I’ve been looking for some tear-jerker moment, some exotic story from my current life, and I keep coming up empty. I’ve been listening and half-writing this-or-that in my head, but I get through the first paragraph, and I can feel myself falling asleep for the mundaneness of it all.
I haven’t written because I’ve wanted to write something spectacular— something that will get the likes and the comments,
and the respect of you.
I guess it was easier to write-dramatic from overseas where there was no end to the exotic stories, people, and landscapes of my daily life. Over in Asia, I wrote about street children selling flowers and my family accidentally eating intestines and the beautiful simplicity of the rice farmers right out my window. And back here in Colorado, all I can think to write about is the lesson I learned from my selfish kid and how hard it is to listen in the busy and how I am still just not getting American church.
And I’m struggling with the non-spectacular nature of this Western life I’ve landed in, and it’s made me go quieter.
Maybe I’ve bought into the false belief that value comes from drama, that my words, if they can’t be beautifully poetic, better be about something big and grand and shocking. Maybe I’ve inched edge-close to the idea that the only stories worth telling are the ones interesting enough to make it in a book or onto a stage.
And because I don’t assess value, my words become less. And the writing gets harder and more infrequent. And the voices say boring much more than they say important, anyway.
And then I think about the seasons in a life, how they all work together for good. I think about how a farmer has a wholelottadays of waiting and weeding between the hopeful planting of a seed and the harvest of the crop.
And I’m reminded again that in writing, in life, the vulnerable speaking-out of a story, even the most mundane of ones, has spectacular value in and of itself.