Can I Say This Here?
Say The Quiet Part Out Loud
The other morning I watched for fog drift slo-mo across the top of one of the neighborhood ponds. It made something deep in me ache, the way beauty does. The way grief does.
The other day a friend had a run-in with some broken someone who was bent on breaking anything in their way. It made me sad and angry and in moments I didn’t know which feeling was stronger.
The other night I dreamt of reconciliation only to awake to the reality that it was only a dream and we are no closer to it coming true because the gulf between us is as wide and wild as the sea. The dream tasted bitter and stirred up the silt of loss that keeps trying to settle in my soul.
The other morning I watched a fat crow pluck a tiny mouse out of my grass and carry it off into the distance. And it hurt to see it.
This week I logged onto Facebook and saw nearly nothing I recognized and started formulating an exit plan from social media. This made me nostalgic for 2010 when we were foolish enough to believe that social media would help us be more social.
This year my Dad fought cancer and won. This year my nephew was born and then promptly died. This year I thought I was dying, but it turned out that my body hates gluten and now I take gluten-free Jesus into my palms at the communion rail and it feels weird to require this accommodation, and at the same time it reminds me that His broken body broke on behalf of all of our broken bodies—the bodies that are fighting cancer, the bodies that will only live for 43 hours, the bodies that turn on themselves when gluten enters the mix, the bodies bent on breaking anything that gets in their way.
This week I scrolled instagram too long and remembered that my hours are too valuable to spend them that way and started formulating an exit plan for social media.
This week I thought about working on my painting but didn’t. I thought about other projects but left them untouched too. Sometimes I resist creating because I’m not sure I have it in me to try. Creativity is risky and requires something of you and sometimes I don’t feel brave enough to take the risk.
The other morning I watched the fog drift in slow motion across one of the neighborhood ponds and thought it a scene so lovely I didn’t want to move.
It made something deep in me ache, the way beauty does.
The way grief does.
*My friend is offering 30 prompts and encouraging fellow writers to write through November. This essay was stirred by her first prompt, “Say The Quiet Part Out Loud”.
Kris,
Beautiful, thoughtful and honest. Both the written and photographic reflections . . How deeply your words resonate!
With advancing age, I increasingly want to make every day intentional, prioritize my “ things to do” and treasure the time. Social media does indeed chew up the waning time and often focuses my attention on things I don’t need to invest in. Thus, the next step ?
I don’t want to lose touch with so many people. . .
Hauntingly gorgeous, Kris. As always, you write down the bones of life in a way that makes me feel deep down things.