Returning from the Wordless

Practicing Devotion.

The sun is peeking out behind a cloud-filled sky. One moment, appearing just long enough for me to gaze upon its light, like a small nodding reminder that it is there. In the next breath, ever so swiftly, a cloud comes in, covering up the brightness, creating a different kind of glow. And what I am left with is the question, Will the sun ever come out again? I know the answer to this question—of course it will. And also, as someone who lives in the Pacific Northwest, I am not always certain when.

It is the not knowing when that evokes tension in me, because the reality is that breathing continues, regardless of whether the sun is out. Which then leads me to wonder – how do I fall more in love with and trust the glow?

This past season has been a season of writing just for me. It has looked like jotting down short sentences in my journal; noting random thoughts throughout the day; riding the waves of new project ideas; staring blankly out the window; turning to others’ words; singing more; opening my notes app to write something down but then deciding to take my time and eventually forgetting what it was; and deeply wondering if I will ever write again. The season of writing just for me was not on purpose, although I will hold out hope that there is more meaning to be made here and lessons to be had.

Even though there are days when I convince myself that my fingers have forgotten where the keys lie on my keyboard, or when I have to do a double take of my handwriting because it appears to not be my own—there still seems to be a deep connection and knowing of trust. Of trusting this openness, of trusting in the reunion that will one day come, and of trusting that the sky—my mind—will merge once again with my heart and the written word.

Where this trust lives, I don’t always know—but I feel it. Where she resides in me, what part she has to play in this whole process sometimes feels like a mystery. Yet, just as sure as I know that not only will the sun move out again from behind the clouds, but that one day the clouds themselves will disappear, I know of this trust in me.

This trust lives in my well.
She lives deep within my bones.
She herself has no words,
But instead, opened arms the size of the universe.
She speaks in soothing warmth,
And in strength that reminds me
Of the connectedness and importance of all.
She is not always reassuring,
Sometimes, in fact, she is quite confronting—
Yet, she is as reliable as the wind.
Like a flame, ever so small,
She is always alive in me.
Waiting for me to move toward her,
Waiting for me to see her,
Waiting for me to remember.

And above all else,
Even when I can’t feel her,
Even when the distance to her feels too far to travel,
I know—
She will never leave me.

My relationship with trust has been essential to this season of enormous change. It has been a season of heartbreak, of healing, of death, of new life, of light and darkness. It has been a season of tears and connection, and learning how to scream. It has been a season of deep reflection and facing questions that I don’t always want to know the answers to. It has been a deep season of learning and unlearning, and grieving—so, so, so much grieving.

It has also been a season of aliveness. A season of being woken up from what felt like a comfortable nap. A season that has changed me—thank goodness—and also—fuck. A season of the unseen, a season of fewer words and more reliance on my breath and my heartbeat.

At the core, it has been a season of learning to surrender to trusting it all. A season of devotion. Of devotion to the love of my writing, though even far away, I knew it would always be there. This type of security does not always come easy. In fact, there were many moments over the past months of not knowing who I might be when I finally find land and what words I might have access to.

Land has finally come. My toes tapping on the earth, my body finally feeling held by the underneath and above. I am returning from what feels like the other side of some wildly wordless portal. And though I see my reflection in the mirror and recognize myself, I also see new features laced in my heart and body that have rooted—and now wonder—what is next?

Though I am not entirely sure how things will flow from here, I do know that learning to stay close to trust in the moments of blank stares, tired limbs, tear-filled eyes, and worry in the heart is medicine. Medicine that I am deeply devoted to.

We are never alone.
Even when the words are not flowing.
Even when ideas never reach our fingertips.
Even when we can’t recognize ourselves in our reflection.
Even when we can’t imagine ever writing again.
Even when there is too much to say.
Even when a season calls on you to not look away.

We are never alone.
And through trust, I have learned that.

Things that have supported me during this season of surrender:

Breathing. Releasing.  Lying on the floor.  Moving slowly. Practicing arriving. My son’s playfulness. Being near water. Dear friends.  Noticing synchronicities.  Singing. Lots of singing.  Re-arranging. Learning to scream. Noticing when my hands find my heart. Working hard towards getting comfy.  Practicing forgiving myself.  Lemon balm. Poetry. Tulsi Tea. Grieving with others.  Savoring the awe.