avenue for our living vicariously through each other as we pursue the liberation of honesty with self.  

Until the next leap of faith,

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